While buying beer at a Texaco outside Mobile, Alabama before we dashed into a motel for the night and waited out a storm, I learned something. First I bought the beer. Then I asked, “Do you sell lottery tickets here?”
“It is illegal,” the Indian man behind the counter said with a perfect Apu Nahasapeemapetilon accent. “Lottery is illegal in this state.”
“It is a God-forsaken state! I can’t wait to move back to New York,” he confessed.
“See that fat woman out there? She’s going to ask you for money. Don’t give her any! Give her hell. I do not want her here. She scares away my customers!”
I told him I wouldn’t give her any money. Lisa drove up after filling up the van, and I left the store with my beer.
“What were you guys talking about,” Lisa asked when I jumped into the van.
“That woman — he said she’d ask me for money.”
“She asked ME for money! She was really annoying.”
“And — you’re going to love this — he said Alabama is a God-forsaken state. It is a God-forsaken state!” I repeated in the accent.
Well then, we’ll be moving right along, Alabama. Too bad about the God-forsaken thing. Best of luck in the future.