Michelle meets a Crackhead

So, I decided to pick up Subway for dinner. There’s a Subway near Lowe’s in Hampton. Fairly decent shopping center, but Hampton can sometimes be iffy on the people there. But I figured, what the heck, it was on the way home.

I went inside and the place was empty. I placed my order, and as they were making my sandwich, I heard a guy come in. He was muttering to himself and I saw the Subway sandwich-makers glance at each other like, “Oh, no.”

Either the guy was drunk or a crack head. In any case, he kept mumbling over and over to himself things like, “Yeah. You good lookin’. I like that. Yeah.”

And I’m thinking, okay, if I clench my car keys I can go for the jugular if he decides to attack. I’m now realizing why shopping in Hampton alone isn’t necessarily a good idea. But I figure, I’ll ignore him and he’ll go away.

Except then he plants himself next to the drink machine. I’m filling my cup with Dr. Pepper, my car keys firmly in the other hand. He says, “Yeah, I used to be in the NFL. I played for Washington. I was real good. Real good. ‘Course, I’m not in Washington anymore. Heh, heh, heh.”

The guy is about five-feet eight, 150-pounds. No way had this bozo ever seen the inside of a football stadium while wearing a jersey. Definitely strung out on drugs or alcohol or something.

I didn’t make eye contact, let him keep talking while I left. And inwardly I’m thinking, man, am I glad he was the harmless sort. ‘Cuz if he wasn’t, I was going to have to bust out a Lara Croft.

But then again, I’ve never had any kind of karate training. What would I do? Whack him senseless with a napkin dispenser? An interesting puzzle.