Suckered
My gut told me that the gentleman who interrupted my walk to the car was going to be trouble. It's hard to tell how old he was. He looked worn from what I presumed to be a difficult life. A couple of teeth were MIA from his mouth. He wore baggy black sweat pants with the legs raggedly cut off about six inches above his holey tennis shoes. A much-too-big Liberty University red t-shirt topped the pants while one of those flimsy sackpacks draped across his back. It was hardly the image of a successful entrepreneur. "Hey," he called to me. "Can I talk to ya for a minute? I gotta ax you sumpin." Oh, boy. I started getting very uncomfortable but turned to watch him weave through the cars to come closer. "My car be stuck in dat park'n lot down der. Can you gimme a couple dollas so I can take da bus back home. Ya, know, off Timberlake Road." "Your car is stuck?" "Yeh. Down der. Da alternator, it be bad." "How much do yo