So I am at the corner of Florida and Fletcher fueling up the CJ . . . . . .
Me: (grumble, stupid gas prices, grumble)
A voice comes from the other side of the pump. Let's call her Bambi.
Bambi: How am I supposed to know? Excuse me sir-
I peer around the pump to find a 30ish blond lass bedecked in designer spandex fueling an Z4, no doubt en-route to a gym with big mirrors and windows.
Me: Hello, yes?
Bambi: Do you live around here?
Me: Yes, I do. *Chuckle* Are you lost, little girl?
Bambi: *giggles* No, but the gas pump is asking me to put in the zip code, and I have no idea what the zip code is here because I live in SoHo.
I pause as these words settle into the ototory regions of my grey matter.
Me: Uh . . . . *suppresses laughter* I am pretty sure it is asking for YOUR zip code, you know to make sure your card is valid.
Bambi: That's silly, my signature is right on the back.
Me: Yes, . . . . . that is, indeed, as you say, silly.