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.
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About Me
- tjcouch
- Former gigs: Animatronic creature tech for film and live action, production studio manager for USF, film production consultant, cameraman for WTVT, IMAX Theatre director, museum director, harbor cruise ship captain. Current gigs: loan officer, commercial property manager, Vice Chairman of The Life Enrichment Center, Trustee of the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center, Director of the University Area Community Development Center, Director of a private grant-making foundation.
2 comments:
Too funny!
Well, that is certainly an interpretation of "your zipcode" that I had not considered. I guess I could call the zip code I currently occupy mine. But only for as long as I occupy it.
Great story.
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