Day 145: Start an urban legend.Posted: May 25, 2011
Despite the title of this post, this actually happened to a guy I used to work with.
So this dude – David – left the store one night – we worked at a Starbucks, in San Antonio, at Bandera and 1604 – here, approximately —— anyway, he left work one Saturday night about 11:30, headed to a party at some dude’s house out toward Bandera (the town for which the road was named). It was late, he’d had a long day, he didn’t really know where he was going, and he got lost.
He’d been driving along for a while, passing no lights, going through no intersections, before he realized how lost he was. This was back in the days before everyone and their gerbil had a smartphone with a GPS, so he was really and truly lost. He kept going, looking for a place to turn around, found a driveway – and saw a big house, set pretty far back from the road, with a bunch of lights on.
He decided to go knock on the door – surely they would know where their house was, right, and could give him directions back in to town?
Of course, they might also rape, murder, and eat him – shit like that happens, you know.
Well, he took the chance. A gorgeous “farmer’s daughter” type answered the door – she gets prettier with every telling – and invited him in, to maybe have a drink?, she said – and David thought he’d found his way into one of those stories. So he went in, he sat on the couch she pointed him to, he said yes when she asked him if bourbon was alright, and then…
…he shat a brick when someone else brought him his bourbon. Not only because it was an old man, but also because it was Bill-motherfucking-Ghostbusting-Murray.
They ended up drinking and talking all night. Turned out that the dude who owned the house – the farmer – and Bill had gone to college together – at Regis, in Denver – and had done that one thing, together, that one time, but only Bill managed not to get arrested for it. Sometime around dawn, Bill made them all waffles. “Best waffles I’d ever eaten,” David said. After a few rounds of mimosas, he got directions back in to town, went home, changed, and came in to work for another closing shift.
He told me the story. He told it several times that night, to coworkers and customers. Finally I said to him: “You know that no one believes you, right?”
“Yeah,” he answered: “That’s what he said.”