The Adventures Of An Aromantic Asshole (In A Shockingly Cliché World)

Chapter 8 | One Beef Jerky Away From Being Stabbed

Roadtrip Cliché

"Hi! Welcome to Denny's! What can I do... for you... today...?"

The cashier trailed off. She looked confused.

I looked around the ever-so-slightly-greasy diner. "Yeah, sorry, I'm not really here for food, but my bike broke down like..." Judging by the pain of my feet, "Maybe 9 miles from here? I'm looking for somewhere to get it fixed."

"Uh-huh..." She stared at my dirty feet. "I see. Well, ma'am, there's not much I can do to help on that front, but I can check with my pa? He's got a bit of a workshop 'back o' the place."

"That'd be great, thanks."

"No problem, it'll just be a minute." She smiled sweetly and disappeared somewhere in the back.

What a kind lady, I thought to myself whilst staring emptily at some football game running on a screen. From the back, I heard her talking to someone. There really should be more of her kind.  

"911, yes, hello? There's a crazy person in my diner wearing a wedding dress covered in dirt, please send help."

Abort mission. 

Scrambling of off the barstool I had placed myself in, running for the door, I think I understood her reaction. The swing-door nearly took me out but I made it to my bike. 

Looking at it in a panic I realized that I would rather be arrested than pulling that fucking thing another inch. Then I fell in character as a crazy person, as I turned to the diner. I cupped my hands over my mouth and yelled:

"Do NOT be disturbed! I have LEFT the vicinity!" 

Because of course, that would calm her down. 

Then I proceeded with invading the vicinity again. 

A shed was clumsily build up against the back of the diner, the front of it riddled with tires and mechanical parts. I saw it out as the 'workshop' that was mentioned and without further thinking I pulled up the shredded remains of my dress and kicked the big wooden doors open.

Unnecessarily violent, but I was in character after all.

I just needed gas. Or was it oil? Or a few horses? Fuck it, if I found a horse in here I would take it. Scanning the area, painfully well aware of the sudden timelimit I was given before the cops unavoidably would arrive to take me away to a comfy padded cell, I was mildly put, stressed out. 

A factor that added to that stress, was that I now noticed I was not alone in the barn. A guy covered in grease, bent over a car with a wrench frozen in hand, was gaping at me. He gave me the ultimate look of judgment, from my messy hair to the torn wedding dress to my bare and dirty feet. 

It is in these delicate types of situations where my brilliance in improv truly shines through.

"Hello!" I said, far too loudly. "I need you to help me fix my bike that I kinda borrow-and-or-stole, and it's gotta be fast because the cops are on their way! HAHA! Waddaya say, buddy?"

The wrench slipped out of his grip. 

"Good enough of an answer! You look like a guy ready for an adventure!" He did not look like a guy ready for an adventure. Seeing as he apparently had lulled himself into a coma I had to improvise again. 

"Pop-quiz!" I waved my hands around like a TV-host. "What kinda fuel does a motorcycle use?" 

For some reason, I added a condescending pressure to the word 'motorcycle' as if he was the crazy one here.