I grew up with a kid named Glenn who, a little over a year ago, was transferred from Atlanta to Baltimore. Being a good Southern boy, Glenn has pretty much hated living in Baltimore, as it’s cold, and he lives near a bunch of heroin addicts, despite a > $10,000/yr property tax bill. Luckily, he’s recently landed a job in Nashville.
He called me yesterday from an east Tennessee truck stop where he’d stopped along the drive from Baltimore to Nashville. He went to the restroom and discovered a locked door, so he waited outside for several minutes.
The door opened, and a grizzled man in jeans and flannel stepped out, looked at Glenn, and spoke:
Man: “Hey man, you gotta take a shit?”
Glenn: “Umm. No?”
Man: “Well, I just wanted you to know that the paper in there’s all gone. So if you DO need to take a shit, you best tell someone to get some more paper.”
Glenn (hugging the grizzled stranger, tears dripping onto his broad shoulders): “I’m so glad to be back in Tennessee, where a stranger at a gas station off I-40 gives a damn whether I’m going to be able to wipe my ass or not. Thank you, Mister. And thank you, God in Heaven, for this gift of a move.”
Welcome back, Glenn.