I am at my new local Wal-Mart super-store, doing my damnedest to put mom and pop outta business, when up walks this guy. He is in his 20s. Dressed OK, not great, but certainly better than me.

He gets about an erection away from me and says bluntly, "Hey, give me some money."

At first I think, "Is that feces on his breath?" followed by, "Is this a stick-up?"

Meanwhile, his sentence is hanging like a Ray Guy punt.

"What?" I say as I check his face for emotion. Nothing. I suspect he's on one of the drugs.

"Will you give me some money?" he says.

I stare at him like a lobotomized Randle McMurphy. I feel a syrup drop of drool escape my lips.

My mind floods with options. We are beside a Doritos display, so I consider turning it over onto his feet and running for the camping section, where I can find safe harbor for a week or two until he is gone. However, I realize I don't know where camping is, and I don't want to bother anyone in a blue apron because they talk too much.

I then notice I am near bedding, so I consider running and diving into a shelf of king-sized comforters to cry privately and petition God for my safety. But then I imagine how unmanly it would be for a columnist to run for cover, screaming like a girl while removing his pants (something I do in a panic).

Then it hits me. I look him in the eye and begin to speak as if I am glad he broke our lifelong silence.

"Man, it is so weird," I say excitedly, "I was just about to ask you the same thing. Just one or two bucks. Nothing much. Just enough to buy me something to eat or a gallon of gas to get back to Houston. There is a McDonald's right over there. I love fish sandwiches."

He furrows his brow, turns, blasts a fart and walks away.

I watch him retreat down the long aisle, asking other people for money just as rudely, but no doubt getting very different responses from mine. I smile, steal a bag of Doritos and leave.

Hear Gordon on "The Ticket" KTCK-AM (1310) weekdays from 5:30 to 10 a.m. E-mail him at gordon@gordonkeith.com.

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