Strange Encounters LA: Marty McFly

This one is short, but definitely ranks towards the top of my strange encounters list.

I wait a ridiculously long amount of time to do my laundry. With a couple pairs of jeans, plenty of t-shirts, and about 50 pairs of underwear, I can hold out for a while.

This procrastination from cleaning my apparel springs from 3 sources:

      1. I am lazy.
      2. I need quarters to use the machines in my building’s basement.
      3. I am lazy.

Simple–yet honest.

In order to get these quarters I first have to obtain cash from an ATM machine that co-ops with my bank. My bank that has no branches in Los Angeles.

My bank that I’ve had since I was 15 and can’t switch away from because it’s a credit union.

A credit union that doesn’t charge me extra fees for anything ever. 

Word on the street is that most major bank branches can charge you a fee for not having direct deposit, not keeping a certain amount of money in your account, and not signing over your first born child to work as a teller until it reaches 5 years old.

So I stick with my credit union, use it as an excuse for my laziness, and take my cash to one of those Big Name Banks to get a roll of quarters.

My favorite co-op ATM is 2 blocks away and happens to reside in the back of a 7-11.

It is here, at 2pm yesterday, that our story begins.

Walking up to the storefront, I saw a rather large homeless man standing outside.

I know, I know, I can hear my politically correct friends chanting, “How do you know he was actually homeless? Your assuming a lot right now!”

Because it’s like hard-core porn according to Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart in Jacobellis vs. Ohio: “I know it when I see it.”

(Probably the nerdiest think I’ve ever written on this blog. Won’t be the last)

Anyway, this dude was Hagrid sized, and if you don’t know who Hagrid is, we can’t be anonymous friends anymore!

As soon as I open the door to walk in, this man decides he’s coming in as well.

My paranoia kicks in and OF COURSE I think this man is following me now. I don’t care, though, because my D.A.R.E. officer, Gerald Anthony Lee, told me being hyper-aware could save me from being attacked.

I head purposefully toward the ATM as the man lingers at the cash register. I keep peeking over my shoulder expecting him to creep up and ask me for money. “I don’t carry cash” would no longer be a viable excuse.

Just as I wrap up my transaction, he heads back outside and stands right beside the door.


I brace myself, push open the door and am bombarded with a deep gruff, angry voice:

“IT’S BACK TO THE FUTURE! (grumbles unintelligibly) IT’S BACK TO THE FUTURE–”

–he’s cut off by the slam of my door.

Can someone tell me what happened there?


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