As a young teen, I was overconfident, attractive and reckless. Clever and charismatic, I lived above all rules, believing myself utterly omnipotent and invincible. Essentially, I was a young female version of the devil, if the devil wore J. Crew sweaters and skintight designer jeans.
During this time, before we got fake I.D.’s, my friends and I primarily bought alcohol from older siblings or the friends of older siblings. When no generous 21-year-old providers were available to satisfy our communal thirst, we would drive to “urban” gas stations and ask loiterers to buy us alcohol.
On one such day, determined to party (some things never change), two of my girlfriends, a guyfriend and I headed to an inner-city Chevron in my guyfriend’s dinky sedan.
Upon arriving at the station, my friends nominated me to ask a nearby loitering man to buy us alcohol. Without a second thought, I hopped out of the car and strutted sanguinely up to the man. I asked him to kindly buy us alcohol. He agreed, slinging his tattered backpack over one shoulder and accepting the few wrinkled bills I offered him. Upon taking my order (if I remember correctly, it included multiple flavors of Four Loko—good times), the man entered the gas station. He returned several minutes later carrying multiple bags, chock-full of sweet sweet celebratory libations. I rushed to help him carry the load and he thrust two bags into my empty hands.
As we lugged the goods back towards my friend’s parked car, the man and I began conversing. I thanked him for the purchase and formally introduced myself. He told me his name: “Double Barrel.”
“Why Double Barrel?” I asked, ever the naïve devil-princess.
“I run this town. Gun one, gun two. Two guns. Double Barrel.” By guns, the man meant his biceps.
At this moment, I should have anticipated danger, smelled the aroma of peril. I should have dropped the bags and run. Instead, I continued walking with this man, hauling alcohol towards a parked car occupied by three of my favorite underage amigos.
We reached my friend’s car and stashed the alcohol in the trunk. I walked around to one of the doors and slid into the back seat. As I was about to slam the door shut, Double Barrel grabbed the metal frame.
“Where are you headed?” he inquired.
“Nowhere,” I responded.
“Well then, I guess you can give me a ride.”
Before my friends or I could protest, Double Barrel slid into the seat next to me, shoving me towards the middle.
At this moment, we all should have anticipated danger, smelled the aroma of peril. We should have called the cops or started screaming bloody murder.
Instead, my guyfriend hesitantly turned the key in the ignition as we ladies sat silent.
Double Barrel told us where he wanted to go—not too far. We pulled out of the gas station parking lot and began on our way.
As my friend drove, Double Barrel dug around the depths of his backpack.
He proceeded to pull out three objects: a Bible, an airplane shot of whiskey and a switchblade.
He laid the three objects on his lap and began to monologue crazily. With every word he uttered, we grew more and more terrified.
I no longer remember exactly what insanity Double Barrel spewed during that car ride. Perhaps my mind repressed the memory or perhaps I was simply too terror-stricken to register and process.
My next true memory is of our arrival at Double Barrel’s desired destination and of the desperate flirting and sweet-talking required to ultimately coax Double Barrel from the car. Also, the feeling of ecstatic relief when my friends and I finally convinced him to exit the automobile.
I suppose every story has a lesson. The way I see it, this horror story had two:
Don’t ask strange men to buy you alcohol outside of sketchy gas stations.
Always carry three items: a Bible, an airplane shot of whiskey and a switchblade. That way, if ever you want to completely terrorize anyone, you’re set.
Thanks for the life lessons, Double Barrel.
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