Don't park there!

One of my favorite stories regarding Missy involves a late-night Whataburger run.

We were probably about 19 or so, back when I was cruising around the city in Pedro. Ah, how freaking fun were those years?

Anyway, we had gone downtown to see a friend perform in a burlesque show, or maybe see a belly dancing show? I dunno, some show. Afterwards, we were driving home and it was pretty late, and we were hungry. So we stopped at this Whataburger right off the freeway, in a questionable part of town. I was in the parking lot and was about to pull into a spot. In fact, I was about halfway in the spot. All of a sudden, Missy screams, "Don't park there!"

A frantic, break-the-conversation urgent plea. I slammed on the brakes.

After a WTF moment directed at Missy, a few seconds later, I see why. Parked in the adjacent spot, in the shadows, is one of those ghetto mexican cars, you know the lowrider ones with hydraulics. No big deal, except inside the car is a ghetto mexican thug, who we can just barely make out. Well, we assumed he was a ghetto mexican thug, sitting in the dark in the Whataburger parking lot in a questionable part of town in his ghetto mexican lowrider car. To be honest, it was just a little eerie.

So, even though I'm mostly in the spot and have paused mid-park to take in the situation, I put in reverse as nonchalantly as I can, pull out of the spot, and park in a well-lit place next to the door. I can only imagine what the possible ghetto mexican thug was thinking.

Then we went inside, avoiding looking at the car, and Missy ordered a single chicken finger. Yeah, you can do that at Whataburger. I think she got onion rings too, but I wouldn't let her eat them in my car. Because then it would smell like onion rings. Anyway, we made it home without any more mishaps, but to this day, that remains one of my favorite Missy memories.

I actually think about it frequently because I pass that Whataburger on my way home from work. And it still cracks me up.