Do you want fries with that?

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There were times in college when I could easily have hit three different fast food places in a day — especially the year the cook in our dorm got a little bit too experimental (chicken should not be yellow under ANY circumstances)!

One of these yellow chicken days I made a Burger King run for myself and a lazy friend of mine who stayed back in my dorm room and played NBA Jams. The closest Burger King did not have the usually preferable drive-thru and the nearest one with such a convenience was 30 minutes away. My friend would sooner swallow toothpaste than eat a cold Whopper so I decided to walk-in and take-out.

This particular BK usually had a few homeless people congregating outside and this day was no different. I noticed one guy in particular who looked like Bill Cosby complete with an obnoxious sweater concealed by a long thick black coat. He sat on the brick wall near the entrance asking someone for money as I walked past.

After ordering and picking up the bags of food I made my way for the door. Just as I was starting to lean on the door to push it open, someone pulled it from the outside. Of course this meant that I was now “leaning” against thin air and shortly found my face pressed into a bag of French fries which was pressing into the hard concrete. Many of the fries had spilled about the walkway and the bag with the burgers was launched more than five feet from where my head rested.

Within seconds I was being bear hugged by someone trying to pull me up off the ground. It was another situation where I felt like there’s no way this person is going to be able to help me up! Somehow, though, I was brought to my feet — still mostly in shock that I had just unexpectedly face planted.

“You okay? You okay?” he said as I turned around with my shaky legs.

“Yes — yes, I’m fine…Thank you so much for your help,” I said as I realized it was the begging Bill Cosby who came to my rescue. I could almost see my reflection in the sweat that was dripping from his forehead.

“You sure you ok?” he asked again as he grabbed the food bags and handed them to me.

“Yes — no problem — I’m fine…Thank you again,” I said and made my way back to my car where I sat for a minute just to let the adrenaline dissipate. I finally drove back to my dorm where the first question I heard was “What the hell happened to the fries?”

To this day I feel a little like an idiot because I didn’t think to at least give the guy that helped me some of the food or some cash or something. I never did see him there again, but I am glad he was there to help me that day.

And by the way, crushed French fries taste exactly like hash browns.

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