When I was living in Spokane about a decade ago, I was coming home from work one night very late, around 11pm, when I noticed I needed gas for the next morning. I pulled off I-90 at Division. There was (maybe still is) a very small Shell station on the corner of Division and 3rd. Pulled into a pump, swiped the card, started pumping. This dude literally bounced over to me in about 4 steps from his parked 1990 Buick Century about 30 feet away.
He was about 6'3", 133 lbs., scratching his arms and neck, wearing a knit cap, and,
I swear, a EWU hoodie. The hoodie was well used, probably stolen, and likely coincidental, but he had it on. He spoke faster than I could understand, but it seemed like he was having car trouble. I said sorry, I don't know how to help you. He got PISSED! Yelling and screaming at me, he had a really crazy look in his eyes. I bet he could have thrown his car wherever he needed it to go. Bad, bad situation.
So get this: It turned out that he was all out of coolant. Radiator was leaking or something. It turns out, I had JUST purchased a new truck about two weeks prior. 2005 Nissan Titan. My trade in was a VW Passat that used to have coolant issues. It took some special shit that I think was pretty much snake oil, but I had it in the trunk. When I cleaned out the car at the dealership, I decided to take the nearly full container because I was pissed that I had just bought it for like $50. I threw it in the back of the new truck and forgot about it. Fast forward to Cracky McClure in my face ready eat my eyeballs screaming about some lady named Anna Friesz, and I remembered. I gave it to him and bolted.
A few years later, I was reading an article about how meth was made. I think the Buick was running just fine.