My only cool story.

Here is my true confession: I have always preferred a book and a cup of hot tea or coffee to just about anything outside my own home.

And I think that is a good preface to this story, because it illustrates how little I knew about the world when I ended up needing help from a man named Bear in a Waffle House outside Columbus, Ohio.

When I was a senior in high school, the boy I was dating got us tickets to see Offspring. I forget why now, but I know I was pumped. The show was in Columbus, so we had a pretty long trip for two people who had never really driven outside of Dayton.

I remember the show being amazing, and how rebellious I felt when we stopped to get breakfast at a Waffle House on our way home. It was pretty late—or early, rather—at this point, so our fellow diners were colorful to say the least.

As we were taking out seats, I remembered that I left my cell phone in the car. I had just found it, and was walking back in, when a younger guy stopped me to ask for money.

He told the same story I have heard a dozen times now, but at barely 18 years old, I was a sucker. He said he had a flat tire, and he just needed $20 to get a taxi, yada yada yada.

What did I do? Well, I had no cash. So I went inside and asked the boyfriend for money. He kept asking why, and I kept saying, “Don’t worry. I’ll pay you back. Just give me $40.”

Being the trusting girl that I was, I gave this very untrustworthy man a whole $40 that went to pay for who knows what? But unfortunately, this story continues…

The stranger went on his way, and I went back inside the Waffle House. As I sat down, the waitress came over and said in her thick Southern drawl, “Now Honey, you didn’t give that boy out there your money did you? He’s been out there asking for money every night this week!”

At this point, the very nice boy I was dating started turning very red, and getting very quiet. He looked at me quite seriously and said, “I’m going to go get my money back.”

Now, he said it in that voice where you just know not to argue. So I kept my mouth shut, and I let him go. Especially because I know I was wrong.

After about 10 minutes, I really began to worry. Other diners started talking, and I was beginning to feel pretty helpless. All of a sudden, a man who introduced himself as Bear—I am not joking—stood up from his booth in the back. In all his leather glory, Bear said, “I’m gonna go get your money back, darlin’.”

Unfortunately, Bear missed an important part of the story. When Bear returned, I asked him where the boyfriend was. Bear said, “what boyfriend?”

I said, “the boy I came here with.”

Bear said, “I didn’t see no boy, but the police just arrested someone next door at the gas station.”

At this point, we still had not ordered. So I picked up my stuff as fast as I could, and ran to the gas station to see what was happening. As I walked in, I saw the police officer that Bear had managed to flag down. And sure as Bear had said, that police officer had a boy in handcuffs.

The only problem? The boy in handcuffs looked nothing like the pan handler. In fact, the boy in handcuffs was my boyfriend.

I panicked a little at first, trying to get the police officer to understand that the one in handcuffs was not actually the pan handler. Eventually he listened, but that poor boy looked petrified in those handcuffs.

And me? I never got any Waffle House that night.