In front of the Portland Modern Art Museum, I'm clipping the lit tip off a half cigarette before going in (Yes, I smoke, okay? Just shut up) because I'm the sort of cheapskate who saves half cigarettes for later since I can rarely finish a whole one and the fuckers are like six bucks a pack. A guy walks up to me, rather clean-cut looking and not the usual smelly hippie type:
Guy: Can you spare an extra cigarrette?
Me: (holding up clipped half cigarrette) Nope, this is it. (I'm also the sort of asshole that doesn't give cigarrettes to people who ask on the street because one 20th of six bucks is too much to spare on losers)
Guy: (pointing to clipped half cigarette) Can I have that then?
Guy: I'll give you a hit of crack. (holds up crack pipe-- at least I'm pretty sure that's what it was because I've never seen one in real life)
Me: No, thanks.
The scary thing is that guy wanted a cigarette more than he wanted crack. Maybe I should have just given it to him.