Only in Savannah

This is why I choose to live in Savannah:

On the way home from work a few weeks ago, I pulled up to a red light and idly checked out the bumper stickers on the shiny red Ford 150 pickup just ahead of me--several renditions of the Confederate flag, as well as the "Don't tread on me" rattlesnake logo. I wasn't paying any attention to the rusted-out, ancient but also red, also a Ford 150 pickup next to him until the door opened and an oldish, grizzled black man jumped out. He was wearing saggy pants that stayed up only by virtue of the fact that they were knotted to his shirttail on one side, and as we all waited at the light, he hefted a five-gallon gasoline can out of his truck bed and proceeded to fuel up. (There are gas stations on both sides of this intersection, mind you.)

He then tossed the empty can back into the truck bed--where it joined various rusted lawn mowers and other ancient gardening equipment--and climbed back into the cab, an operation that involved banging the door shut several times before the latch caught and it stayed. Then someone began honking loudly. Both he and I turned to the vehicle next to me and behind him, which belonged to a very coiffed-looking woman with a permit for The Landings on her rear side window. I think we were both ready to flip her off--the light was still red; why honk?--when she lowered her window enough to call out and gesture to the road somewhere to the side of the truck. The grizzled man hopped out, retrieved a cell phone from the asphalt, where it had apparently flown as he entered or exited the cab, and banged the door shut multiple times until the latch caught (again). He gave the coiffed woman a cheery wave of thanks, and she waved back in gracious acknowledgment. Then the light changed, and we all were off on our merry ways.