The year is 1996. I was driving from California to Washington, DC to start graduate school. I spent the night in a small town in West Virginia. In that town, on top of a hill, is a bar that literally has a sign that says "No N$#%#$s, F^%s, Or Dogs Allowed."
The next morning, I went to the center of town to use the only pay phone I could find. It was in front of a restaurant/bar called Bubba's. It was early so Bubba's wasn't open yet, but I could make out movement inside.
I was using the pay phone because there were complications with my financial aid package. I called and was told that there was some sort of snag and I don't have my tuition covered. I freaked out, then and there. I must have made quite a scene because two guys came out of Bubba's to check out what was going on.
Bubba looked just like John Popper. His sidekick reminded me of the skinny kid from Road Trip, but without the charm. He had an old t-shirt with a print of Farrah Fawcett on the front. As they approached me, I thought, "Oh great, trouble." The banjo music from Deliverance was playing in my head.
Bubba asked me what was wrong and I told him everything. I was broke; school was going to start next week; and I didn't know what to do. Bubba calmed me down, had his employee run back and make me a couple of free sandwiches, gave me a couple of 2-liter bottles of Bubba Cola (for real), and gave me the phone number of his sister in DC. "You tell her that you're Bubba's friend and you stay at her place as long as you need to."
Well, I got to DC, immediately rushed to the financial aid office, and straightened out everything. I never called Bubba's sister.
I learned that stereotypes suck.
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