Gas Station Pickup

Sometimes, as a writer I have to struggle with a concept, I have to tease a finished product out of a rough mess that refuses to make sense. There are days I have to work hard to get anything close to a cogent narrative, and there are occasions where I have to struggle for hours to get just a few good words.
   Sometimes, though, pure gold falls right into my lap and I don't have to do a damn thing but write it down. Sunday night was one of those times.
   I was at a Chevron in Eagle Rock - a newly-hip and still run-down part of Los Angeles immediately adjacent to Pasadena - putting gas in the truck and buying a soda I definitely did not need to drink. The line to pay was long because some jerkoff was cashing in a fistful of lottery scratchers, and so I got at the back of the line and an Ed-Hardy-wearing greasy hipster dude got in line behind me; that's Eagle Rock for you. Moments later a 'blonde' woman in shorts got in line behind him. She was attractive in that 'been clean from meth for six months' kind of way skinny bottle-blonde white chicks can have.
   This is their conversation, which I ran to my truck to write down.

'Blonde' woman: Man, did a bus let off just now?
   Greasy hipster douchebag: Yeah, that's a long line.
What's happening up there?
   So who are you here with?
My husband.
   Oh yeah? Which one is he?
The one with the Raiders shirt.(pointing to the big bald guy pumping gas into his pickup)
   Yeah, okay. (...pause...) You should come party with us.
Nah, I've done enough partying in my life. Hardcore, man.
   You don't look old enough to be done partying.
I'm thirty-five. A lot of long years partying, I'm done.
   Really? I thought you looked... maybe... twenty-eight or thirty. A lot of paryting, huh?
   (... pause..)
   Are you high right now?
No. Are you?

~~~ at this point I have paid for my soda, a habit I'm unsuccessfully trying to kick, and I'm trying to think of a slick way to stay there and eavesdrop on the horrible, embarrassing conversation behind me. I finally abandoned all pretense and just re-folded my cash while they finished ~~~

   Well, I just... you know. Here let me give you my number. ( douchebag actually has a business card he tries to hand over )
No, that's okay, I don't think my husband would want me to take it.
   Oh, hey, he can come too. He looks like a party guy.
He's not.
   Okay... well... I guess I'll see you around.
I don't think so.

Ugh and ewwww. While on the one hand I do have to admire the greasy hipster's bravado and willingness to take a chance, on the other hand I think his choice of venue was questionable, and his banter was reprehensible. If this is what you ladies have to put up with on a regular basis no wonder we men have a bad reputation.
   Oh, final note, as you probably guessed the greasy hipster guy in full Ed Hardy regalia was, in fact, buying cigarettes. Livin' the sterotype...