So I ran up to the grocery store for a couple of things. In front of me in line were a trio of youngish black guys. As I waited, a skinny older man with lank brown hair and thick glasses came up behind me and started to unload his soda and whatnot.

The last of the young guys fished in his pockets for a moment, then turned to me. "Excuse me," he said, "I left my ID back at the hotel. Could you buy this for me, please?" He indicated a bottle of fruit-flavored zinfandel wine.

It's illegal to buy alcohol for minors, and he looked about nineteen. I told a fib. "Sorry," I said. "I don't have an ID on me, either."

He looked past me to the man behind me, got his attention, and politely repeated the request.

The man eyed the wine. "Sure," he agreed affably. "I like that stuff, but my doctor said I couldn't have it anymore. Damn doctors. They think they can just tell you what to do all the time. I lost a leg, and I can't drink wine anymore!" I glanced down. Sure enough, one of his legs was prosthetic.

"Sir," said the woman at the cash register, "may I see your ID, please?"

The guy startled. "You sound just like the police when you say that!" He pulled out a daybook and started riffling through it, presumeably looking for his ID. "I had some trouble with the police a little bit ago, here in Williamsburg." He looked up at the waiting young man. "Are you from around here?"

"No, sir," he said politely. "I'm from New York."

"How about that! I'm from New York, too! My brother still lives there, in Manhattan. Which part are you from?"

"Brooklyn," the young man answered, "but just now we're living in-"

"You sounded just like the police," the older guy told the cashier jovially. "Those police the other day, they were lucky. I could've killed them. These hands are deadly weapons, let me tell you! I may not have a leg, but I could kill all of you without any trouble at all! Well, not you guys. I like you guys. But I could! I was in the Special Forces in Vietnam, and I-"

"Sir," said the cashier patiently, "your ID?"

"Oh, sure, sure!" He riffled through his daybook some more and pulled out an ID and handed it to the cashier. "Deadly weapons," he reiterated brightly, waving a hand. "I almost killed my fiancée a while back, in Richmond. I had a knife, and she-" He broke off to accept his ID back from the cashier. "But I like you guys. You're just great."

You meet all kinds of characters when you live in a tourist town.