What would you do?

So about three months ago, a sweaty, beefy fella in a suit with his shirt untucked approached us in our parking lot and asked us for a ride to the train station. His car, a brand-newish Honda Accord, wouldn't start, and he was running late.

So ever-the-good-samaritan, Old Man Sucker gave the poor guy a lift. He said he'd give us his card and that we were his guardian angel. He said he'd see us around the neighborhood. We practically sped off, because frankly, clingy neighbors make us nervous.

This morning, we turned the ignition and promptly put on The Goonies theme song in order to start our morning commute as pleasantly as possible. And no, we don't whisper, "You're not Chunk, You're not Chunk" over and over again.

Sweaty beefy guy appeared out of nowhere with the same spiel as last time.

Car wouldn't start... need a ride to train station... sweating... suit pants and oversized polo... sweating... stammering a bit... coke problem? nah... drinking problem? Probably... do we help? Huh... still with the car not starting and the sweating at 7:30 in the morning...

"(We) took you to the train station before, remember?" we asked.

"You did?" he asked. HAH! We were now very skeptical of this same spiel.

"Sorry. (We're) going the opposite way," we said.

Now. We feel bad for the guy, but we also had the thought last time that he had either left his bomb-laden briefcase in our backseat or was setting us up for future muggings. We could so take him, but still. Does he have a gun? A knife? Is he a raving lunatic?

And, like three weeks ago, he left his car windows down completely overnight, and parked pretty much drunkenly in the lot. We don't trust this man.

But then we saw him huffing it to the train station a few minutes later -- this, after we back-tracked and cruised, happily and with air conditioning, to the local bagel joint, Cyndi Lauper a-blarin'.

Sorry, Sweatybeefyman. Maybe you aren't a serial killer. Our bad.