Marty was crossing the desert on his motorcycle using an off-the-map side road. He spun out on a patch of sand. His bike was ruined, and he wasn’t in such good shape himself. His ankle was either sprained or broken, and he could only crawl. There wasn’t a car in sight.
He crawled through the day and through the night. He felt as though he was dying of thirst and he knew heat stroke was just around the corner.
“Ties, ties, ties.” A man just ahead at the side of the road was crying out. Marty hurried forward, sure that he was hallucinating and that the man was a mirage.
“Water,” Marty said. “I need water.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “I only have ties.”
“I’m dying, dude. What do I need a tie for?” And Marty crawled on.
Just when he thought he could go no farther, he saw a tavern. He made it to the door, where he sprawled, exhausted. “Please help me in. I need water,” he said.
But the doorman refused. “No shirt, no tie, no service.”
