Last Friday six of the scariest words you'll ever hear popped up on my phone: "Can you do me a favor?"

Aside from being an incredibly open-ended question, "can you do me a favor?" could end up ruining your entire weekend. I classify favors thusly:

Level 1: A friend needs a ride to the airport

Level 2: A friend needs an airtight alibi

Level 3: A friend needs help moving to a new house

Another factor that comes into play in the high stakes world of favors is the requester. Luckily I also have a classification system for friends:

Level 1: A friend that will loan you a quarter for the soda machine

Level 2: A friend that will pick you up while you're car is being worked on

Level 3: A friend that will loan you a shovel and a Pop-Tart at 3 a.m. with no questions asked.

The friend who asked if I could do him a favor last Friday was Correai Moore, a buddy I've written about many times over the years. In fact, Correai was the subject of the very first column I ever wrote, leading to two books Amazon.com raved were "available for sale".

Correai's issue was down to tissue. He and his bride live in Apex, which is the Latin word for "no toilet paper". They weren't in emergency status as they had a few days supply on hand, but after a week of trying to shore up their supply came up short, I was asked if I could find any in Kinston. Since Correai is a Level 3/Pop-Tart/shovel friend, I jumped at the chance to help.

The scuttlebutt was the Dollar General store on Vernon Avenue had toilet paper in stock, so I headed over on my lunch hour. Before both of my feet were inside the store I locked eyes with the store manager who instinctively said: "it's on the shelf in the back left corner." 

The shelf in question was as empty as the day it was installed, except for five packs of store brand toilet paper in the far left corner. All those years of watching The Six Million Dollar Man paid off, as I made a bionic leap and procured three packs for my friend. I was still making the "detdadetdadetda" bionic man noise during the checkout process, which prompted the cashier to ask if I'd forgotten to take any medication.

Once the toilet paper was safe and secure in the trunk of my car, I called Correai to tell him the good news.

Me: "The Eagle has landed!"

Correai: "What?"

Me: "I've got the Motts!"

Correai: "Did you forget to take some medication?"

Me: "I FOUND SOME TOILET PAPER!"

Correai: "Oh! Thanks, man!

We set up a meeting at the vacant lot across from the Cook Out restaurant in Smithfield. I don't mind telling you, this tri-county toilet paper run filled me with a level of pride I haven't felt since the time I changed the belt on a riding lawn mower all by myself. In the time it took me to change that infernal belt an average guy could've built a lawnmower from scratch out of a handful of switches, but it was a personal victory nonetheless.

I'm sure the whole transaction looked a little shady. I could imagine members of local law enforcement peering through binoculars in a nearby surveillance van, watching two grown men pop the trunk of a car and grab three plastic bags. Just before the person in charge would give the order to swarm, the stand-down order would be given when someone noticed we were trafficking imitation Charmin.

After a few weeks of the altered reality we're all dealing with, a little nonsense was just what the doctor ordered. If you're lucky enough to have a Level 3/Pop-Tart/shovel friend, never miss an opportunity to let them know you appreciate them. If one of your best friends needs a ride to Golden Corral so he can dip some okra in the chocolate fountain, grab your car keys and get moving.