Back in college I sometimes went through phases of really liking a particular sort of candy for a while, and having a packet of that candy in my belt-pouch or backpack wherever I went. First it was circus peanuts, then Mentos, and later Goetze's caramel creams. It was during the caramel creams phase that I met a fellow who could have popped right out of a folk tale.
I was walking past the building nicknamed the Death Star for its bizarre architecture, stark grey concrete walls, and metal paneling when I saw him. He was a tall, thin man, a bit hunched over, with deep-set eyes and a long white beard down to his waist. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and an old brown longcoat. As I approached, he pointed a bony finger at the bag of caramel creams in my hand, looked at me with the look of someone who loved them when he was younger but hadn't had one in years, and said "Can I have one of those?"
Having read plenty of folk tales myself, I knew exactly the sort of misfortunes that can befall selfish characters who refuse to share their lunches with mysterious elderly strangers by the side of the road. "Sure," I said, and gave him one.
"Thank you," he said as he unwrapped it. "I'll put in a good word for you."
I probably should've interpreted this as a simple statement of gratitude, but I was feeling philosophical and in a mood to ask silly questions. Specifically: "Oh? With whom?"
"With him," he said, smiling and pointing skyward. I never saw him again.