Jobs of any kind are turning into a rare commodity. Whenever I see a grown man dressed as the Statue of Liberty in front of a Rent-A-Center I don’t mock — I salute. I salute not out of some jingoistic obligation, but because that guy has a job.
Maybe he’s being paid in Skittles instead of money, but a gig is a gig and Skittles are dang tasty.
Earlier this week while in the middle of trying to synthesize Elizabeth Montgomery, a couple of entrepreneurial knuckle-draggers drove up to my front door and blew their horn as if to summon their date for the evening. A wormy little dude exited the passenger side of a 1991 Toyota truck featuring a giant cooler in the back and what appeared to be a former David Allan Coe roadie behind the wheel.
“I promise I’m not crazy or anything,” Wormy said as he approached me.
“Well, I am, so that’s close enough — what do you need?” I asked.
Wormy held up what was allegedly a license to sell meat door to door.
“I used to be in your line of work,” I told Wormy.
“Oh, you sold meat door to door?” Wormy asked excitedly, as if he thought he’d run into someone from his old fraternity.
“Naw, I was a door-to-door door salesman,” I quoted from an old column. “I’d knock on the door and then hold up a brand new one before the pigeon opened their old door. I only got punched two or three times a week; you look like you’ve been punched a few times today already, rookie. What are you selling?”
“I’m selling steaks and ...” but before Wormy could crank up his pitch, I pulled him off the mound.
“We’re not interested in buying any meat,” I said.
Wormy looked confused.
“An old Brahman bull pulled me out of a burning building when I was a little boy,” I explained. “The old bull pulled me to safety and went back into the fire in an attempt to save the family cat. The cat nor the bull survived but the fire department said it was the best barbecue they ever had. From that moment on, my entire family became vegetarians out of respect.”
“Is that true?” Wormy asked.
“No, but since you’re taking up my time, I thought I’d take up some of yours,” I answered.
I then pointed to a house about a mile away from mine.
“You see that house over there? Don’t go to that house. An elderly uncle of mine lives there and doesn’t need to be bothered,” I said.
With that, Wormy and The Roadie headed off. I stood in the yard to see where they’d go, and sure enough, they went straight to the house I asked them not to. I did my best John Schneider scoot across the hood of my car and barreled down the road to my relative’s house.
I pulled into the driveway behind the little Toyota and pulled to within an inch of its back bumper.
“Why are you guys here? I just told you not to come up here,” I said.
“Well, this is a free country and we can go wherever we want,” Wormy said.
I ducked in to make sure my uncle was OK. He was a little ill about having to get up out of his chair in the middle of Dr. Phil’s show, but otherwise, everything was good.
“Do me a favor,” I said to my uncle. “About every minute or so, holler like something’s got hold of you; I want to mess with these idiots outside.”
I put on my best worried look and headed back outside.
“Here’s the deal,” I said to Wormy. “That old guy in there fell while trying to get to the door when you knocked. He’s lying on the floor in terrible pain; I think he broke his hip.”
“OHHH!!!” my uncle yelled from the house. “THIS IS THE BIG ONE, ELIZABETH!!”
Wormy’s splotchy complexion suddenly took on a more intense kaleidoscopic plaid quality. Being the brains of the operation, The Roadie beckoned Wormy back to the truck.
“We need to go,” Roadie whispered to Wormy.
“JESUS, COME ON AND GET ME NOW!!” my uncle screamed from the house.
“Can you move your car so we can go?” Wormy asked.
“Nope, this is a free country and I can go wherever I want,” I retorted. “Besides, the sheriff will probably need to get a statement from you two anyway.”
“What sheriff?” Wormy and The Roadie asked in almost perfect unison.
“The one that’s going to be called out here after I call an ambulance to get my uncle to a hospital,” I calmly answered. “Is your employer bonded or will he or she lose the entire company once we get the lawyers involved?”
“I SEE A BRIGHT LIGHT!!” my uncle shrieked.
“Man, please; I need to keep plenty of space between me and law enforcement,” Wormy said. “What can we do to make this go away?”
“I don’t know — my uncle’s insurance will cover the new hip, but his pain and suffering needs to be accounted for,” I said. “How much money do you have on you?”
Between Roadie and The Worm, they produced $27, a pack of Nabs and a coupon for $3 off a box of Doral cigarettes.
“That’s a good start but won’t nearly be enough,” I said while cutting my eyes toward the cooler full of steaks in the back of their truck.
“Does your uncle like steaks?” Wormy asked.
“Shoot yeah!” I said. “Half the time he doesn’t even bother thawing or cooking them anymore; he bites into ’em like they’re Nutty Buddys.”
Suffice to say, my uncle’s dogs will be having steak for supper from now till Easter. I jotted down Roadie and The Worm’s license plate number before they drove away. I told them if so much as a Kleenex went missing over the next few months, I’d turn them in.
This is America and you can eat any kind of meat you want — be it cow, pig, chicken or cat. If you decide to eschew your local, health-department-inspected meat market to buy what is allegedly dead cow from two future wards of the state driving around in a truck that’s more Bondo than metal, then I salute you.
If you end up in the hospital with kangaroo poisoning, don’t fret; I hear the pouch ends up being quite useful once you get used to it.
Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase books, music and lingerie at jondawson.com.