14 November 2008

Hey buddy, you wanna buy a steak?

In all the excitement of moving my desk to the first floor (at work) and watching that D&D movie, I almost forgot to share a very exciting moment with you, my reader!
Picture it, Wednesday night, around 6pm, after dark. Damp, chilled air, and me with an empty stomach and a box of groceries.
As I park the car I see a gray sweat-shirted, pony-tailed and ball-capped man make his way briskly down Mulberry St. I pay no mind, as it's not as if he were wearing a dashiki or kimono or a rabbit, and he appeared to be adequately containing his fluids and or viscerals. Perfectly normal.
Then he rushed back around the corner, with something of a not quite haunted, let's call it a preoccupied and perhaps worried expression, slightly out of breath.
He speaks:
"Hey buddy, can you help me out?"
As long as you don't try to rob me of either my dinner, my wallet, or my life, I can certainly help you, I think. Likely needs directions, but if any of the above happen, groceries will rapidly become weapons. Or maybe I'm just paranoid.
"Well, you see," he continues, careful to keep a respectful distance. This is taking place outside my house, me standing near the back steps, him near my dining room windows, "I just made my final delivery for the day, and the lady accidentally got a double order, so I have all this meat on my truck and my boss says I have to get rid of it..."

You what.
"We're talking porterhouse and t-bones, just $4..."

I told him no thank you; our fridge was full. It is, sorta
"Okay, thanks," he replied, "Do you know anyone in the neighborhood that might be interested?"

In meat from the back of a truck. MEAT ... from ... TRUCK.

I told him I did not, that we'd only recently moved here and didn't really know the neighbors. I know that's not entirely true, but compared to the older lady across the street who does daycare and names her wireless SSID with her family name, we did just move in. I mean, my NASCAR/Redskin/Budweiser/Cigarette-loving, parking space hog duplex neighbors and we are brand-spanking new to the neighborhood compared to either the families up the street who enjoy the fresh air of their front porches and have family over on Sundays, or the woman who lives in the apartment house across Wayside and shares custody of her child, or the other woman who lives in the top floor apartment and works as a cleaning lady, likely in a hotel; but not compared to the people in the house behind us. Mostly because that house is for sale and no one is living there presently.
He thanked me and rushed on. Most of me was grateful that the discussion was over so that I could eat and that he had not tried to rob me of life or possessions, but part of me was sad that I had not taken advantage of such a great deal, or that he hadn't been an agressor. I did not save money, nor did I get a chance to kick ass, because I had glass salsa jars in that box and a bottle of Febreze. I could have taken him.
After all, we Republicans might scare easily, but that just means we're likely better armed. And I'm deadly with a bottle of Febreze.


update May 2014: I am no longer affiliated with any political party, but I am pretty sure I could still turn a jar of salsa into an effective weapon, so offer me truck meat at your own peril.
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