by Buck

February 4, 2008

As improbable as it may seem, I’ve finally found somebody who I would consider a bigger pussy than Jeff Kay. Friends, let me tell you…that’s quite a statement. However, I was talking to a guy where I work the other day. He was telling me about a visit to the dentist in which the hygienist was flossing his teeth and said it had irritated his gums something awful. Another coworkers who was eavesdropping on the conversation chipped in, uninvited and said, “You didn’t have them to gas you?” WTF? Gas you…to have your teeth cleaned? 

I raised this question with him and he explained oh yeah, he had them gas him the moment he took a seat regardless of the procedure. My only response was to look at him with that, “You’ve GOT to be shitting me" look and say, “What are you a pussy?” He seemed to be hurt by the comment, but in my judgment the guy should man-up a little. 

I had a conversation with my boss the other day about people who have this huge dream of someday moving to the beach. My sister and her husband have that dream. They want to eventually land jobs near the ocean and live there year-round. My boss is one of those who did such a thing. He explained, it’s not for everybody. He was in charge of trying to hire workers for a full-time job at the beach and it was an endless parade of freaks, charlatans, and goobers without a single clue of what direction they were heading in life. Finding good help at the beach is apparently a problem. He said most show up just trying to find a job that will keep them in beer and pot money with no regard for the other necessities of existing in life—such as a house. 

Those who come for the beach dream of living by the ocean often find it’s not what they expect. He told me about a house he bought during his tenure there that could only be described as legalized theft. This guy had apparently had “the dream” and spent his life savings building a huge beach house on Hilton Head Island. Then, he lived there about six months and realized he hated it…his wife had already left to go back to their former home and he was desperate to unload the mansion. My boss happened to pick it up for at least 100-thousand dollars less than the actual value. Once the transaction was complete, the guy apparently realized what he had done and was angry at my boss. He actually said, “You stole my house!!!!” The boss said, “No, you signed the contract.” Then added to his story by telling me, “I really stole that guy’s house.” 

He parlayed that into about ten-years of living in luxury on the Shores of South Carolina, and then got a better job here in Charleston. He moved here after selling the South Carolina home at its appropriate value. You can imagine how much that was—and how much house that would buy here in West Virginia. Let’s just say, he’s still living like a bandit. 

I had to have some work done on the old truck the other day. I usually go queasy when shit goes south because that almost ALWAYS guarantees any extra cash I might have had will not be spent on something I was hoping to buy. I was literally filling up with a tank of gas and a tank of anti-freeze and then the anti-freeze was leaking out onto the ground almost overnight. This sucked because not only is it about 8.00 a gallon, but then I would have to clean up that mess for fear a wayward animal would suck some down and die a horrible death at my expense. Not something I want on my head. I was buying the “green” anti-freeze (and I don’t mean in color). Still, I had reservations about the whole thing and was paying extra to be environmentally sensitive—which is a place I’m really not use to being. You can probably tell, my social awareness is pretty thin, but killing my dog or the neighbor’s dog isn’t a pleasant thought either. 

Anyway, the problem was diagnosed as a failing water pump, I also needed new tires and a brake job. Normally, I could handle about half of that. However, in this particular case I wasn’t used to working on Chrysler products (don’t ask—it’s a long story) and I could have done the brake job had the rotors not needed a good turnin’. I managed to find a good-ole’ boy garage that did all that work for 450-dollars and allowed me to pay it in separate payments over the next three paydays. I’m a big advocate of the old style of business this place practices. It’s kind of neat to see an outfit that number 1, knows how to fix a problem the first time and number 2 realizes a working man isn’t able to eat green paper and shit money—and is willing to let you pay on a staggered installment plan…also a third caveat, they don’t expect you to die before you’re able to pay for the work and charge a reasonable rate. This garage isn’t pretty, it’s literally wall-to-wall tires and greasy filth….but I can over look that for the aforementioned reasons and hope they stay in business for as long as I’m able to drive a vehicle. 

Buck Out

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