| Straight
from the holler.
by "Buck" May 31, 2006 Ah, the summer has arrived. I managed to get down to my local Speedway over the weekend and picked up a new Blue Rhino and we officially opened backyard grilling season. You know the advent of the gas grill has brought on changes in the world. My dad used to have those big propane tanks for our camper back in the old days, but getting it filled was a bit of a chore. He had to haul those things over to the gas plant. You drove into their “gas yard” surrounded by a bevy of enormous tanks, a maze of pipes, and a little unease that just one cigarette would plant your ass on a distant star. The crazy man who filled the tanks always came out and used tools to hook them up and start the gas transfer process. Dad always bitched because they put an idiotic plug on there. He always claimed that such things were a bunch of bullshit designed by some government bureaucrat trying to tell him how to be safe. Good ole’ dad—always the conspiracy theorist—even with propane technology. Today though, changing a propane tank is about as easy as buying a Honey Bun and a 250 ounce soda pop. The minimum wage employee simply dottles out to the cage, unlocks it, and trades you out. I recall my hesitation to trade out gas bottles when I first got my grill. I guess it was my dad’s upbringing that they’ll take your good bottle and saddle you with a piece of shit and that concerned me. However, I’m not even sure you can have empty bottle refilled any more without an exchange. It’s a sad part of the past. I’m also a little saddened that I don’t see charcoal being used as much as in the past. I have both a gas and charcoal grill. Occasionally, just for nostalgic purposes, I’ll fire up the coals and enjoy seeing old carbon material slowly mature to white hot bricks that look like aged dog shit, but it’s just easier to go with the gas. Sadly, it’s a commentary on society. I think I’ve introduced you to several of my more colorful neighbors. Of course the hot nympho widow across the street has been well documented in these writings. I’ve probably told you about my one next door neighbor who’s a doormat for her shit eating ex-husband… but today I introduce you to Mr. Crazy who lives on the other side of my home. This guy is a West Virginia classic. He has a wife who’s not half-bad looking for a woman in her mid 40’s. Hard living however, makes them look like they are in their late 60’s. He’s an iron worker, or at least he was. She’s got a job in a doctor's office doing proctology exams or whatever. He tells me a long, drawn out tales of how he was hurt on the job.. and to be fair he does act like he’s in constant pain and can barely move. He must drown this pain in pure-grain alcohol. As with all of my neighbors he has his share of quirks. Behind his house is a steep embankment that is wooded. My back yard isn’t quite as steep, and I’ve cleared much of my woods to allow for a little more vision down into the abyss. He however, has a penchant for getting embalmed and throwing all of his possessions over the hill. The other night, he and a couple of iron worker buddies, were on their back deck—drinking like the Russians were in Mississippi—and all of the sudden decided to throw a couch over the hill. The Davenport rolled about a hundred yards down the hill and broke in half at the base of a tree. He must have been replacing a couch that sat there for years—and was generally where he would go and sit to drink beer when his old lady threw him out of the house. There are various other items strewn about the hill. There’s a full-on doghouse, a motorcycle chassis, a television cabinet, and automatic transmission housing down there. I would akin him to Jeff’s Poppa Half-Shirt, but not quite. Here’s one from the Domino’s Files—stories from my days as a Domino’s Pizza Delivery Driver. The company would always hire “Mystery Customers.” I’ve always wished I could be one of these folks and have always wondered how they were selected. Anyway, your “job” as mystery customer was to call in and order a pizza, have it delivered, pay for it (reimbursed of course) and then evaluate the quality of the service and the food. We never knew who this might be—the idea, of course, is to treat every customer with care. However, this particular mystery customer decided she was going to take her job just a little too serious and put us to the test. The woman called in on a Friday night at about 10:00—one of the busiest times of the week. She ordered four-pies, all of them different and specialized in their order with this, that, and the other. You know the kind…”I want one of your ‘everything’ pizzas, but I don’t want onions or green peppers. I want another ‘everything’ and hold the olives, but extra beef…”.and on and on she went. The guy answering the phone was already frazzled because the phones were ringing non-stop. This woman called back THREE times to change the order—once after two of the pizzas were done. She not only changed the order, but also changed the delivery location. She also was EMPHATIC that it better not be late or cold or she wouldn’t accept it. We did all we could to help her out. The delivery guy that drew the order had a short fuse anyway. He ran out the door carrying the pizzas LIKE SCHOOL BOOKS. Naturally everything slid to one side. I’m told that when he finally arrived with the pies….she was incensed and started to make a scene. To which he replied with something like, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself bitch.” She then jumped bad screaming “I’m the mystery customer, I’m the mystery customer!!!!” Eventually the police had to be summonsed to break up this insanity. We finally obtained a copy of her four page essay about our shitty service that was sent to Tom Monaghan in Detroit—personally addressed. She went through the whole ordeal in finite detail—and even embellished a few things that didn’t happen—you know for dramatic effect. Domino’s cut us ZERO slack—and hung us out to dry. The owners nearly lost their franchise over “the incident.” Despite that, our boss said that it was just a fuck-up and didn’t hold our feet to the fire over the whole thing. As always, I'm at Moonshinebuck@yahoo.com Buck Out |
