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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: JF Quinnelly who wrote (38861)	9/29/1999 12:13:00 AM
From: Crocodile	Read Replies (4) \| Respond to of 71178

<Never treat the Totally Mad with the same politeness you grant to the sane. Strange how that is.... but it's an insidious thing. You don't really know it's happening until it already is. A Wrecking Yard Tale -- (warning... long). This takes place awhile ago on a bright autumn afternoon. It was quiet...not much happening...and the yardmen were standing around drinking coffee outside the big picture window of the tin can of a mobile home that served as our office. My compadre in the office was swatting at flies with his rubber fly-swatter while I was occupied on the phone making a deal on a Chevy rear diff with a garage in the next town. All at once, a real old beater of a dirt-brown Pontiac stationwagon came skidding around the corner into the muddy gravel yard. I remember looking up from my desk while haggling over the price for the diff and just having this "feeling"... like maybe something odd had just blown in on the wind. The Pontiac slid to a halt by the window and out steps this guy... A tall, silvery-haired dude... dressed in a brown plaid jacket and jeans... But, it was his face. I took one look at him and turned to my compadre and blurted out, "Would you get a look at this dude... he looks JUST like Bert on SOAP!!". Well, the dude sort of saunters over to the yardmen and tells them what he's after. He wants to buy a set of 4 used tires...cheap ones...to replace the old bald set of skins on his beater. I watch the men as they walk over to look at his present treads. I can see them all whistling and laughing when they see just how slick they are. A couple of them saunter off to look for something half decent up on Tire Mountain... the monumental heap of rubber out behind the garage. The other men point to the office and tell the dude to go in and make himself a cup of coffee. I'm thinking... "Well...this might be interesting... Wonder if the guy even sounds like Bert?" I don't have long to wait to find out...and yep, he sounds like him...he moves like him... his facial expressions are the same. But it's this "familiarity" that has a disarming effect... made me ignore the alarm bells going off in my head. My instincts are screeching that there's something weird about this guy, but my mind is saying, "No way... this dude's just Bert from SOAP". He pours himself a coffee and stands there grinning at us as he rocks back and forth on his feet. He keeps this up for a little while and then asks us something about what we think of the bible... My compadre and I look at each other and raise our eyebrows a little... Yep, we're both puzzled. We've never been asked something like this before. Usually we get asked stuff like "Who made the horrible coffee that tastes like horse **?", or "How can you stand working here in the middle of this swamp while being eaten alive by mosquitoes and blackflies?".. So yep, we're puzzled alright... Mercifully, the phone rings and it's the garage calling back to haggle some more over the price of the rear diff. While I'm occupied, I've got one ear tuned in on the conversation taking place nearby. Our visitor is demanding that my compadre repeat after him, "Take Jesus unto my heart". At first, my co-worker just smiles and says.."yeah"... but then "BERT" starts getting kind of LOUD and demanding... Loud enough that the guy that I'm talking to on the phone asks me what the is going on in the office. I hiss at my co-worker... "Don't p* this guy off... just say it!!". He complies with a sort of half-hearted mumble. But Oh-No... the attempt was too feeble. It was not up to BERT'S satisfaction and he was quick to let us know. Now he was shouting at us to repeat the words after him... which we did... but apparently without enough gusto for his liking. I began to feel like a member a (very) small audience being chastised by Arlo Guthrie for our particularly pathetic rendition of the sing-a-long chorus of Alice's Restaurant. We just COULD NOT seem to get this line right... right enough, that is. As I finished up with the customer on the phone, I began to envision possible scenarios that were about to play out. Would BERT soon decide to pull out a six-gun and order us to "DANCE PARDNERS!!" while firing a few rounds at our feet... Admittedly, the whole situation was making me a bit twitchy. Just then, my co-worker spied a car driving into the yard and took that opportunity to make good his escape... leaving me alone in the office with BERT shouting at me while continuing to rock back and forth on his feet. I was not amused... and my co-worker's little act of cowardice was to remain a sore spot between us for some time. All at once, BERT decided to take a different tack. Slowly, with a meaningful glare, he slid one hand into the inner pocket of his bulky plaid coat.... While this was happening, the thought crossed my mind, "Yep...this is it.. Isn't this JUST the way I always imagined things would end... Shot to death by a weirdo customer, while just doing my stupid job in this old tin can of a mobile home in the middle of a swampy wrecking yard...." But no... as he withdraws his hand, it isn't a gun that he's holding, but a yellowed, folded chunk of paper. Carefully he unfolds this great document... to reveal its full glory... It's a giant sheet of newsprint with pencil drawings of the world and with the most hideous gargantuan-sized likenesses of Reagan and Gorbachev on it... one at each end. And drawings of missiles and bombs shooting back and forth between them... And big 6666666's drawn on their foreheads.... Holding the paper up before him, BERT began to tell me about how the world had gotten so messed up... How armageddon was just around the corner, and hadn't I ever noticed the 66666's whenever Reagan and Gorbachev were on TV... Then he laid the paper down on the counter and started doing imitations of bombs going off and missiles flying across the drawing... Things got pretty darned wild there on the counter in the office.... and me... trapped behind the Battle Zone with no way out but the single doorway that BERT was standing in front of... I looked out the window, hoping for some kind of rescue... a squadron of Calvary troops might be helpful... but no... out there...just my co-worker and a couple of the yardmen....grinning at me... Well,... after awhile, BERT seemed to wear himself out with all of the screaming bombs and missiles and shouting and gesticulating... Quiet now, he gently folded up his diagram and replaced it in his pocket... as if maybe it was a ritual which he had performed many times before for many other audiences... And that was it... Pulling on my coat, I said, "C'mon, let's go see what kind of tires the fellas have dug up for you".... and just like that, he followed me out of the office... paid for his tires and drove off down the road in his old beater... I turned and went back to the office...tired... cursing to myself about how many more days I could survive in this wrecking yard hell ...