Bel Air
This is a sequel of sorts. To this Beer Cans.
I was up to my ass in aluminum cans, in the back of the hopper, trusty snow shovel in hand, when I heard what sounded like a robot ask, "How much you all givin' for aluminum?"
Only aluminum sounded like: A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM.
"Excuse me," I said turning around to face what I assumed was a stuttering robot on the loading dock above me.
Only it wasn't a robot. It was a grizzled old man. In dirty coveralls, holding the biggest can of Budweiser beer I'd seen up until that point in my life, in one hand, and this little metal device in the other.
The old man shook his head, annoyed, and then took a long pull off his big ass can of Bud which was impressive because it was so big and because it wasn't even 8am yet.
"Excuse me," I said again.
The old man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and burped, before putting the metal device up to his throat and repeated, "How much you all givin' for A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM?"
If then was now, this version of a aboynamedstu would have said, 'fuck me.' But then was then, and my twenty year old version could do nothing more than stare, slack jawed, and repeat, "Excuse me?"
The old man shook his head again, looking even more disgusted at me. He was raising the metal thing to his throat, I'm sure to cuss me, when I was saved by Jesus, or Kevin shouting "Praise Jesus!" that is.
The old man gave me one more disgusted look and then raised the metal device up against his throat and said, "Kevin, how much you all givin' for A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM?"
Kevin told the old man what we were givin' for aluminum that day, and then turned around and walked back into the stifling hot warehouse that I'm sure had dozens of code violations if OSHA would ever bother to check out the Borg's operation.
The old man turned back to face me, put the metal thing up to his throat and said, "That's not as much as they are givin' over in Turley."
Being a 20 year old dumbass, I had no idea what to say as a reply so I just stood there, with the snow shovel in one hand.
The old man must have though my dumbass blank stare was me being shrewd because he eventually threw up his hands (one with a big ass Bud and the other with the metal device he used to speak) and said, "Ok. Ok. Ok. I'll take it. I don't want to drive all the way over to Turley. I got things to do."
I could only imagine what sort of things this grizzled old reprobate had to do, but he was a customer, even if he was a scrap dog, so I politely said, "Where is your aluminum, sir?"
"It's in my car," he said pointing to a big old Chevy Bel Air.
"You want to open your trunk, sir?" I asked.
"It ain't in the turtle hull." He said in that freaky metallic sounding robot voice. "It's in the back seat."
And it was. The grizzled old man's back seat, floor boards, the entire back half of his car actually, was full of aluminum cans. Most weren't even in sacks or bags. They were strewn everywhere.
"You're going to need to get a bucket," Jimmy Dale explained as he came out of the warehouse, to rescue me, yet again.
"But weight the bucket first. Empty. And write that number down on the board. And then fill it up with cans, weight that, write it down. And do that for each load. Then we can figure out what his aluminum weighs. And pay him."
"Earl?" Jimmy asked the grizzled old man.
"Yeah," the grizzled old man named Earl said.
"You ain't trying to cheat us by weightin' any of them cans down, are you?"
"Jimmy Dale," the grizzled old man named Earl exclaimed. "I ain't gonna try and cheat you boys on my A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM."
"Praise Jesus!" Kevin exhorted as he walked onto the loading dock.
"I ain't cheatin'," the grizzled old man named Earl told Kevin. I guess because he thought Kevin was doing a W.W.J.D. type of a thing on him, even though this was 1988 and W.W.J.D. wasn't around yet, best I can tell. And Kevin spent most of the day shouting out, 'Praise Jesus!' W.W.J.D.? Probably kick the old reprobate in the nuts. Actually. But I digress.
"Check his cans," Jimmy Dale told me.
And sure enough, that grizzled old reprobate named Earl had dirt and rocks in many of his cans. There were also cigarette butts. And dip spit. It was bad.
And to quote that old grizzled fucker, I was only making MIN-IN-IN-IN-IN-IN-UM-UM-UM-UM, etc. wage!
When I was done. An hour later. Jimmy Dale surveyed all the shit he had crammed into his cans and said, "You cheatin' old bastard, we should throw all your cans back into your car and make you drive all the way over to Turley."
Jimmy Dale was smiling when he said it though, so Earl laughed a laugh-less, therefore, creepy wheezy sort of a laugh until he put that metal device up to his throat and said, "You can't fault a man for a trying, can you Jimmy Dale?"
"I guess not, Earl." Jimmy Dale said.
The grizzled old man smiled, and took another huge pull off of his big ass can of Bud, draining it.
He then set the can down on the scale, put that metal device to his throat and said, "You boys add that to the total now, I need all the 'extry' money I can get, I need to take my girl out on the town tonight."
Until I BLOG again...I'm drowning in the back seat of a '61 Bel Air, I got a mouthful of your hair. (A handful of skin.)
I was up to my ass in aluminum cans, in the back of the hopper, trusty snow shovel in hand, when I heard what sounded like a robot ask, "How much you all givin' for aluminum?"
Only aluminum sounded like: A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM.
"Excuse me," I said turning around to face what I assumed was a stuttering robot on the loading dock above me.
Only it wasn't a robot. It was a grizzled old man. In dirty coveralls, holding the biggest can of Budweiser beer I'd seen up until that point in my life, in one hand, and this little metal device in the other.
The old man shook his head, annoyed, and then took a long pull off his big ass can of Bud which was impressive because it was so big and because it wasn't even 8am yet.
"Excuse me," I said again.
The old man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and burped, before putting the metal device up to his throat and repeated, "How much you all givin' for A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM?"
If then was now, this version of a aboynamedstu would have said, 'fuck me.' But then was then, and my twenty year old version could do nothing more than stare, slack jawed, and repeat, "Excuse me?"
The old man shook his head again, looking even more disgusted at me. He was raising the metal thing to his throat, I'm sure to cuss me, when I was saved by Jesus, or Kevin shouting "Praise Jesus!" that is.
The old man gave me one more disgusted look and then raised the metal device up against his throat and said, "Kevin, how much you all givin' for A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM?"
Kevin told the old man what we were givin' for aluminum that day, and then turned around and walked back into the stifling hot warehouse that I'm sure had dozens of code violations if OSHA would ever bother to check out the Borg's operation.
The old man turned back to face me, put the metal thing up to his throat and said, "That's not as much as they are givin' over in Turley."
Being a 20 year old dumbass, I had no idea what to say as a reply so I just stood there, with the snow shovel in one hand.
The old man must have though my dumbass blank stare was me being shrewd because he eventually threw up his hands (one with a big ass Bud and the other with the metal device he used to speak) and said, "Ok. Ok. Ok. I'll take it. I don't want to drive all the way over to Turley. I got things to do."
I could only imagine what sort of things this grizzled old reprobate had to do, but he was a customer, even if he was a scrap dog, so I politely said, "Where is your aluminum, sir?"
"It's in my car," he said pointing to a big old Chevy Bel Air.
"You want to open your trunk, sir?" I asked.
"It ain't in the turtle hull." He said in that freaky metallic sounding robot voice. "It's in the back seat."
And it was. The grizzled old man's back seat, floor boards, the entire back half of his car actually, was full of aluminum cans. Most weren't even in sacks or bags. They were strewn everywhere.
"You're going to need to get a bucket," Jimmy Dale explained as he came out of the warehouse, to rescue me, yet again.
"But weight the bucket first. Empty. And write that number down on the board. And then fill it up with cans, weight that, write it down. And do that for each load. Then we can figure out what his aluminum weighs. And pay him."
"Earl?" Jimmy asked the grizzled old man.
"Yeah," the grizzled old man named Earl said.
"You ain't trying to cheat us by weightin' any of them cans down, are you?"
"Jimmy Dale," the grizzled old man named Earl exclaimed. "I ain't gonna try and cheat you boys on my A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM."
"Praise Jesus!" Kevin exhorted as he walked onto the loading dock.
"I ain't cheatin'," the grizzled old man named Earl told Kevin. I guess because he thought Kevin was doing a W.W.J.D. type of a thing on him, even though this was 1988 and W.W.J.D. wasn't around yet, best I can tell. And Kevin spent most of the day shouting out, 'Praise Jesus!' W.W.J.D.? Probably kick the old reprobate in the nuts. Actually. But I digress.
"Check his cans," Jimmy Dale told me.
And sure enough, that grizzled old reprobate named Earl had dirt and rocks in many of his cans. There were also cigarette butts. And dip spit. It was bad.
And to quote that old grizzled fucker, I was only making MIN-IN-IN-IN-IN-IN-UM-UM-UM-UM, etc. wage!
When I was done. An hour later. Jimmy Dale surveyed all the shit he had crammed into his cans and said, "You cheatin' old bastard, we should throw all your cans back into your car and make you drive all the way over to Turley."
Jimmy Dale was smiling when he said it though, so Earl laughed a laugh-less, therefore, creepy wheezy sort of a laugh until he put that metal device up to his throat and said, "You can't fault a man for a trying, can you Jimmy Dale?"
"I guess not, Earl." Jimmy Dale said.
The grizzled old man smiled, and took another huge pull off of his big ass can of Bud, draining it.
He then set the can down on the scale, put that metal device to his throat and said, "You boys add that to the total now, I need all the 'extry' money I can get, I need to take my girl out on the town tonight."
Until I BLOG again...I'm drowning in the back seat of a '61 Bel Air, I got a mouthful of your hair. (A handful of skin.)
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