cabman #5
“well?”
“well, he said to head back out on 695, and we should see it right away…”
“call those U-Haul people again.”
“Preemo, it’s five o’clock on a Saturday. the place where we’re dropping it off at is closed anyway. why don’t we just…” he kept looking at me over the top of his sunglasses, with his chin kinda buried in his chest. i dialed the phone.
“hello, yeah, we just called about returning this trailer. listen, we don’t know where…right…yeah, that’s it…ok, the account number is [deleted]. i know you’re not in the area, but i can hear some typing, i’m guessing you have…could you do a MapQuest or something for us? thanks, Juglesh, that would be great.”
“Juglesh?”
i cupped a hand over the phone. “yeah…he’s gonna try and find the place for us.”
“Juglesh? where the fuck is the place? Afghanistan?”
“i think it’s Indian.”
“Afghanistan?”
“no. Juglesh.”
Preemo reached across and snatched the phone from my hand and picked up where i left off. he was clearly irritated at this point – sweating, red-faced, cursing profusely, smoking. understand, we had sat in weekend traffic for over an hour, crawling the last half-mile, trying to get into this place. we get in there, make the drop and exchange, and now we can’t find the place to drop off this fucking U-Haul trailer.
i pulled off the highway and into a 7-11.
“i’m gonna go ask for directions.”
Preemo waves and nods and continues into the phone, “what do you mean, ‘you need an address?’ don’t you have it in front of you? the place where we need to drop it off…if i knew the address, i might...”
there were three guys in the 7-11. two had on the stiff polyester shirts that they were issued by company headquarters, but neither had them buttoned. the third guy was on the otherside of the counter, but not a customer. he had about a dozen knives splayed across the countertop, and when he saw me, he covered them up with a wrinkled old paper bag, scooped them up, and moved further down the counter along with the other employee where the cutlery show continued.
the guy i’m talking to has a real heavy accent and speaks English more poorly than i do. i ask for directions to the place – the name of the town or whatever where the U-Haul is to get dropped off – and he says something like, “290. go out. you see it soon right away. peace out, homey,” and pounds his chest and flashes me the peace sign.
Mother Fucker.
“what did he say?”
“he said get on 290. we should see it right away.”
“what’s it called again?”
“ocean vista. something.”
“fuck.”
“any luck with the U-Haul people?”
“fuck no.”
“you gonna tell me what’s in that tube?”
i didn’t think he’d tell me, but i tried again anyway. i pulled out back onto the highway and headed towards 290, passing all the traffic we just sat in. i reminded him that we’d be sitting in it on the way back. we drove for about twenty minutes in silence. sand, alcohol, and fat asses mocked us from the east as i hunched over the wheel, westbound.
“i took insurance out on the trailer,” he said.
“Preemo, fuck this man. let’s pull over. i’ll unhitch the trailer, burn this motherfucker, and leave it smoking on the side of the road. it’s the beach back there, man! the Beach!!!”
“you can’t do that.”
“why not? you got insurance.”
“but you can’t just pull off…”
“and those motherfuckers back at the 7-11…they probably gave us the wrong directions anyway. prolly laughing about my retarded ass right now…”
“son-of-a-Bitch.”
“…AND we gotta sit in that traffic again. man, this don’t make no sense.”
“take the next exit.”
“Yes.”
i turn off and we were in some fuckin’ backwater, country – i don’t know. i pulled over on the side of the road and put my flashers on. i tried asking Preemo again about that tube, but he was stonefaced. he gave me some bullshit when i first started about letting him handle some things, and the less i knew the better, and all that pseudo-business bullshit.
i grabbed a flare from the back of the truck. once i had the trailer unhitched, i stabbed both of those tires, broke the lights and reflectors, ripped off the license plate, and cracked the flare. they might tell you that those utility blankets you find in moving trucks are flame retardant, but that’s bullshit. i got two going and left them inside the trailer, and the third i managed to pull part way onto the trailer’s roof.
hey…what does a skunk use to make a phone call? a Smell-ular phone. get it? man, that shit is funny. i called the U-Haul people on my Smell-ular [HA!!!] and thanked them for all their help, that - yes indeed - i found the place, and had unhitched the trailer. they assured me that they had noted the conversation, that i had dropped it off [early, in fact], and that there would be no additional charge. the flames were really going by the time i hung up. i could have stayed there all night watching the show, but Preemo was laying on the horn. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “you could have gotten us killed.”
“cool. i got a souvenir.” i threw the license plate in the back seat. “do you remember how to get back on the highway?”
“no.”
“me either. but i think if i just go back this…can you hand me the map?”
“WILL YOU JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!”
“geez…ok. hey Preemo man, did you see the way those blankets went up?”
“you know, i work in business, and i can’t believe…i never treated a customer…that’s just no way to deal with the public. if the consumer needs something, then you need to make it happen.”
“precisely.”
“i mean, the place is Closed? what is that about? closed. how are we supposed to return the trailer?”
“were.”
“what?”
“were. how were we supposed to return the trailer. i burned that mother.”
“right. whatever. i don’t know. i just feel their network completely dropped the ball on this one.”
“yeah…and it was after they got your money.”
“right.”
“hey Preemo man…i bet those guys at the 7-11. i bet they thought i was a tourist or something. gave me the wrong directions on purpose. they all probably had a laugh about it.”
“stop in there on the way back.”
“no way man…we’ll go later. as soon as we pull in, i’m running for the beach.”
“real quick. there’s something i need to get. we need alcohol anyway.”
he had a point.
when we got back into town, i found that same 7-11. the same guys were working…they had the door propped open with a chunk of cement and were outside. one was smoking, and the other was eating something sloppy out of tin foil with his fingers. shit all over his face.
Preemo got out of the truck with the poster tube. he said something to the guys and they followed him into the store. when they get in, he kicks the cement away from the door and opens up the tube. he kinda shakes it a little, and these two fuckin’ huge parrots fly out and immediately attack the 7-11 guys. they were flailing their arms about and smacking at the birds, but the animals just kept circling back around and dive bombing. they would latch on to flesh with their claws and stab with their beaks, squawking and flapping their wings. there was blood everywhere.
Preemo strolled out of the place with a case of beer and two bottles of cheap wine. he’s a pretty big dude.
“what the fuck was that?” i said.
“oh. those guys deserved it. they can’t be making a horse’s ass out of peole just because…”
“no. i mean the birds.”
“yeah…uhhhh…that was the shipment.”
“i know, motherfucker, i helped you unload it. i thought they were drugs or expensive paintings or something.”
“nope.”
“that’s cruel.”
“hey…don’t worry about it. those guys will be all right.”
“i mean the birds.”
“yeah them, too. they like it in the dark. haven’t you ever seen a bird cage with a blanket over the top?”
“they could have died in there.”
“sometimes…maybe. they’re fine until they hit the light. then they can be a little agitated.”
“ya think?”
“now do you see why i didn’t want you to know what we’re moving.”
“naw man…that’s not cool. i’m all about, you know, the ethical treatment of animals and shit.”
“i’ll keep that in mind…but if you stick with me, do you know what you’re biggest problem is gonna be?”
“what’s that?”
“WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THE FUCKIN’ CASH!!!”
man, i couldn’t WAIT to hit the beach.
“well, he said to head back out on 695, and we should see it right away…”
“call those U-Haul people again.”
“Preemo, it’s five o’clock on a Saturday. the place where we’re dropping it off at is closed anyway. why don’t we just…” he kept looking at me over the top of his sunglasses, with his chin kinda buried in his chest. i dialed the phone.
“hello, yeah, we just called about returning this trailer. listen, we don’t know where…right…yeah, that’s it…ok, the account number is [deleted]. i know you’re not in the area, but i can hear some typing, i’m guessing you have…could you do a MapQuest or something for us? thanks, Juglesh, that would be great.”
“Juglesh?”
i cupped a hand over the phone. “yeah…he’s gonna try and find the place for us.”
“Juglesh? where the fuck is the place? Afghanistan?”
“i think it’s Indian.”
“Afghanistan?”
“no. Juglesh.”
Preemo reached across and snatched the phone from my hand and picked up where i left off. he was clearly irritated at this point – sweating, red-faced, cursing profusely, smoking. understand, we had sat in weekend traffic for over an hour, crawling the last half-mile, trying to get into this place. we get in there, make the drop and exchange, and now we can’t find the place to drop off this fucking U-Haul trailer.
i pulled off the highway and into a 7-11.
“i’m gonna go ask for directions.”
Preemo waves and nods and continues into the phone, “what do you mean, ‘you need an address?’ don’t you have it in front of you? the place where we need to drop it off…if i knew the address, i might...”
there were three guys in the 7-11. two had on the stiff polyester shirts that they were issued by company headquarters, but neither had them buttoned. the third guy was on the otherside of the counter, but not a customer. he had about a dozen knives splayed across the countertop, and when he saw me, he covered them up with a wrinkled old paper bag, scooped them up, and moved further down the counter along with the other employee where the cutlery show continued.
the guy i’m talking to has a real heavy accent and speaks English more poorly than i do. i ask for directions to the place – the name of the town or whatever where the U-Haul is to get dropped off – and he says something like, “290. go out. you see it soon right away. peace out, homey,” and pounds his chest and flashes me the peace sign.
Mother Fucker.
“what did he say?”
“he said get on 290. we should see it right away.”
“what’s it called again?”
“ocean vista. something.”
“fuck.”
“any luck with the U-Haul people?”
“fuck no.”
“you gonna tell me what’s in that tube?”
i didn’t think he’d tell me, but i tried again anyway. i pulled out back onto the highway and headed towards 290, passing all the traffic we just sat in. i reminded him that we’d be sitting in it on the way back. we drove for about twenty minutes in silence. sand, alcohol, and fat asses mocked us from the east as i hunched over the wheel, westbound.
“i took insurance out on the trailer,” he said.
“Preemo, fuck this man. let’s pull over. i’ll unhitch the trailer, burn this motherfucker, and leave it smoking on the side of the road. it’s the beach back there, man! the Beach!!!”
“you can’t do that.”
“why not? you got insurance.”
“but you can’t just pull off…”
“and those motherfuckers back at the 7-11…they probably gave us the wrong directions anyway. prolly laughing about my retarded ass right now…”
“son-of-a-Bitch.”
“…AND we gotta sit in that traffic again. man, this don’t make no sense.”
“take the next exit.”
“Yes.”
i turn off and we were in some fuckin’ backwater, country – i don’t know. i pulled over on the side of the road and put my flashers on. i tried asking Preemo again about that tube, but he was stonefaced. he gave me some bullshit when i first started about letting him handle some things, and the less i knew the better, and all that pseudo-business bullshit.
i grabbed a flare from the back of the truck. once i had the trailer unhitched, i stabbed both of those tires, broke the lights and reflectors, ripped off the license plate, and cracked the flare. they might tell you that those utility blankets you find in moving trucks are flame retardant, but that’s bullshit. i got two going and left them inside the trailer, and the third i managed to pull part way onto the trailer’s roof.
hey…what does a skunk use to make a phone call? a Smell-ular phone. get it? man, that shit is funny. i called the U-Haul people on my Smell-ular [HA!!!] and thanked them for all their help, that - yes indeed - i found the place, and had unhitched the trailer. they assured me that they had noted the conversation, that i had dropped it off [early, in fact], and that there would be no additional charge. the flames were really going by the time i hung up. i could have stayed there all night watching the show, but Preemo was laying on the horn. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “you could have gotten us killed.”
“cool. i got a souvenir.” i threw the license plate in the back seat. “do you remember how to get back on the highway?”
“no.”
“me either. but i think if i just go back this…can you hand me the map?”
“WILL YOU JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!”
“geez…ok. hey Preemo man, did you see the way those blankets went up?”
“you know, i work in business, and i can’t believe…i never treated a customer…that’s just no way to deal with the public. if the consumer needs something, then you need to make it happen.”
“precisely.”
“i mean, the place is Closed? what is that about? closed. how are we supposed to return the trailer?”
“were.”
“what?”
“were. how were we supposed to return the trailer. i burned that mother.”
“right. whatever. i don’t know. i just feel their network completely dropped the ball on this one.”
“yeah…and it was after they got your money.”
“right.”
“hey Preemo man…i bet those guys at the 7-11. i bet they thought i was a tourist or something. gave me the wrong directions on purpose. they all probably had a laugh about it.”
“stop in there on the way back.”
“no way man…we’ll go later. as soon as we pull in, i’m running for the beach.”
“real quick. there’s something i need to get. we need alcohol anyway.”
he had a point.
when we got back into town, i found that same 7-11. the same guys were working…they had the door propped open with a chunk of cement and were outside. one was smoking, and the other was eating something sloppy out of tin foil with his fingers. shit all over his face.
Preemo got out of the truck with the poster tube. he said something to the guys and they followed him into the store. when they get in, he kicks the cement away from the door and opens up the tube. he kinda shakes it a little, and these two fuckin’ huge parrots fly out and immediately attack the 7-11 guys. they were flailing their arms about and smacking at the birds, but the animals just kept circling back around and dive bombing. they would latch on to flesh with their claws and stab with their beaks, squawking and flapping their wings. there was blood everywhere.
Preemo strolled out of the place with a case of beer and two bottles of cheap wine. he’s a pretty big dude.
“what the fuck was that?” i said.
“oh. those guys deserved it. they can’t be making a horse’s ass out of peole just because…”
“no. i mean the birds.”
“yeah…uhhhh…that was the shipment.”
“i know, motherfucker, i helped you unload it. i thought they were drugs or expensive paintings or something.”
“nope.”
“that’s cruel.”
“hey…don’t worry about it. those guys will be all right.”
“i mean the birds.”
“yeah them, too. they like it in the dark. haven’t you ever seen a bird cage with a blanket over the top?”
“they could have died in there.”
“sometimes…maybe. they’re fine until they hit the light. then they can be a little agitated.”
“ya think?”
“now do you see why i didn’t want you to know what we’re moving.”
“naw man…that’s not cool. i’m all about, you know, the ethical treatment of animals and shit.”
“i’ll keep that in mind…but if you stick with me, do you know what you’re biggest problem is gonna be?”
“what’s that?”
“WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THE FUCKIN’ CASH!!!”
man, i couldn’t WAIT to hit the beach.
Johnny St. Clair wuz here at 11:58 PM
1 Comments:
"d'you win?"
"wha?"
"did you win?"
"...yeah. of course we won. fuckin'A we won."
[laughs] "you see that girl?"
"huh?"
"you see the girl yet?"
"naw. no."
"are you drunk?"
"yep...are you, are you comin' back to brooklyn?"
"i hope so."
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