Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, February 27, 2015

The Y’all Discount


Things break. It’s life. Repairs cost money. Being human, we want the proverbial brother-in-law bargains. How? The Y’all Discount from Mr. Fix-it.

**********

Repairmen are indispensable. Nothing they can’t fix…from toilets to TVs, from cars to computers, from ranges to roofs, and everything else in between. But times are changing.

Cars have computers. Shade-tree mechanics have smart phone apps. Worse, they’ve taken accounting in night school. Now they’re proficient in decimating a retirement account. And, oh, they carry credit card machines. No more, “Send me the bill.” It’s C.O.D.

Identifying with these state-of-the-art bandits is helpful. But don’t follow the attempts of NBC’s Brian Williams, who fabricated some hokey story of taking helicopter flack. Or Bob McDonald, Secretary of Veterans Affairs, who fantasized about serving in the Special Forces. The Y’all Discount backfired on them.

What exactly is the Y’all Discount? It’s that special bargain-basement price given by repairmen who take a liking to you. Obtaining this unpublished rate is an art form, not a science. Few master the technique.

Take my friend, Albert Gooney. He had two strikes against him when he moved here. New Jersey transients don’t necessarily assimilate well in coastal Georgia. Plus, being named Gooney was in itself an albatross (a subtle pun for the cognoscenti). But ‘Gooney’ surpassed his given name, which did not include the suffix ‘ey.’

Albert was brighter than most snow birds. He knew the finer points of getting the Y’all Discount. He’d repaired many things, like re-building with his bare hands broken balance sheets of student loan lenders.

I meet Albert at the Huddle House. He’s effusive when describing his methodology for the Y’all Discount. I take note as he schmoozes with the waitresses, pleading for more freebies, and sugar-coating his petitions with “Honey” this, “Sweetie” that. His smile melts them.

Albert, give me some tips on getting these sweetheart discounts,” I say.

Son,” he replies, “Gucci loafers are a bad way to begin. Get some Caterpillar work boots, or Tony Lama lizard-skin boots on e-Bay. Boots make statements without words. Repairmen identify with manly wear.”

You mean to qualify for discounts I need to connect with these repairmen?”

Boy, where you been?” he asks. “You have to identify with these guys right off. You have to set a tone of familiarity and be like them. They can spot pretense quicker than they pop the top of a Blue Ribbon beer.”

Ok, will my Chevy pickup help?”

Now ya talking, brother.” He smiles. “Good start. Lean on the side, discuss guns and muzzle velocities. Put a gun rack in the cab. Hang a camo cap from the rear-view mirror, and stencil a picture of buck antlers on the window. You’ll be accepted for sure.”

Will I need a leather Harley vest, a tattoo and a beard to boot?” I ask.

It’ll help, but you’re too skinny and well-scrubbed to qualify for Harley. Just play loud country music on the radio, put a plastic bust of Jerry Clower on the dash or dirt under your nails. Look at your hands. No blisters. You have a long way to go to identify.” He shakes his head.

He continues. “Listen, you gotta connect with these boys. Quickest way I know is perfecting your lingo. You can get away with a lot if you drop a couple of ‘you uns’ or ‘you guys’ in the conversation. They’ll figure you might have been on a farm one time or another.”

What’s your best opening line?” I ask.

He thinks. “Ok, my secret weapon? ‘Hey, Hoss, how’s ya mama and them doing?’”

What? Albert, how can such an expression of vernacular insanity possibly ingratiate anyone to a repairman?” I ask.

He laughs. “You’ve got a lot to learn about Y’all Discounts, old boy. When you ask about ‘mama and them,’ you’re really asking about all his kin folks. At their family reunions, the whole town shows up. Everybody’s kin. You’ll then become part of their family. Get it?”

I thank Albert for the advice and try it out on my roofer a few days later.

Hey Hoss, whatcha say? How’s ya mama and them doing?” Miraculously it works. I get the Y’all Discount along with the added privilege of babysitting his dog and five children while he finishes the job.

**********

Y’all Discounts notwithstanding, we usually get what we pay for. But somehow we always wind up paying the full price, one way or another.

Bud Hearn
February 27, 2015

Friday, February 13, 2015

A Run-In with That's That


My maternal grandmother detested compromise. She dismissed it with the exclamation, “Now, that’s that!” Her word became reality.

Concepts are best understood by experiences. I’m mulling over why our culture prefers middle-ground compromise to absolute truth. After this morning, I think I get it.

**********

I’m fed up with our newspaper carrier. Often the paper hangs from the shrubs, trampled on in the road or floats in a puddle. Phone calls and letters produce no results. It’s time for confrontation.

Our carrier comes about 4:00 AM. This morning I suit up for battle. Obsessively concerned for safety, I slip on a green, reflective vest abandoned by the garbage man while fleeing from my dog. Its reflection can be seen clearly from the next county.

I wrap myself with a strand of leftover blinking lights from Christmas. I resemble a lighted Miami palm tree. I hook thirty LED bike lights to the vest. They flash red and white for emphasis. I find the LL Bean hunter’s camo hat with a million-watt halogen head light embedded in it. Raccoons a mile away are blinded.

At 3:45 I stand on the center line of the road. Car lights approach. They are slow, then begin again, creeping nearer. Finally, the car screeches to a stop in front of me. Nothing moves. I wait.

The door opens. Military boots emerge, worn by a dark figure wearing black. The white fangs of a large dog inside startle me. A female voice says, “What’s this…the carnival?”

I ignore the comment, confront the carrier. “We need to talk,” I say.

About what?” she asks abruptly.

Your aim is bad. You need to pitch my paper in the driveway!” I snap.

“Back it down, rat breath. You’re lucky to even get a paper.”

What? It’s your job.” I say, retreating.

She gets out, all of five feet, 100 pounds. The dog stays inside. The flashing lights illuminate its fangs. It doesn’t move.

Strange dog you have,” I say. “Just sits there.”

Duh, you moron. It’s a dummy, a taxidermy special. Wake up!”

Let’s talk about my newspaper.”

Listen, Bonehead, you know what you can do with your newspaper?” The momentum shifts.

I’m calling your boss if we can’t find some middle ground. You might lose your job.” My intimidation falls flat.

Back off, buddy, you don’t know jack. I’m up at 2:00, wrap and deliver 300 papers. You think I care if you don’t get your fifty-cent paper? Call him!” The middle ground shrinks further.

Hey Rambo, I sent you a Christmas card with two dollars in it. Doesn’t that count for better delivery options?” Money talks. I grasp at straws.

Tell you what, Twinkle Toes. How about we swap places? I’ll go in your nice, warm house, have coffee, read the paper. You finish delivering these. Then tell me about your $2 gift card. Now, that’s that, Mac. So move your circus outta my way!” Compromise vanishes. My grandmother’s words suddenly ring clearly in my ear.

**********

Some people are old school. They don’t split hairs or pirouette around in some nebulous nowhere called middle ground. They know that compromise is not pure truth. It’s a coward’s way out.

Our culture loves to dance around issues, avoid confrontations and conclusions. Indecision, our partner, is the furtive shadow of Ambivalence. Certitude sits in the corner and snoozes.

Middle ground is a battlefield strewn with skeletons of combatants seeking consensus. Their blanched bones testify that harmony is a moving target. Absolute Truth is the Bagpiper who surveys the scene from an ethereal perch, piping Amazing Grace.

Such must have been the thesis of the mystic poet, Matthew Arnold, when he wrote, “…here as on a darkling plain swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night.”

The ‘center’ is shifting sands of concepts based on the orthodoxy of opposites. It’s a marketplace, a wild bazaar where ideas are exchanged, where we’ve bought, sold, traded and bartered. We often leave the table feeling a little cheated or short-changed.

Our culture vacillates in the mystical space of entrenched ideas and status quo. Give a little, get a little. Like sports teams, we need a zero-sum game. Win or lose. Closure at all costs.

**********

As my blinking palm tree retreats to the house, paper in hand, I consider the options. No middle ground here today.

Short of a pistol duel, it’s good to have run-ins and hear, “That’s that!” It clears the air.

Bud Hearn
February 13, 2015



Monday, February 2, 2015

A Southern Politician


Political elections are never over. Politicians are like fleas. Impossible to eradicate. Huey P. Long once said, “I was born into politics, a wedded man with a storm for a bride.”

Without politics, life’s dull. The thrill is gone. Until a sanctimonious candidate emerges. Then life gets interesting again.

My cell rings. It’s Charlie, a lawyer. “Get over here. Now! You need to meet my good friend, Junior. He’s running for office.”

Charlie is Junior’s campaign manager. He was once a boxing promoter. His legal and promotional literature has similar qualities.

What will it cost me?” He laughs, mutters something undecipherable. Meeting his friends always costs. They’re politicians. Why are all politicians ‘good friends’ of lawyers?

A curious crowd mills around in his back yard making small talk. Mostly men, a few women. Smoke billows from the charcoal cooker. BBQ is the staple cuisine for fund raising events. I contemplate the similarities between pigs and politicians. I feel pity for the pigs.

Junior’s smiling face appears on the yard sign. It reads, “Elect Junior.” No last name, no office, no phone.

Charlie, where’s Junior? I ask.

Junior smells money. He’ll show up. Have another beer.”

Does Junior understand ‘quid pro quo?’” I ask.

Charlie grins. “Huh? Of course. He’s a politician.”

What’s his last name?” I ask.

Not sure. Doesn’t matter. You’ll see.”

A black SUV pulls up. Junior emerges. He’s huge. His aura is awesome. Some people have power in their organizations, but Junior has power in himself. The crowd goes silent.

He swaggers out. He’s an actor. Timing is critical. Self-confidence oozes. His tie is loose. His suspenders groan over the bulge under his blazer. He sweats.

He has the eyes of an assassin…sharp, cold, steely. They survey the crowd. He wears a grin like a Baptist preacher holding four aces at the Friday night poker game. I feel his smile. It counts the cash in my pocket.

He grips my hand with a plow-share paw. My toes recoil in pain. He hugs me and says, “Whatcha say, hoss?” I feel small.

He hugs women. They swoon. He glad-hands the men, high-fives a few, slaps some backs. He points at some, nods at others, winks at all. Everyone’s affirmed. He owns them.

The carnival begins. “Every man’s a king, folks. That’s my slogan. All the others before me are robbers and thieves. Now give me a chance.” The crowd nods.

Everything I did I had to do with one hand, because I had to fight with the other. Amen?” The crowd applauds.

I’m gonna fight for you. They give the little man a biscuit to eat, and load him down with a ton of taxes. You had enough?” The crowd cheers.

Republicans or Democrats, they’re all the same. They’re just waiters who serve you the same grub, prepared by the same Wall Street kitchen. That’s gonna change!” The crowd roars. Amens resound.

Look, I have enemies. They don’t like my politics. But, friends, I’ve got alligator hide and Jesus inside. I fight fire with fire. You’re with me or against me. No middle ground. Reward or retribution. Amen?” Wallets come out.

Listen. My opponent has robbed you and covered up the shallow grave. The corpse still stinks. I’m gonna expose the crime this illegitimate scoundrel is covering up. Now, I don’t use profanity, I’m just referring to the circumstances of his birth.” Wild shouts of approval erupt.

The media says I’ve got skeletons.” The women smile. They know the gender of his skeletons. After all, he’s a politician. “Folks, I’m a deacon down at First, washed in the blood. Yessiree, lily white.” A tear trickles down Junior’s face. Hallelujahs are heard.

Suddenly his speech becomes manic. His fervor is intense. His fists beat the air. They pound his chest. He grips his lapels, jerks his tie. It’s a noose. His body contorts. His passion tears him to tatters. The crowd shouts wildly in a frenzy of evangelical ecstasy.

Then it’s over. His shirt’s wet, his jacket lies crumpled on the grass. He regains composure. He concludes with a wink and a benediction: “Every man’s a king.” He’s mobbed. Checks and cash fill his pockets. The carnival leaves.

I look at Charlie. “What did he say?

Who cares? We got a winner here. Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

I do, leaving poorer but wiser, and feeling good about government again. “Alligator hide and Jesus inside?” What a combination!



Bud Hearn
Copyright, February 2, 2015

Posthumous credits for ideas from Huey P. Long and Hunter S. Thompson.