I may have only been on this earth for 28 years, but in those 28 years I've done my fair share of living. To paraphrase the modern-day poet/philosopher Axl Rose, I’ve been down to the paradise city, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. Had I been fortunate enough to live during Greek or Roman times, epic poems of my many adventures would have been written by the likes of Euripides, Aristotle or Plato.
Alas, I came of age in the latter days of the 20th century where my many exploits and hijinks went unnoticed, at least until the advent of the Internet. At long last, I have an outlet to tell the world of my escapades. I could fill a book with all of these wondrous tales of quaint and forgotten lore, but you don't want to hear about that right now.
What's that? You say you want to hear a story? Well... alright. But just one! Then it’s straight off to bed with you!
The story I'm about to tell is, quite likely, the strangest thing that I’ve ever seen. No, it wasn't a bear dressed as Batman riding a unicycle.[1] The story I’m about to relate involves a member of one of the greatest groups of people to ever come from the great state of Florida: the roadside vendor.
What's that you say? You’ve never heard of the Florida street vendor? That is a shame my friend. Florida is a magical land. The sort of place where most anything can be bought from local roadside merchants who elect to hawk their goods along the state’s vast network of highways and byways. The sell a wide variety of goods including (but are in no way limited to): shrimp, tortoises, orchids, strawberries, peaches, watermelons, pumpkins, imitation handbags, sofas, wooden cutouts of elderly women bending over to reveal their bloomers, shoes, DVDs, butterfly knives, discount theme park tickets, and puppies. These entrepreneurs usually elect to set up shop at busy intersections, to ensure the maximum amount of business and fender benders. Customers will line up for miles to save a marginal amount on products that (in my opinion) seem vastly inferior to similar products found in a grocery or department stores.
Each evening as I was returning home from work I would see a man at an intersection triumphantly selling shrimp from the back of a small boat. While the boat may have been quite small, the man stood atop it as though it were the finest yacht. This titan of industry resembled a 21st century Gordon’s fisherman, with skin like aged Corinthian leather. He robbed himself in sleeveless flannel, cutoff denim, hip waders, and combat boots (sans socks of course). I’d noticed that other vendors would often feel a need to make signs advertising their products, but not the shrimp man. He was content to let the shrimp do the talking. This god-among-men looked positively regal standing there in the Florida sunshine, triumphantly holding a fishing line laden with shrimp towards the heavens, his aura seemingly to indicating that he’d spent his entire morning wrestling the delicious prawn from Poseidon’s watery domain.
I have always been a bit perplexed as to why someone would choose to buy shrimp from a person that sells shrimp from the back of a boat, in 95-degree heat, in an area that is nearly 60 miles from the ocean. Yet people bought his shrimp in droves. Apparently, he garnered so much business that he eventually required a credit card machine. This blew my mind, but it is not my place to question of judge the life decisions of others.
As I was heading home one evening, waiting at the intersection where the vendor always set up shop, I noticed the shrimp seller had a cast one his left leg. I thought nothing of it at the time, but later that same week I was stopped at the same intersection when I saw the man reach into a Coleman cooler and pull from the cooler a giant, Dirty Harry style .357 Magnum. He then proceeded to use the business end of said .357 to scratch the leg that was in a cast.
Let's replay the chain of events, to ensure that everyone understands exactly what transpired:
- There I sat, waiting at the intersection for the light to change.
- Glancing to my right, I saw the shrimp man, wearing a cast on his leg.
- He reached into his cooler (which I assumed to be filled with delicious shrimp, ice and possibly a nice potato salad at the time).
- From the cooler, he pulled out a freaking .357-magnum gun, which he used as a leg scratcher.
Understandably, I immediately recoiled in horror, and sped away as quickly as possible. I’d seen this man each day for weeks, and until that day I’d always assumed that he used his cooler for the sole purpose of storing the deliciousness he’d wrangled from the watery clutches of Davy Jones.[2] Up to that point, I’d always assumed that guns were meant for shooting, not soothing itches.
As I watched the man scratch dangerously relieving his itch from the safety of my rear view mirror, I began to ask myself:
- How exactly did the vendor break his leg in the first place?
- Is the roadside shrimp vending business so dangerous that the average shopkeeper finds it necessary to ride strapped on a daily basis?[3]
- What sort of person finds it necessary to store a gun in a Coleman cooler?
- Wouldn't the ice in the cooler somehow get inside the mechanics of the gun and prevent the gun from firing, thus rendering the gun an ineffective means of protection?
These questions plagued me for days, until I was able to piece together what I saw as the only viable explanation.
At this point, I feel I should pause to let everyone know that I am an excellent detective, world-renowned for my ability to solve mysteries with only a minimal amount of clues. I began to ask myself, “Self…why would anyone hide something so deadly in such an unconventional locale?” After reflecting on the matter for some time, I eventually came to what I believe to be the only rational explanation:[4]
At some point in the recent past, the man must have been robbed by a troop of ninjas, who broke his leg while attacking his shrimp stand.[5] The merchant had no means of protecting himself at the time of the attack, and found himself an easy target for the nefarious thieves. In order to prevent future attacks the man decided he must take up arms, as is his constitutional right. I theorize that the vendor must have been a convicted felon, incapable of procuring a gun with the blessing of Uncle Sam.[6] The shrimp peddler, determined not to let “the man” prevent him from protecting what was his, purchased a gun[7] which was (inexplicably) missing its’ serial numbers.
Upon coming to this conclusion, I felt I’d solved half the equation, but I was still troubled. Why would someone use a gun, which was presumably loaded, to soothe an itching leg? Upon further reflection, I came to the this conclusion:
Anyone who has ever broken a limb knows that casts can be horribly itchy, and that the itch can be maddening. The shrimp vendor, being stuck on the side of the road, found himself with out a means to soothe the itch. As the itching sensation grew stronger, the man remembered something: the barrel of a .357 is quite long, and the targeting notch at the end of the barrel would be well suited vanquishing an itch. The man searched the immediate area for ninjas, and finding the coast clear, the shrimp man must have decided it was safe to scratch his itching leg.
I saw this as the only possible explanation. I could finally sleep at night, content in knowing that the man was sound in his reasoning. However, my peace of mind was to be short-lived, as I realized later that week that the shrimp merchant never returned to that intersection again.
Once again, I realize what there is a “logical” reason why the seller never returned to that intersection: the vendor finished scratching, sold his shrimp, and went home for the evening. When he awoke the next morning man decided to go out in search of a more ideal location from which to sell his prawn, instead of returning to his usual spot. This explanation is a bit too obvious, and I choose not to believe it. Here is what I believe happened:
As I sped away in horror, the man began to sooth the itch that had enflamed his leg, confident in his knowledge no interlopers were afoot. Just as he was beginning to feel sweet relief, the troop of ninjas attacked again! These villains robbed this poor soul of all he held dear: his crustaceans, his livelihood, and his pride. Standing there beside the road, with nothing left in this world but a dingy and a pair of slightly damp hip-waders, the man made a fateful decision. He decided that being attacked by nefarious ninjas twice was two times too many. He decided, then and there, to leave shrimping to Forrest Gump and flamingos and chose to embrace the safety and stability that only a career in coal mining can offer.
That's a one hundred percent true story. Swear to God.[8]
Note: This is an entry that I am submitting for a job interview that I have on Monday morning with a non-profit organization that focuses on the teaching of writing. I believe I'm on draft six, and I would appreciate any edits that you may have that would improve style, flow, etc. Unless your critique is that it sucks. That's not constructive, and just a little mean.
Ya'll stay classy... wherever ya'll is...
Blakely A-Dam Sumner
[1] Although that would be hilarious
[2] The pirate, not the Monkee.
[3] For those unfamiliar with the vernacular of South Georgia (or incapable of inferring a word’s meaning via context), "riding strapped" means to arm oneself, usually with a gun.
[4] I realize that there must be a more rational explanation, but I feel that rationalism is best left to the scientists, and not dreamers such as myself.
[5] It is a little known fact that ninjas love shrimp. Shrimp are an excellent source of low-fat and low-calorie protein, enabling the ninja to eat a hearty meal, without feeling bloated.
[6] Thus explaining why the gun was hidden inside the cooler.
[7] Or “Saturday Night Special, as it is more commonly referred to on the streets.
[8] Except for my theory about why I never saw the shrimp man again. That was a complete fabrication, designed to entertain.
No comments:
Post a Comment