Sequel
“Gah!” Mike Rowe screamed, whipping his arms around his head in a vain attempt to clear the air of Alpaca spit. “This stuff reeks!”
“Told you it had a smell,” the Alpaca farmer said with a wry grin. “That’s stomach juice on your face.”
It is my considered opinion that Dirty Jobs is one of the finest shows on television. Mike Rowe is a funny funny man, and has a way of making even the most menial jobs entertaining. Any show where the host is willing to wade around in feces — and sometimes accidentally ingest it — gets two thumbs up from me.
I was still laughing when It’s a Small World blasted from the hallway, scattering our cats to the four winds. Our doorbell plays something like 64 different songs, and we chose the absolute cheesiest one, because that’s how we roll at Crooked Acres.
I looked up at the clock. Almost eight. I paused the show and looked over at Robyn. She had laid her magazine down (she doesn’t appreciate Mike Rowe quite as much as I do, and often reads while I watch) and had a considering look on her face.
“Think FedEx or UPS are running late tonight?” I asked.
“Not this late.”
That’s what I had figured, too. I got up and retrieved the gun we keep stashed in the front room for just such an occasion. It’s a small gun, an easily concealed .380. With my thumb, I flicked the safety off and stuck the pistol in my pocket. You never know the intentions of someone ringing your doorbell late at night, and it’s better to be safe than sorry in such situations.
I walked around the end of the couch, nearly tripping over a cat whose curiosity had overcome his fear of the doorbell. When I flipped on the front porch light, I couldn’t see anyone through the beveled glass on the door because our Christmas wreath obstructed the view. That, or it had been a delivery and no one was out there. I twisted the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
“Hey, bubba,” the walkin’ dude said.
He stood about five feet from the door, a little to the right. That’s fortunate, because it meant that he couldn’t see into the house. Couldn’t see the big-ass high-def TV behind me, unless he could see it through the blinds.
Goddamnit, I thought. He was GONE.
For almost a year we’d been free of the walkin’ dude. I saw him from time to time, walking by, but he never even so much as glanced over my way. I figured it was because I called him out as a thief the last time he came around, thought maybe I’d embarrassed him for good.
His absence did not make my heart grow fonder.
The walkin’ dude looked almost the same as every time I’ve ever seen him. Same baseball cap, same blue and white sports jacket, same jeans. Same hunched stance, hands in jacket pockets. This time, however, he wasn’t wearing his glasses.
I slid through the doorway, out into the cold. We’re in the middle of what the local forecasters call an “Arctic blast,” which means the temperature gets near or below freezing at night. I pulled the door closed behind me. At the same time, I dropped my left hand down, sliding into my pocket and wrapping it around the butt of the pistol. I didn’t really care if my action looked obvious or not. I laid my index finger alongside the trigger guard.
The walkin’ dude took a step toward me and pulled his right hand out of the jacket pocket. He held it out. We shook briefly, if what we did could be called a shake. The walkin’ dude never grips, just lets his hand sit there like a cold dead thing, all rough and sandpapery.
“I been doin’ all right this last year,” he said. “Been gettin’ along okay, but it’s gettin’ rough now, man.”
I said nothing.
“Times is hard. I’m, well, I’m kind of on my own.”
He tried the same line with me the last time he stopped here. Same shit, different day. As I stood there listening to him feed me the sob story about how bad his life was, I had to force back a smile at the thought of how scared I’d been the first time we met. I saw him for what he really is, a scab on society who wants nothing more than what other people would give him.
And I was tired of it.
“I need a little help, man,” he said.
“No,” I said. “What you need is to get the hell off my property, and don’t come back here.”
The walkin’ dude looked wounded, like I’d slapped him or just kicked his puppy. He stood there like that for a couple of seconds, just looking at me unbelievingly, then slowly turned and shuffled down the steps. I watched him until he got to the driveway, then I went inside and turned off the light.
“What did you tell him?” Robyn asked.
“I told him to get going, and stay gone.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I went back out onto the front porch. The walkin’ dude was ambling up the road that ends across the street from our driveway. He was hunched over with his hands in his pockets. I watched him until he went over a rise, then went back into the warm house where my wife and Mike Rowe waited.
Someone’s fitting in just fine here:
He still doesn’t crow a lot. He did a couple right at 4:00 this morning, and a few more about 40 minutes later, then was quiet for several hours. I can hear him from my bedroom, but it’s not loud. If the heat is running, I can’t hear him at all.
He’s really starting to live up to the name McLovin.
Scary, that walkin guy. Wonder if he knew it was a gun, and do you think he’ll be back?
You know, Leslie, if you’d asked me before yesterday if I thought he’d be back, I would’ve said no. I thought he was gone for good, but he was either biding his time or he just thought he’d try on his way by.
I don’t expect him to come back, but I won’t be surprised if he does.
We love Mike Rowe too… and Anthony Bourdain. Glad McLovin’s been keepin’ warm in the hen house.
Another big fan of Mike Rowe here.
I can’t believe walking guy showed up again. I hope he gets the message this time, but I doubt he will.
Mike Rowe is HOT!!! I can’t believe Robyn doesn’t notice that
Love Bourdain too!!
Dude, sorry, but I couldn’t turn away a beggar at Christmas time. Even if he’s a pain in the ass.
Oh Mary, ROBYN NOTICES, believe you me.
Hi Fred. I also like Mike Rowe. One of the best shows on TV. Maybe Robyn should have him come in and clean up after the cats!
We’re watching Mike Rowe right now!
Wow. I was thinking that it was a little paranoid to feel the need to get your gun before you answered the door, but I guess I was wrong. That’s creepy. Your home should be the one place where you’re safe from people asking for money. I get annoyed if people call me at home asking for donations for organizations; I’d be mightily freaked if random strangers were coming to my door at night asking for handouts, Christmas season or not.
I was thinking that you were paranoid too. I am sorry I was proved wrong! I mean, I usually like to be right anyway, but I would much rather have heard that it was the UPS guy or your parents there for a surprise visit.
Keep on, keeping on!
About Walkin’ Dude;
I think your survey from the first agreed that he’d be back and I don’t think this is the last of him.
Watch out, Robyn!!!
Wow, he’s back. I figured that he’d spent the last year in prison or something and that’s why he hadn’t been by your place. Hope he’s gone for good. I know how hard it must have been to be that abrupt with him (it’s very hard for me to be like that, too) but it will probably work. He probably thinks that anyone who gives him money is really a chump, anyway, and now he knows you’re not. Good for you!
Note to Mary, who commented earlier: Walkin’ Dude is not just a pain in the ass, he’s a felon who showed up at someone’s house after dark. Giving someone like that money is just asking for trouble, Christmas or not.
Yep,I had voted on the poll that I thought the walkin’ dude would be back.
Fred,there’s just something about a driveway without a gate. It says to the Walkin’ Dude,”Hey Dude,come on down here and just knock on the door.”
It’ll take just one minute to get out of your vehicles and lock/unlock a gate. Just lock it at night when you think you are done going out.First one up gets to unlock it.Most folks up here in my part of rural northern California have fences and locked gates. When I asked our fire captain what they do when a property is on fire and the gate is locked. He said they have use gnarly bolt cutters or they just smash through the gate with their fire engine(I’d pay to see that! Woop-woop! ). From experience I’d recommend a gate with a lil’ wheel on the end you lock cuz it’s not fun dragging a heavy gate.;op Oh yeah and reflective tape on both sides of the gates to avoid embarrassing accidents.
Oh yeah and Mike Rowe is my husband(I’ve heard if you say it outloud,it WILL come to pass. Amen.)
Mike Rowe is my husband…Mike Rowe is my husband…My Rowe is mt husband…(I think you’ve got to it 3 times out loud), Amen. Love the Dirty Jobs guy and his show! Check out some of his earlier stuff on youtube, like when he cooked naked with some lady for a show he did in San Francisco before DJ. Wait, here is the link. http://youtube.com/watch?v=tN78BWp8Hms Enjoy!
Hey Fred!
Just wanted to offer some advice (hope you don’t mind). From your description it sounds like you have some experience and training around handling a pistol, but I was a little concerned when I read the part about putting it in your pocket. Have you ever tried (practiced) getting it out of your pocket in a hurry - as if someone were threatening you? Chances are it gets bound-up and you can’t pull it out. If you’re really lucky, your finger slips onto the trigger in the struggle and you shoot your toes off (so be sure and practice with an unloaded gun). You may have heard the recent news story about the newly minted Deputy Sheriff who was practicing his quick draw with a loaded gun and accidentally shot his wife - nobody wants to be that guy.
I have a little inside the pants holster that goes wherever the gun goes. It assures a clean, consistent and safe draw every time. The ones with the clip that fits over the waistband are quick to put on, too. It’ll keep the mechanism free from dust and lint, too.
Oh, by the way, great job on the new coop!
Some believe that God walks the earth in many forms as a test of a man’s true character. Hope He wasn’t disquised as a “Walkin’Dude” this time. Glad you made it back to your warm house, loving wife and rockin’ t.v.
I always heard that tale as well, oneyedog….only in my version, “Walkin’Dude” was actually the Devil out looking for a dumbass He could sob story into signing away his soul. I answer my rural door after hours with a 12 g. (hubby does with a 45) and a dog who luvs her some strangers (she insists they taste like chicken and apologizes to McLovin and the girls) After sending said stranger/salesman/Devil in disguise on their merry way, I retire to my warm house, loving family, comfy recliner and rocking t.v. and don’t feel a moment’s concern about my “true character”.
HA HA HA, Shroppie! Well said!
Note to ChrisK: That’s a good thing to think about. I was always told there was no reason to remove the fun from your pocket, though. The bullet will go through that material just fine.
Kinda odd about shroppie comparing him to the Devil, considering where the name Walkin’ Dude came from, huh? Here’s hoping the .380 never has to be used, and that the Walkin’ Dude got the message.