vituperation

“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.