The Tale of the White Whale and the Stinky Cheese Man

PART ONE

"Call me Ishmael." - Herman Melville

“There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.” 

― Herman Melville

     Selling a car is a relatively simple process. The buyer shows up, inspects the vehicle, reaches a decision and makes an offer. The seller can accept or reject the offer, alternatively, the seller can make a counter-offer. If there is mutual agreement, a financial transaction takes place and the vehicle goes home with its new owner. It's not exactly rocket science. It's not a life or death situation. Not usually. However, once you add me to the equation things can go from mundane to absolute chaos in the blink of an eye. In other words, shit happens.

     I've always been a Jeep kind of guy and by that I mean the image and not the reality. Maybe it's that whole manly man doing manly things, wind in my stubble, suave and debonair delusional image that I have of myself, but I'm far too modest to mention any of that. And well, because I'm so butch. To be honest, I've never owned a real Jeep, but I have ridden in them. The Jeeps that I have owned have been Grand Cherokees and don't exactly fit the whole manly man doing manly things, wind in my stubble , suave and debonair delusional image that I have of myself, which I'm far too modest to mention.

     But I digress.

     Ya'll wanna see something really cool, don'tcha?

     I've owned many vehicles over the years, two of which were Jeep Grand Cherokees, One Jeep was great; sturdy, reliable and it played host to many an adventure. If you've read Unsinkable, you're already familiar with one of those adventures. To call the other Jeep a piece of shit would be a far greater act of compassion than I am capable of. Of course, this is a story about the piece of shit Jeep. A Jeep that was not quite affectionately known as "The White Whale." And when I say "not quite affectionately known as," I mean it quite literally. Well, at least I mean the part about "not known as," because that's all bullshit, we didn't call it anything, but I needed a name for the story and there it was. Why? Because fuck you, that's why.

     Anyway, the White Whale had a few minor issues. Little things like the four wheel drive was out, the transmission was shot, it needed a new clutch, new rings; you know, just a few cosmetic details here and there. Now might also be a good time to mention that it wasn't in what I would quite call running condition, hell, that thing couldn't run if it had legs, but it looked great. I mean, other than the few minor flaws that I mentioned, it was a perfectly good vehicle. I'd certainly trust my ex-wife in it, alone, on a steep mountain, going downhill, in the winter, with black ice and no guardrail. Perchance to dream...

     Again, I digress and I used bad paraphrasing, too. My apologies.

     I'm sure that you can understand why I might be considered a very motivated seller of such a fine example of American crapsmanship and why I would shed a tear at the fond memory of many breakdowns spent sitting beside the road, waiting for AAA to come and save my sorry ass.

     But then the Lord shined His light upon me. Fucking Hallelujah!

     You see, sometimes I wonder if there is a God and if I'm just one of those people that He likes to fuck with. Intentionally. Like, for His own amusement. I think He looks over the world, watching it slowly spin around the Sun, mumbling crazy shit to Himself like an old homeless man. You know, He's just enjoying Himself, checking out the beauty of His creation and shit until he notices me and thinks, "Hey, isn't that the asshole that I like to fuck with?"

     Jonah? Yeah... he ain't got shit on me.

     This is how it all went down...

     One day, out of the blue, there was a knock upon my door. I opened the door and... holy shit!

     I heard fucking banjos.

     I smelled cheese. And... shit?

.

      Standing on my front porch was the complete stereotypical West Virginia example of Pa Kettle, an old, tall, skinny, redneck, farmer looking dude. He had it all. The scraggly grey beard, the beaten John Deere trucker hat, the denim jacket with the sheepskin collar, flannel shirt and overalls that were so old and filthy, they looked as if they'd been rolled in cow shit and dried to a fine crust. His dirty work boots looked as if they'd just won a shit kickin' contest. I could feel my nose wrinkle in offense. The stranger's stench rolled over me like a dust storm across the desert; vast and frightening.  He was creepy; he had a really weird vibe. I looked at his hands, expecting to find an axe, probably because I've seen way too many horror movies, which kind of does make me an authority on this kind of shit, but there were no sharp objects or small farm animals in his hands which was strange because I had this guy pegged as either an animal fucker (farmer), child molester, serial killer, or even worse, a Jehovah's witness. He was one or the other, of this I was certain. NOTE - Don't even try to fuck with my math here, people. I hate math. Math sucks giant pickled anaconda balls. There are three kinds of people in this world; those who are good at math and those who aren't. I'm in that third category.

     As if this all wasn't weird enough and stranger still, I also smelled cheese. Not just any kind of cheese, mind you. This was the scent of a finely cave aged Limburger that was stuffed inside of a dirty sock and wrapped with shit stained tightey whiteys prior to aging. He smelled like cheese. And shit. Shit cheese. String shit cheese. Not a pleasant thought, is it?

     I'll get back to all of that in just a second. The cheese, I mean. Okay, the shit too, don't worry.

     For brevity's sake, I'll refer to him as the Cheese Man. Parked behind the Cheese Man was his own Jeep Cherokee. Fucking great, we could be besties...

     Cheese Man inquired if I might be interested in selling the White Whale.

     I did a little fucking dance in my head.

     Sell it? Would I?

     Show me the fucking money; the moolah, the dough, the cash, the motherfucking Benjamins.

     Let's say that I was easily persuaded. Like I said, I was motivated. Superfuckingmotivated, come to think of it.

     Cheese Man made me an offer and I made him a counter-offer. We negotiated a price and reached an agreement and he counted out the cash and handed it to me. The money felt greasy and smelled foul, but I counted it and stuffed the money into my pocket faster than shit through a goose, which judging by the smell, is where Cheese Man kept his cash.

     Now, I just needed to find the title and Cheese Man could be on his way, so of course I couldn't find the title. I looked and I looked and I looked. No bueno. I finally found the damn thing in the filing cabinet, right where it was supposed to be. I had already looked in there several times, file by file and paper by paper and found nothing. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada. And suddenly it magically appears? Right where it's supposed to be? I call bullshit. Magical witchcraft fuckery is what it was.

     With a flourish, I signed the title over to Cheese Man and he pockets it faster than his dick through a sheep and then Cheese Man sticks out his grime covered hand. A handshake? Really? You expect me to shake that filthy shit stained hand? I shook his hand, it felt greasy and foul. "Fuck it," I thought, "I'll just saw off my hand and incinerate it later."

     Cheese Man walked back to his Jeep, started it up and drove over to the White Whale. He emerged from his Jeep carrying a large chain and starts chaining the two Jeeps together, opting to tow the White Whale backwards out of my driveway. Good luck, with that. After a very short run, my driveway was nearly vertical, with an extremely sharp right or left turn at the top, as it met the road. Misjudge that turn and there's a good chance that you'll make a very quick trip down the mountain. I couldn't wait to see this, I'd watched many people fail at trying to escape from my driveway. This was going to be good. Even I had managed to turn a vehicle sideways and almost over the edge of the mountain in  my driveway. Don't ask. Don't even fucking ask.

     After Cheese Man got the vehicles chained together, he inspected his work, gave himself a porcine snort of approval and walked back over to me.

     "Please don't shake my hand again," I thought.

     My worry was quite needless as Cheese Man had one simple question.

     "Do you think you could steer the white Jeep out of the driveway for me, while I pull it up?" he asked me.

     "Sure, no problem," I replied.

     What could possibly go wrong?

     Have you ever looked back and identified that singular moment where everything started to unravel? You know, that moment where you lose all control and you realize that you're completely screwed. This was that moment, although I was too clueless to realize it at the time.

     This was the moment that God decided to fuck with me. The moment when he looked at all of his little angel buddies and said, "Hey, ya'll wanna' see something really cool?"

     I carefully explained how to get out of my driveway to the Cheese Man before climbing into the White Whale and buckling myself in. I was pretty sure that he had listened to my instructions.

     Cheese Man gunned the engine on his Jeep. I felt my sphincter contract. Pucker factor. He gunned the engine again, I felt a quick jerk and we took off up the driveway.

     We came back down just as quickly, which is when I discovered that the White Whale had no breaks. The Jeep came to a sudden stop as it pulled against the chain, throwing me against the seat belt. I loudly informed the Cheese Man that I had no brakes. In response, he gunned his engine again. I'm really not sure what part of "Hey, I have no fucking brakes," is so fucking hard to understand. Fuck me.

     We tried again with the same result. And again. And again. Six fucking times. I was a little over that shit by this point and I had much better things to do with my time, like spending Cheese Man's money.

     Nobody ever fucking listens.

     After the sixth attempt, I got out of the White Whale and I carefully explained to Cheese Man, once again, how to get out of my driveway and reminded him that I had no brakes. I'm fairly sure that he was half-listening to me.

     Cheese Man said that he was good to go and I climbed back into the Whale. He gunned his engine again, another quick jerk on the chain and we were off. Another fail. Cheese Man tried again and I could just imagine the grim determination that furrowed and cracked the crap caked into his brow. He gunned the engine into a deep throated growl as we launched down the driveway once again. Cheese Man made it to the very top of the driveway, gunned the engine again and made a sharp left, adding more power and I felt the Whale pull out of the driveway and onto the road. We made it! It was magical witchcraft fuckery, alright.

     Well, sort of...

     I had no brakes, remember?

     Cheese Man had stopped on the road facing uphill and the Whale was about to smash into his Jeep.

     No bueno.

     I quickly hit the brakes and nothing. Nada, zilch, zip; no fucking brakes. I had forgotten that I had no brakes. That's some serious fucking no bueno shit, right there. The Whale slammed into the back of Cheese man's Jeep and bounced off. Now, this wouldn't have been such a big deal if Cheese Man hadn't stopped his Jeep on an uphill portion of the road, fucking genius that he was and if the Whale had functioning brakes, which it didn't.

     The Whale started rolling downhill. I kept hitting the brakes, somehow hoping that some sort of magical witchcraft fuckery would happen and the brakes would suddenly start working. They didn't.

     The Whale rolled down to the edge of the mountain and before I could so much as shit my pants, the behemoth rolled straight over the edge, quickly picking up speed.

     Things are way the fuck beyond no bueno at this point. My shit was about to get seriously fucked up. I still hadn't soiled myself. Hey, it's a minor point of pride.

     The Whale was speeding down the mountain and headed straight for a copse of very large trees. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as the trunk of the largest tree grew larger and larger in the windshield. Suddenly, I felt like Captain Ahab, strapped to the side of Moby Dick, about to take that final, fateful plunge.

Yeah, just like that.

     Strangely, I wasn't scared; I don't think there was time for that because everything happened so quickly. My life didn't flash before my eyes and I didn't break out some dusty, old, forgotten prayer to the Invisible Sky Man that loves to torment me. All that I could think about was that I would have to give Cheese Man his money back and that really pissed me off. "Fuck that guy," I suddenly thought, I totally deserved the money after experiencing Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

     I had just braced myself for the impact with the tree when I felt the chain jerk again and the Whale came to a sudden, violent stop, bare inches from hitting the tree. I was thrown hard against the seat belt, but that was the worst of it. The best part? I still hadn't shit myself.

     Suddenly, there was another violent tug on the chain and Cheese Man was able to pull the Whale out of the gully and back onto the road. Thankfully, he kept going until the road leveled out and, you guessed it, the whale slammed into him again, but I was saved! My money was safe!

     Cheese Man jumped out of his Jeep and asked me if I wouldn't mind steering the Whale while he towed it back to his house. I agreed, because I'm an idiot and lack any sort of common sense, yet lead an obviously charmed life. Fabufuckinglous.

     We made it safely over the river and through the woods to the Cheese Man plantation, until the very last moment, where of course the whale had to give me one last beating, by once again slamming itself violently into the back of Cheese Man's Jeep.

     I hopped out of the Whale and hit the ground, taking a good look around. I made the horrible mistake of taking a deep breath and I was staggered by the stench.

     You see, Cheese man lived on a pig farm. There were pigs everywhere, so many that it was like roving herds of bacon. The smell of the offal hit me like a physical wave and I swallowed my nausea. There were piles of pig shit everywhere, you couldn't avoid them. That was one mystery solved; I now knew why Cheese Man smelled like shit, still, another mystery remained. Why did the Cheese Man smell like cheese? I noticed that there was something else strewn all over the ground, little clear plastic wrappers that upon closer inspection appeared to be Kraft Singles wrappers. Aha! Another mystery solved. One thing still puzzled me though. This guy didn't smell like processed cheese, he smelled like Époisses. Époisses, for those of you who don't know, is one of the smelliest cheeses in the world. Indeed, Époisses has been banned from public transportation vehicles all over France. It is made from raw cow's milk and its rind is washed with pomace brandy. Just a little fromage knowledge for you.

This little piggy went to market.

     I think I might have even thrown up in my mouth a little.

     I walked around to the front of the Whale, wanting to leave this madness behind me as quickly as possible.

     And that was when things started to get a little weird...

     Stay tuned for Part Two.

     If you enjoyed reading this story, please give this one a shot. Thanks!

Someone's Been Sleeping In My Bed

Unsinkable

Unsinkable

What might be considered an injustice by some, might be construed by others as justice served. Take, for example, the release of the Lockerbie Bomber, condemned throughout the West as a mass murderer and yet, hailed throughout Libya and the region, as a hero, upon his return there. Or perhaps, the election of Barack Obama, over John McCain and Obama’s successful re-election bid, when he trumped Mitt Romney. Some US citizens see Obama’s victories as a vehicle, for hope and change, while others see it as a betrayal of American ideals. Justice and injustice… tricky concepts, indeed. However, there is no greater injustice in this world, no, in this life, than a self-righteous, “I told you so.”

The day had started innocently enough; three old friends and their children, gathering together for some fun times; or so it seemed. My wife (now ex-wife) and I were catching up with our old friend, Scott, whom we hadn’t seen in quite some time. All of our lives had changed drastically, since we’d last seen each other. Scott was now a single father, with a son and a daughter that we had never met. Likewise, Medusa, my (ex)wife and I had brought two little boys into the world. We had made plans to renew acquaintances and to let the children play. Our target was Orr’s, a local farm market that specialized in pick your own strawberries. This activity would provide a chance for the children to burn off some energy, while the adults caught up on the intervening years. The day had dawned, bright and beautiful; a truly perfect Spring day that seemed to cloud over a bit, as we pulled up to the farm, only to see a large sign that read, “Closed on Sundays.”

Like a gaggle of geese, the children were honking and hollering; crying and screaming. Evidently, I had ruined their young lives beyond any sort of redemption and they would need years and years of therapy, to recover from the traumatizing incident. I thought of the horrors of PTSD, in ones so young, but, to be honest, my children will probably need years and years of therapy, by the time I’m done with them, anyway, so I wasn’t too worried about it. While the world was quickly coming to an end, we adults were tossing suggestions back and forth like hot potatoes. I knew deep down, that only I could come up with the master plan, to save the day. And I did. That was when I hit upon the idea of going to Back Creek. It would be fun, it was conveniently close, and best of all… it was free, which appealed to me the most, because I’m such a cheap bastard; after all, I’ve been known to squeeze a nickel until the buffalo is gasping for air. Knowing genius when they see it, everyone agreed this was a wonderful idea and we were soon on our way, Scott and his family following close behind.

When we arrived at the creek, we hopped out of our vehicles and gathered up all of the paraphernalia that you need when you travel past your driveway with children; all of the blankets and towels, bandages and tape, potions and lotions and another fifty pounds of combat gear that you load upon yourself like a pack mule. I looked up for just a moment and that was when I saw them. “Them,” being the two pickup trucks that were racing each other through the creek. I must have had quite a muse that day, as inspiration suddenly struck again. My Jeep Grand Cherokee was much larger than either of the trucks and we all know that bigger is better; the creek was incredibly low that year and I could now fulfill my lifelong ambition of being a macho, rugged guy and go four wheeling in my Jeep. It was one of those redneck, “Y’all wanna’ see something really cool,” moments. In retrospect, that alone should have been warning enough, but it wasn’t.. I announced my intentions to my (ex)wife, who gave me one of those looks that are generally reserved for the certifiably insane and while I hadn’t realized that the color on her face could actually occur in nature. For a moment, she seemed too angry to speak, but somehow she managed to splutter out the words, “Absolutely not!” It may even have been a little stronger than that. I argued my point; I had seen, with my own eyes, the two  trucks as they raced down the creek. The water was so low, there was, maybe, a one in a million chance of something going wrong. Medusa said something about, “I’ve lived here all of my life…” and that was when I pressed the mute button, while she kept prattling on about whatever she was prattling on about. While Medusa’s lips continued to move soundlessly, my mind was already in the creek, racing through the rocks with a giant rooster tail of water flying behind me. Sensing that I now had the intellect of a rock, my (ex)wife elected to walk down to the small gravel island that served as a beach and picnic area, children in tow, while Scott and I drove the Jeep down.

I stomped down on the accelerator and the Jeep took off, diving into th water, spinning and sliding; just tearing it up for a few minutes while we drove the few hundred yards down to the beach. Several times that day, I took the Jeep back into the creek, splashing through the water like a child in control of an oversized Tonka truck.. I had so much fun and laughed so hard; I loved every second of it. The children loved being able to ride through the creek with me, while I drove like a maniac. After a while, even Medusa broke down and went for a ride, trying her best not to smile, lest it split her face in half. All too soon, it seemed, fun time was over and it was time to leave.

Everyone and everything was wedged into the Jeep like a canned sardine for the trip back to shore. As we drove back into the creek, I made sure to drive a little wildly, for the benefit of the children, who were screaming up a storm in the back seat and the hatch. I turned to drive up the bank where we entered the creek, the tires churning up the water behind us, when suddenly, there was a sickeningly sharp lurch downward and to the left as the Jeep dropped into a deep hole and then the engine sputtered and died, with a sickly, watery gurgle. I couldn’t try to restart the Jeep, it would only suck more water into the engine. Not that it mattered anyway, everything was dead. I had taken the seeds of that one in a million chance of something going wrong and I had harvested a bumper crop of trouble.

I looked at my (ex)wife and I swear that I could literally see the top of her head explode and visualize the steam flying out of her ears. I think, in retrospect, that she may have been just a little bit angry with me. “I told you not to drive in the creek,” she fumed, “I told you there were hidden holes and sure enough, you’ve managed to find one!” Hidden holes? What hidden holes? She had never said anything about hidden holes, to me. It was then that comprehension dawned upon me, enlightening me with an epiphany, of sorts. Perhaps she had said something while I was daydreaming and had tuned out the sound of her voice. I really hate that feeling that I get, when I realize that I’m wrong and there was no way that I was going to open my mouth to try to defend myself. How on Earth was I going to get myself out of this mess? Being the genius that I am, I quickly surmised that the quickest way out would be to open the door and get out of the Jeep, which I did.

As half of the creek cascaded into the Jeep, I jumped out and found myself deeper in the creek than the Jeep was. I climbed out of the hole that I was in and walked around the Jeep, appraising the situation. Ironically, the depth of the water on the passenger side of the Jeep was only ankle deep. I thought that Scott and I could just push the Jeep up onto the bank; it was only a few feet. Well, we pushed and we pushed and then we pushed some more, all to no avail. Medusa joined in and still nothing. To add insult to injury, I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I slipped and fell, falling face first, into the water. While I might not have been stuck, the Jeep certainly was; it wasn’t going anywhere, without help. We, meaning I, had to come up with a different plan.

It worked out that Scott would take me home to get our other vehicle and then he and I would return to the creek to retrieve everyone else. We stopped at my mechanic’s shop (it was on the way) to ask him to tow the Jeep back to his garage and to see if it was salvageable. Of course, I had to explain the whole story to the mechanic, while he looked at me, the entire time, in total bewilderment, as if he had never seen a bigger idiot in his entire life. I’m sure my (ex)wife would have concurred. He looked at me and said, “Don’t you know there’s hidden holes in that creek?” After everyone in the shop finished laughing at me (I’m pretty sure that even his mangy old dog was giggling), Scott dropped me off at my house and I drove our other SUV back to the creek to pick up my family. When I arrived back at the creek, there was a new surprise awaiting me; the Jeep was now out of the water and on the opposite bank! My wife quickly explained that a Good Samaritan had come along and winched the Jeep over to the other side. This was quite a mixed blessing; the vehicle was now out of the water (good thing) and the engine could dry out. However, I would now look like an even bigger idiot, because I couldn’t even accurately describe where the Jeep was located!

The drive home was made in a stony silence; Medusa just kept shaking her head. It wasn’t until after we arrived home that the “I told you so” demon escaped from the bottle. The day had become a loaded shotgun and Medusa let loose with both barrels. What could I say in my defense? Nothing, that’s what. I had done something incredibly stupid, so I just stood there and took the barrage. I hadn’t listened to my (ex)wife, who, impossibly, for the first time in her life, was actually correct about something. I was angry, too; seething inside, but there was not a word that I could say. I just prayed that the Jeep was repairable; it was her vehicle, after all.

The next day, our mechanic called to inform me of the damage. Other than having to replace the spark plugs and change the sir filter, we had been lucky. And everything else was fine. There was no sign of water in the oil or in the gas tank and I thanked my lucky stars that all was well and the cost was minimal. Well, minimal when compared to the cost of buying a new Jeep. Two hundred dollars had just gone flying out the window and I knew that I would hear about that too, once I told my (ex)wife. I knew that I would have another large plate of crow to eat that evening (Please note that crow tastes nothing like chicken) and I did. It was only marginally wose than the year before, when I sank the Jeep in the mud, up to the driver’s side window and on an angle as well, when I took the Jeep four wheeling in the same area, but that’s another story.

In hindsight, I should have listened to my (ex)wife, instead of daydreaming. She’s lived in this area for most of her life, while at the time, I was still a semi-recent transplant to West Virginia and the whole farm living is the life for me, thing. I should have listened, but of course, I knew better. My (ex)wife had many long years in which to smugly lord this incident over me and I firmly believe to this day, that there is no greater injustice in this life than an “I told you so”.