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

Small Comforts

A decision is such a simple thing, a simple choice; a or b, yes or no. Even the acts of indecision, or refusing to choose, are, in themselves choices. Sometimes the decisions we make aren’t consciously made, but rather pure instinct, guided by the invisible strings and hands of some unseen puppet master; the hand and strings that guide us, subverting our free will.

I was running late for work that day, though not by much. I had been late for work quite often the past few weeks and I knew that even though I was a valuable employee, I was close to crossing the line with my tardiness. I had thought that I could make up the time by driving like a maniac; once on the road, it was nothing more than a straight shot to the top of the mountain and then down to the highway, where I could put the pedal to the metal and make up for lost time by speeding. As I reached the crest of the mountain, I turned right, picking up speed for the descent, when I suddenly had to apply the brakes, tires screaming, as I slammed into the seat belt, narrowly missing the car in front of me. Instinctively, I knew there had been an accident, but I was late for work and just did not have the time to stop and offer assistance.

Seeing the long line of traffic stopped ahead of me, stretching off into infinity, I realized that the detour that I would now have to take would add another twenty minutes travel time to my commute and I decided to get going before I would be in even more trouble for arriving late to work. Frantically, I turned the steering wheel, pressing the accelerator to the floor whilst busily cursing my luck as I pulled out into the opposite lane. That was when I saw the overturned SUV. Standing on the brakes again, for the second time in moments, I slammed into the seat belt like a fighter pilot maneuvering against a heat seeking missile, and I felt the straps cutting into my chest and midsection. “What am I doing,” I thought, “I don’t have time for this. I can’t afford to risk losing my job!” But it was if another hand was guiding mine that day as I turned off the ignition; unseen hands pushing me out of the car as I took off at a dead run down the mountain toward that overturned truck. That was when I saw the other vehicle, a rust colored car that I thought was a PT Cruiser, with the entire front end like an accordion, smashed against the side of the mountain. Seeing the driver of the SUV crawling out from her vehicle, I hurriedly asked if she was okay and she nodded yes and I could see that she was shaken up more than anything. I then made a beeline for the rust colored car, stripping off my work shirt so as not to damage it. What I saw when I reached the other vehicle stopped me in my tracks and froze my blood like an ice filled river.

I quickly circumnavigated the car, assessing the situation. I checked the driver first as he seemed to have the worst injuries. I could tell that his neck was broken as he sat there twitching, his head at an unnatural angle against the side of the car. I checked his pulse and it was faint and erratic. I knew that there was nothing that I could do for the driver and I then ran around to the passenger side of the vehicle to check on the other occupant. The man was conscious, but broken and bleeding; I could tell that he was quickly going into shock. I threw my work shirt on top of the vehicle and quickly stripped off my t-shirt tearing it apart for bandages and then removing my belt to use as a tourniquet, if necessary. The man had deep gashes on his head and right arm; I could not appraise the damage to his lower extremities because they appeared to have been swallowed whole by the gaping maw of the crushed front end. I started talking to him, asking his name and his companion's name as well; introducing myself; doing anything I could to keep him talking. I knew that I had to keep him talking and calm in order to keep him from slipping further into shock while I worked on his injuries. I learned that the driver’s name was Stefan, yet I cannot remember the passenger’s name; but I do remember the crimson arterial blood that was like a fountain. I bandaged him and applied my belt as a tourniquet, just above his elbow, slowing the bleeding but not stopping it completely. I yelled out for more bandages from the onlooking crowd; blankets, shirts, anything that I could use to bind his injuries, all the while keeping a running conversation with the man while I was worked on his many injuries.

I learned that they were both from Germany and were here in the United States on business. I don’t know how he managed it, but, the next thing I knew, he was handing me his cell phone, asking me to call the man they had been on the way to meet. When the phone was answered, I quickly apprised their business associate of the situation and asked if he could get word back to Germany, in order for their families to be notified. He assured me that he would do just that, thanking me before I hung up the phone. I put the cell phone back in the car and started talking to the passenger again, trying to keep his attention on me and prevent him from looking at Stefan. The man told me of his wife and children and his life back in Germany while I stood there and held his hand. I said meaningless, soothing things, assuring him that everything was going to be alright. I held his gaze with mine the entire time, while still attending to his injuries as best I could.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that; it seemed an eternity before the paramedics and firefighters showed up, but it was time to let the professionals go to work. I told the man goodbye, assuring him once again that everything would be alright, telling him to hold on. I quickly grabbed my work shirt from the roof of their car and ran back to my own. I had to get back home, call my boss, get dressed again and get back on my way to work. When I walked into my house, my wife started screaming, apparently, I looked like a ghoul; I hadn’t realized that I was completely covered in blood. My precious work shirt, which I had tried so hard to keep clean was destroyed. Seeing the blood all over me, everything that had happened finally struck home, hitting me with the force of a sledgehammer. I was beyond distraught and, quite possibly, in shock myself. I called my boss and explained the situation, and that I would be in as soon as I could get changed and on my way. Dy, my supervisor, asked me if I was crying and I realized that I was, the tears streaming down my face. Unashamedly, I told him that yes, I was crying. Dy told me to stay home that day and to just come to work as normal the next. Realizing just how distraught and exhausted I was, I agreed; I was certainly in no condition to go to work.

The next day, I went to work as normal. When I arrived, I found all of my fellow employees gathered around reading the newspaper. Dy saw me and asked me to come into his office where he told me that both men had succumbed to their injuries and had died. I was devastated; I blamed myself, thinking that there must have been something more that I could have done; something that I should have done and hadn’t. Dy insisted that I take the evening off and go home, so that I could work things out for myself. I couldn’t stop blaming myself, even though logically, I knew it wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t until much later, and until after many long conversations with family and friends, that I realized that I had done the right thing. I had provided some small comfort to a man in his final moments and that was something to be proud of. I don’t consider myself anything special for any of my actions that day; I just did the right thing, even though initially, I hadn’t wanted to.