Ain't Happenin'. Not Today, Not Tomorrow, Not Ever.
From 2016:
There is a sign on my shop door: This property is closed to the public. Internet Sales Only.
Some days I think it's a little harsh. And then a day like yesterday comes along, and makes me think a sign isn't enough. Maybe a spiked drawbridge over a moat filled with hungry Nile crocodiles might be more in order.
That should have been my first clue. Well, my second. But whatever.
On the phone, he talked loud and fast, and stammered before each sentence with, "OB OB OB...", before finding his words and driving his demand.
Well, he showed up last night. All 6 foot 3 or 4 of him. In wooden clogs. Wooden clogs which added another completely unnecessary 2 inches or so to him. He somehow folded all of that up into a Chev S10 pickup for the 2000 mile drive here. I can't even picture it. And I try not to.
I suppose I could have overlooked that if he had been normal in any other way.
But he wasn't. No, not even close.
I guess the biggest problem was that he was a stark raving lunatic.
In over two hours of a basically non-stop rant about things as diverse as neighbour's junk, MNR trees, US Customs, the tax climate of the Netherlands, the price of restaurant breakfasts, and countless other things, I can't remember seeing those piercing eyes blink once. And I got a good look at them, because the man didn't understand the concept of personal space in the slightest. He stood very, uncomfortably, close all the time, looking down from his lofty perch on my modest 5 foot 6 or 7 inch height. And if that wasn't enough, he did it with his head cocked to the side all the while, sort of like an eagle making up its mind to eat that crippled mouse laying whimpering at its feet.
But even that wasn't as alarming as the constant drooling.
Drool is often the sign of an idiot. Truth be told, this guy was no idiot. He could speak 5 languages, and is working on learning two more. There's a big difference between stupid and crazy. Having a repertoire of over 5 languages shows someone to be highly intelligent. Sort of like the show Criminal Minds; it took a team of experts--including a photographic memory genius--to figure out the mind of a serial killer. But I prefer not to think about that...
Well, back to the drooling. He drooled in a constant stream. It came out the right side of his mouth and ran down his chin until it dripped off the underside of it. And he never noticed. I sure did. Remember my mentioning of his lack of comprehension of personal space? And his lofty height? Well, it was all I could do to stay out of the path of that incessantly dripping tap of insanity. I may be somewhat, let's say, 'compact', but I have a giant problem with other people's bodily fluids.
Oh. I forgot: He smelled bad. He may have been able to speak 5 languages, but he certainly wasn't fluent in personal hygiene. He smelled quite, quite bad, and I can still vaguely smell him in here this morning, to be honest.
Oh, I forgot: he informed me in the latter part of his conversation, that he was a bachelor. The possibility of that had never dawned on me.
As he belted out yet another random offense to his personal convenience or economy, he would drive the point home by two loud stamps of his clogs on my concrete floor. I found that particularly unnerving, for some reason. Maybe it's because I associated his stamping with the possibility of him unhinging in an Abbott and Costello "SUSQUEHANNA!" skit scenario. I don't know, but it definitely failed to invoke ease and comfort on my part.
Besides his, well, everything, he was nearly impossible to get rid of. I worked him towards the door, which was exceedingly uncomfortable for me, being that that temporarily increased our physical proximity.
Taking advantage of the blessed gift of his going outside to his truck to fetch papers to prove yet another point of contention to which I truly couldn't have cared less, I jumped outside and pulled the door shut behind me. The punch code lock set so he couldn't reach past me to open it again. It was late and the bugs were swarming in the strong yard light, but I didn't care. He was outside of my office and there was fresh air with a gentle breeze. After the resulting driving home of yet another argument with paper proof of a sort to which I had no interest or understanding, he started into the complaints of the price of motel rooms. He complained loudly and vociferously about the price of a bed to lay one's head. He complained about the price of breakfast. He complained... wait a minute--he was telling me he wanted me to put him up for the night!
Okay, no freaking way. The buck stops here.
Anyone who knows me well knows that I am very, very particular about my house. You don't get in it unless I know you and like you. A lot. You don't get in it unless I think you're clean, and I know you and like you. A lot. You don't get in it unless I think you're clean, and I know you and like and I don't think you're going to murder me in my bed. A lot.
This guy, no matter his size and imposing posture and forceful nature, was not getting into my house. A lot.
I had been using the excuse for some time of having to go see Sharon at her house (I would not name her to him, out of simple respect for her safety and sanity). I now worked my way towards my car as his claims about expenses of motel accommodations increased in alarm and dramatic emphasis.
No freaking way.
Anyone that can sell their land in the Netherlands and move to Canada and buy land here for a fifth or less of the price of there can certainly afford a frickin' motel room.
I gave him directions to Pembroke and the motels there. He feigned to not understand. Well, if he could get from near Calgary, Alberta, to here, he could darn well get to there, too.
Before anyone lays anything about kind, Christian charity on me, I'm going to say that you never had him standing odouriferously drooling over you like a damaged egg buzzard. So if you are going to try that angle, your point doesn't count to me in the slightest.
Now I'll be nice again.
I managed to get to my car, over his protestations about spending money to sleep, and, well, left. He reluctantly followed me out to the highway, and I planted my foot and took off. There have been few times I was as glad to be driving the SS version of a Monte Carlo as that. That was most definitely one of them. It may not look so great any more, but it still goes like a scared rabbit, and I was really "puttin' the boots to 'er!" in the words of Ron Jaremkow, one of my old neighbours down the Queen's Line. I put his headlights out of my mirror, and turned up Main Street. From the about-face vantage point of me finally assuming higher ground, I watched him drive by, heading towards Pembroke, and a clean motel room with a clean bed and a shower stall. I can only imagine what the unlucky winner of that lottery went through, but he was gone for me, and, in the grateful selfishness of the moment, that's all I really cared about.
My biggest fear was that when I went home, he'd be back sitting stubbornly in my yard, waiting for me to do the right thing. But he wasn't, and as I sit here counting my blessings, he wasn't. I went to bed and dreamed a night of very uncomfortable personal space invasion dreams.
And he still wasn't here when I got up in the morning.
I think I need a new line of work. Like manning a lighthouse. Or a space station. Or Jupiter.
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