Illicit, back-alley dealings
So my brother and I are chilling in the parking lot after aikido, trying to catch our breath and discuss what we’ve just learned (or think we’ve just learned), when this large truck pulls up next to us bearing the leged, “Ed’s Meat Delivery” (names have been changed to protect the innocent). The passenger leans out and signals me over. I think to myself, “Hey, this guy must be lost. Maybe he needs directions.” I saunter over closer to the truck.
“Hey, man… Want some meat?”
If the guy had said, “Hey man… Want some speakers?” my response would have been immediate and near-instinctive: No, I don’t want your broken, stolen speakers for, like, only a hundred bucks thanks. I don’t care how good of a deal this is.
But this meat offer brought me up short for a bit as the cognitive dissonance rippled around inside my head for a fraction of a second. Did he say meat? is all my brain can come up with. “Excuse me?” I reply. I certainly heard him correctly, but this is one of those conversational tricks I employ to give me more time to be clever.
“Y’know, steaks, sausages… I got some nice t-bones, some rib-eyes.. how ‘bout a hundred bucks?”
No clever reply, sorry. Sometimes I wish I was just a tad wittier so in these situations I could say something funny, scathing, dismissive—whatever the situation demands. As it is, I only have enough brain power for a lightning-fast polite response: “No thanks, man.”
The guy looks like I’ve turned down the winning lottery ticket and offended his lineage all at one go. “Whaddya mean? These are great deals! I got it right here!” He gestures helpfully towards the trailer. Yes, that’s where the meat is.
For the record, I’ve never understood this I’m going to be incredulous about what an idiot you are sales techniques employed by street dealers of every stripe. You’re not convincing me, you’re just offending me. This is what saves me now.
“Thanks, whatever,” I toss back to him as I turn and walk back to Carlos’ car. The guy then looks hopefully at Carlos. “What about you?”
“I’m a vegetarian,” my brother calls out. No he’s not. He’s just a tad wittier than I am.
The guy hisses in disapproval. What heathens I must deal with in my quest to bring cheap, back-alley meat to the populace. The driver, hidden in the shadows afforded by the dimly lit parking lot, guns the motor a bit and they accelerate away.
It comes to me later, the funny, scathing, dismissive response: “Is that a come on? No thanks, man,” and then I walk away. But my life doesn’t quite work that way. Oh well.