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Stanton Gaye's workday, part 1

Todays bagged lunch is baloney with green and red vegetable chips, the likes of which Id spend hours Goggling and still not be able to identify. Answer: Yes, she added green and red vegetable chips to my lunch. Question: Can one make a baloney sandwich lunch any weirder? My overly mayonnaised, wrapped in plastic cling-film sandwich stays so soggy you could book me from my fingerprints on the center of the bread. (I wish the old lady would pack something that feels good to hold like her niece.) My old lady isnt pretty like the women whose cars I work on, but I still honor her. I love her. I wont leave her because she packs a family size bag of Fritos chips into 80 percent of my workday lunches. Since first grade every guy dreams of getting the pretty girl; some guys do get her, but then dont often realize it because if they did, divorce would occur at a more respectable rate such as three out of ten, not five going on six out of ten. Had I married a pretty girl Id be bored by her looks by now and coveting my neighbors unattractive wife (who has not only inner beauty, but also an innate desire to pack Fritos in lunches. I guess Im just a lucky so and so). A hot, humid, dank and dewy feeling hovers like a chopper as I sit on a low, 12-inch wide bench thatlike my jeans, boots, t-shirt, arms, hands, and face wears a coat of grimy, grit-speckled oil so thick it appears to have been applied like icing on a cake. There are a 100 places to take lunch in this garage, but Freud couldnt explain why I choose the most uncomfortable place of all to sup. Im not quite three greasy fingers full of Fritos when into the yard drives a man belonging to those curious folks-who-seem-to-not-have-day-jobs club, captaining an immaculate 4X4 Flex Fuel, Hemi-engine Jeep Grand Cherokee to which is hooked a motorboat. A blindfolded deaf guy, 10 minutes removed from a frontal lobotomy, could tell this guy is here for one thing and one thing only trailer inspection. Wiping greasy Frito fingers on my equally greasy pants, I toddle to the rear of the vessel as the captain recognizes the drill: apply breaksright blinkerleft blinker, then hey, wait. Turn your key on, I holler. The captain yarns his head through his window, cranes his neck and shouts, huh? Turn your key, keep your key in the on position, I respond. What do you mean keep the car running? Thats bad for the environment, he says. Boatin aint exactly a boon for it, I add loud enough for the captain to hear as I walk to the bow. My boatin comment doesnt sit well with the skipper, so he presses: I need my trailer inspected, so if you wouldnt mind I dont mind, I reply. Click the key once and youre golden oh, I see M.D. on your plate. You a doc? Yes, Im a brain surgeon, the skipper replies. I grab the mirror to keep from falling over. To be continued. Rusty DeWees tours Vermont and Northern New York with his act The Logger. His column appears weekly. He can be reached at rustyd@pshift.com. Listen for The Logger, Rusty DeWees, Thursdays at 7:40 on the Big Station, 98.9 WOKO or visit his website at www.thelogger.com

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