The Extension Cord

Gotta start somewhere, so here's a story for y'all.

One time, back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, we went to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

We.

You see, we travelled in teams.  That is, crews.  Typically five people, one of whom would be the "crew leader".  The crew leader was the owner of (almost invariably) a Volkswagen Jetta and was responsible for all transportation costs, in exchange for a cut of his crew's commissions.  For most of my road trips in my six months in purgatory, it was Mitch Clinton.  More about him in future posts.  Sometimes, the boss would also come.  John Schlesinger.

Ah, John.  What an a**hole.  Cheap, petty, and mean, but usually a lot of fun, and almost always good company, as long as you were getting the job done.  It's John I want to talk about today.

Now, people who've never been anywhere really cold might not know what a block heater is, but if you ever want to get your car started in -30 degrees, like it was in Saskatoon at the time, it's a must.  So all the cars have a little power cord hanging out the hood, and all the houses have an outdoor outlet, and when you park for the night, you just plug it in using a short extension cord.  Simple.

Okay, so John forgot to bring an extension cord.  "No problem," we said when we unloaded our stuff in the motel room.  "Just pop over to the hardware store and get one."

"F*** that!" answered John.  "It's five dollars!"  (Did I mention John was a millionaire?)  "I've already got like 20 in my garage back home from every f***ing winter road trip when I forget to bring one.  I am not getting another f***ing extension cord!"

We all waited patiently for John to finish venting.  "John, it's five bucks.  And anyways, it's minus 30 outside; we're not going anywhere in the morning if the car doesn't get plugged in."

"F*** that," said John, again.

Never underestimate a cheapskate.  John got back into the car and drove it up onto the sidewalk until its nose was literally kissing the outlet outside our motel room door.  When he got out of the car and succeeded in plugging it in, we all had to laugh.  It was one of the most comically ridiculous things I'd ever seen: a veritable tribute to one man's cheapness.

The motel's night manager didn't exactly see it that way, though.  He was in his 60's, spoke slowly with a drawl, and to us West Coast city folk seemed like the very epitome of an uneducated small-town hick.  I feel embarrassed about that attitude now, but boy did I ever feel superior then.

Well, this manager stormed out of his office with eyes blazing and smoke coming out of his ears.

"What is this bool-sheeyit?  You can't park your car there!  You never heard of an extension cord?  I don't need this bool-sheeyit!  You're blocking the whole sidewalk!  What kind of bool-sheeyit is this?  You gotta move that car right away!"

And then, he delivered his coup de grace:

"This is BOOL-SHEEYIT!!!"

The rest of the crew and I tried our hardest to stifle our laughter, but John . . . well, John just stood there listening to the guy with a big grin on his face.  He was proud.  Was it the elegantly engineered solution to a challenging problem?  The chutzpah?  The originality?

Nah, it was the five bucks.