I Put The Ass in Ambassador

Our company refers to our drivers as Ambassadors. That is because we are the only face (outside of sales reps) that our customers get to see. For the most part, I really enjoy the interaction. The chain stores that we deliver to are mostly impersonal like their shops, but the mom and pop stores often contain the best people.  I’ve ridden an all-terrain vehicle through the fields with my buddy Chuck up in Rural Valley, PA. I even took a tour of his then-unfinished home that was being built and got to see a cabin in the woods that I’m betting not a lot of (if any)  drivers got to see. I had a customer in Connecticut tell me an amazing story about how he found sobriety. I could write a book filled with stories of the great people I have met. I’ve built up a ton of friendships in my seven years with this gig.

 This past Friday was unfortunate because of horrendous morning weather in Delaware. It snowed so hard I thought I was in Maine. The delays caused by going between zero and ten miles an hour on a major highway sealed my fate of not making it home. Five stops came off, but the distance between Onley, Virginia and Leesport was too much for my logbook to bear when it came to hours-of-service regulations. Driving home, I thought it was not a bad day, thanks in part to, well, our customers. Two encounters were quite memorable.

My first stop was in a sleepy small town slightly off Route 113 in northern Maryland. I had been there a few times but when I arrived today, I was surprised to hear the woman on the phone say, “The boys are not here. I’ll send my daughter-in-law over. You want the end door.” It reminded me of the time I was instructed by a dispatcher to call an hour before delivering to an unnamed shore town in Maryland a few weeks ago. When I followed those instructions, the customer told me, “I’ll have to meet you; I got a woman at the store today.” The way he said that cracked me up. I almost said, “Oh thank goodness. Everyone knows women are not capable of lifting anything but a mop or a pan off the stove.” (I’m just kidding ladies- I know you can handle a vacuum too!)

I grabbed my hand cart while waiting for the daughter-in-law to show up since it was evident that I, a man, would have to do the unloading. The law says that I only have to bring the furniture to the end of the trailer, but there were only three pieces. I had no problem with putting the “A” in Ambassador.

I was unstrapping the orgy of furniture in my trailer when she showed up. She was an older blonde hair woman who looked too tan for the season. I don’t really care for that. Women who tan in the off-season turn me off. It makes me think that they literally are not comfortable in their own skin, which means they lack confidence. My first impression of this lady was not favorable because I assumed she had spent time and money lying in an ultraviolet bed of fakeness. I would be corrected within the first minute of our meeting.

She asked me how I was, and I recounted the tale of my awful ride en route to see her. She said, “I wish I would have never come back.” It turns out she had just returned from vacation in Jamaica. She went there with her husband who became violently ill with the flu and spent almost the whole time in their room. He did come out one day near the end of the trip when he felt better, but became horribly sunburned and returned to the room for the remainder of the trip. The maid saw him and urged him to take a cold shower immediately. I felt bad for the poor guy without even knowing him. Feeling awful is tough enough. To feel like death in a country where everyone says, “Relax Mon” must have been horrific.

As for my new friend, she fared better. She went gambling on the slots which she rarely does at home even though they are everywhere in the area. She came home $125 richer. It gets better. Her sister came home with an extra $150. I told her about my lack of luck with those evil money takers, and she agreed by telling me that she does not carry luck either when she wages at home. I made a mental note to leave the country for a brief period with the sole purpose of becoming rich through slot play. When I come back, I’ll write a book where you can learn how to become wealthy by gambling in other countries. 

I was enjoying her company. Her stories were good. As I was unloading the second piece, her phone rang. She answered it, and I heard her say, “It’s under control. There is a little guy here unloading it right now. He is little like you.” I became horribly offended and forcefully retorted, “Hey! I got big muscles!” She passed that information along to the person on the other end of the phone while wearing a sly smile on her face. We knew each other for ten minutes, and already she is busting my chops. This is when I decided that I like her.

I began to roll that second piece to the end door, which unfortunately stood near the nose of my truck. I had fifty feet of rolling to do, which is a lot for a little person such as myself. She was walking behind me, describing how her delivery guy was my size. I think she used that word “little” again. In my head, I pictured myself standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror making muscle-man poses. I do that sort of thing all the time. It always impresses me how much seven years of unloading trailer after trailer has done for my muscle tone. I made a silent pact with myself: If she called me little one more time, I would rip off my shirt and stand there making muscle man poses. That would surely hush her up. Thankfully, she refrained from hurling any more insults, and I remained fully clothed.

She walked behind me as I fought the long battle of rolling in the goods. Suddenly, I heard the unmistakable sound of a camera phone taking a picture. I turned around to see what she was taking a picture of. I darn near asked, “Are you taking pictures of my ass?” I would have been very disappointed if she was. I know it is nice, and I would be very upset if the pictures showed up on the internet without receiving royalties. She looked at her phone and said, “I didn’t want to take a picture of that.” Then the camera went off again while she had it pointed at the ground. I never did find out what she was taking pictures of. I find it hard to believe that a camera phone activates itself and begins taking random pictures. It had to be my ass. I would take pictures of it if I could walk behind myself. After that, I would post them to the internet and charge you money to see them. It goes without saying that I would later be forced to write a book about how you could become a millionaire through heiny porn.

It was a great time, short as it was. We talked about kids, mine and hers. She asked how many I have, and I learned that she has two. I found it interesting that she has sixteen (Yes, 16) siblings, and she had only two. I asked her why. “Two is enough. Hell, I didn’t want the second one. She was a whoopise. Heck, she is twenty-six now and the girl is still a whoopsie!” I sighed inside, sorry for her that her daughter didn’t live up to her expectations. Maybe I should have told her that she needed to hang in there because I was a mess at that age too. I’m a slightly better person today. I decided that I would keep my mouth shut.  When I got home, I would write a book called “Having Patience With Our Children.” On my next visit, I will bring her an autographed copy.

As I drove away, I found it amazing how much I learned about her in a roughly twenty-minute visit. I knew detailed stuff about her vacation, the size of her delivery guy, and how she felt about her kids. It reminded me of another visit with a customer at a Big Lots store in Maryland many months ago. We were unloading, and the receiving guy became overly excited about a certain sofa. He proceeded to tell me that it was his. That would have been good enough; I would have been cool with knowing that. Just like the woman at the stop today, he kept going. He told me this wild story about his girlfriend, and a female friend of hers. He had high hopes of having a relationship with both of them, and his plan hinged upon this sofa standing on his hand truck. As a man, I could appreciate such an endeavor, but I found it highly odd that he would share his wish with someone he had known for less than ten minutes. It made me lack confidence that he would ever find success in his threesome ambitions.  It also made me wonder why people tell me the most unusual things so easily. Perhaps I strut around projecting an aurora that shines “I’m a writer. Tell me crazy things, please!” Who knows? I could simply be a man with a nice ass who happens to be very easy to talk to.

I arrived at my third-to-last stop and impressed myself with how smoothly I backed my rig off of a busy street and into their dock. Inside the building, I was met by a humongous black guy who was easily three times as big as me. I’m not sure if I am comfortable telling you the color of his skin. Should I have said he is Afro-American? Let me put it this way: We are both are Americans. He is black, I am white, and I liked him just the same. Are you cool with that? I am.

Anyway, I knew this would be the toughest stop of the day as far as positioning my truck, and I was just happy to be there with my ride tucked into the dock door safely. I started breaking down the boxes here and there. I was dismayed to see a bunch of boxes lying horizontally on top of sofas. I silently questioned why the loaders do not think about the little people when they stuff these trailers full of furniture. My new buddy came strolling in and saw my predicament. 

“Here boss, let me get those for you.” 

“Oh, thank-you. You sure have a few more feet of reach than I do.”

“Yeah man. Many drivers are happy to see me strutting in.”

“I bet they are. Heck, I would like to have you run security for me!”

He smiled as he grabbed the boxes and told me about a handful of hip-hop artists that he had run security for. I liked his company because whenever I tried to reach for something that was taller than my shoulders, he yelled at me. “Hold up boss, let me help you with that.” He had my back, but I wasn’t really comfortable with him calling me “Boss.” It made me feel like I was his master on plantation years and years ago. Other black guys have called me that, I never like it. I have lived many lives, and not once do I remember running a shop down south where I employed slaves. It’s just not my style. Isn’t him calling me boss akin to me calling him the N word? I would have discussed the matter with my friend right then and there, but I lived in too much fear that I’d say something wrong and I’d end up wishing, well, that he really did run security for me. I don’t know. I’ll have to see if there is a book that discusses racial relationships and read up on the topic. Then again, I’ve never had a bad moment with another human being in ages.

I mean that too. A few months ago, I had the pleasure of skyping with a potential new employer. The lady on my computer screen asked me how I handle unfortunate situations with difficult people. I shrugged my shoulders and answered, “I don’t know. Don’t run into them much. Almost every situation that starts in a negative tone ends with a positive one. I’m not sure why. It could be because I am very easy to get along with, or maybe it’s because I have a nice ass.” I’m kidding of course. I never told her I was easy to get along with. She could tell that just by talking with me.

Allow me to continue the story of my third stop: My newest friend, and his partner unloaded a bit over 60 pieces of the world’s best furniture. It took about 30 minutes and was made much easier by their assistance. Once we offloaded the product, the main dude had to go through everything and check it against the packing list. My gigantic friend didn’t like the way his accomplice was handling it. He would call out a number. My buddy would find two, but the checker guy would say he only needed one for the moment. My friend, if I remember correctly, was named Clarence. Clarence became more agitated by the second. He would give his co-worker the finger when he was looking away, generating a quiet laugh from me.  

Finally, we were down to one piece. It couldn’t be found, but I remembered unloading it. I found it in a spot that Clarence had just checked. This caused the head dude to say, “Yeah of course. It was where Clarence was just looking. It was right in front of him.” It was time for me to throw some fun at Clarence. “Yeah Clarence, what the heck? Are your eyes painted on or something?” I said it with a smile, but as soon as my lips stopped moving, I became concerned that he might pummel me straight into the concrete floor we stood upon. He moved closer to me while shaking his head. “Please man….please….don’t throw more fuel on the fire.” If my wife had been there and heard him say that, she would have told him, “But that is what Jason does best!” I have no idea why. I’m always well behaved. I had known Clarence only 20 minutes, and already I was busting his chops. I think that is when he decided that he liked me.

With everything accounted for, it was time to say goodbye. As my paperwork was being signed, Clarence asked, “Hey man, do you own a bar or something?” I had no idea why he would ask that.

“No, why?”

“Because you asked me about running security for you. I thought maybe..”

I cut him off mid-sentence and said, “Oh no, that’s just because I am world-famous.”

He and his co-worker did that kind of nervous laugh that sounded like they couldn’t be sure I was serious. I wasn’t laughing because I was in shock that I just told people I had known for less than 30 minutes that I was, in fact, world-famous.

My business card says that I am world-famous. They were made in such a fashion because I didn’t want them to be boring business cards. Over time, it became a joke among my friends. Many refer to me as world-famous. What worries me is if I described myself in that way to people that I have just met, it could mean I am really starting to believe I am world-famous. The laws of the universe clearly state that if you believe something strongly enough, it eventually becomes true. That scares me, because I quite enjoy living in relative anonymity.

If I have to be world-famous, I guess I should be happy that it’s because I am a writer and not someone on television. Nobody has to know what I look like, ensuring that I can spend a day at the beach without being bothered by a bunch of bikini-clad women asking for my autograph. (That would be horrific.) Besides, I have seen plenty of world-famous people on TV. Many look like they have fake tans.  They do not seem easy to get along with, not to mention that I haven’t seen one with an ass as good-looking as mine.