[170] Screed City
[170]
07/23/2022 Saturday. Garbage Room. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.
Farmers Market Week Eleven:
I mean, we just got back from brats on DogBoy beach, so hopefully my memory holds out. It is late and I have had a couple Ticklers, but I will do my best.
The morning was uneventful. I managed to leave myself in a good place before I went to bed last night. Clean kitchen. The Cubby Bubbys thawing out. Everything else in order. I mean, Junior Mint free of debris. Aside from the sunflower seed shells on the floor of the passenger side seat. I mean, that somehow managed to get loose from the vase that I use as a trash can because everyone is always giving me grief about the empty gallon bean can that I used to use as a trash can. G, PC and Scott, I am looking in your direction. Jerks.
I mean, I woke up early. Before the alarm. Laid in bed for a few. Looking at things. Then the alarm went off. I got up. I mean, I was hungry. I had forgotten to eat last night. I mean, I had lunch, and that was all I ate yesterday. I mean, I made myself an egg and cheese burrito. Which was good. I listened to my usual Saturday morning political stuff. Drank some coffee. At about 5:40 I turned the oven on. Washed the chafing dishes. Got them ready to be inhabited with Cubby Bubbys. Boiled some water in the electric kettles. By the time the oven was pre-heated I was ready to start re-heating the things. I put the first chafing dish in the oven. Set a timer for 20 minutes. Went upstairs. Made the bed. Showered, shaved, washed my hair, brushed my teeth. Got out. Put my black jeans on. Put my belt in-between the loops. Put my lighter in my back right pocket. Went downstairs. Put some clean socks on. My bright pink Cubby Bubby shirt. My hat and glasses. My boots. I looked at the timer. I had two minutes left. I turned on one of the kettles. It started boiling about 30 seconds before the timer went off. I poured the boiling water into the basin of one of the chafing dishes. Took the Cubby Bubbys out of the oven. Put round two in the oven. Lit some Sterno under the chafing dish. Et cetera, et al.
I mean, my timing was nearly perfect. I was on the road by 7:04a. I mean, I lost four minutes somehow, but that was okay. I drove real good to Warren. Drove through the covered bridge, drove the back roads to Waitsfield. Crossed the second covered bridge. And before I knew it, I was at the browns. You know? The browned greens. Like from before? I mean, I took one look at the Putin of Glutens tent and I already knew something was wrong. His tent was at a weird angle and he seemed to be out of place. Butwhatever. I mean, ten weeks of him being the guiding example of how things were supposed to be set up. Who was I to question what he was up to. I mean, I learned within seconds that things were not right. I mean, he asked me how I was doing and how my week went, and before I could even answer he said:
"Well, for me, I mean, I had a great time last night, sitting by the campfire, playing songs with old friends. I mean, when my alarm went off this morning, I was like, whoa!" He did some waking up from bed confused and violated by time sort of thing. Which meant that, not only was he hungover, he was still drunk from last night. I mean, I should have taken the opportunity to say something about his tent, but I didn't. I needed to unload. And quick. The Bubbys needed heat, and soon. The product is first priority, right?
I mean, I unloaded, but something was in the air. There was a weird energy. Everyone was out of sorts. The UpSkirters assistant showed up early with her mom. They unloaded when I was unloading. But then they just stood there, not setting up. The assistant seemed annoyed. I chalked it up to her being young and not knowing what to do. I mean, I was wrong, and I should probably apologize to her for thinking so. I mean, it turns out that their tent was MIA and they were waiting for the dad, who is no longer married to the mom, but is somehow involved in this new business venture both parents are now also assistants too? I mean, I could probably say that more elegantly, but the scene for them is kind of bonkers. I mean, both parents helping them set up? And break down after the thing? I mean, what do they do during the four hours the market happens? I mean, I guess they live near by? I mean, the Upskirter showed up eventually. And the tent fiasco never really got explained, aside from some late night text messages and someone hauling ass to get the tent there. I mean, the dad, but still, the fact that the assistant needs both parent to help them do a one day a week job at a farmers market? And why did the mom have all the product and stuff in her car? I mean, is this scam a family affair? With the daughter as the point person? I mean, she is very pouty and very low energy, I mean, whatever. I mean, I will pay a little more attention next week. I guess. Because now that I think about it, I mean, at the time it just seemed odd. No, thinking back, it seems almost insane what they are up too.
I mean, I unloaded all my stuff. Lit the fires under the chafing dishes. Moved Junior Mint to the parking area by the Shaw's. Came back. Started setting up for real. And then Abbie came around. She was confused about the placing of tents. I mean, it turns out that the Putin of Gluten had put his tent in the wrong spot. Ten feet south of where it should be. Which caused a pile-up down the way. Because he was #2 in the line. Vermont Style Tamales is #1, I am #3, the Upskirter is #4, et cetera and et al. I mean, luckily there was a tent missing this morning, so we all didn't have to move, but for a moment there it was pure chaos. I mean, whatever. The vibes were odd, so it seemed par for the course ATBMS.
I mean, in another odd happening, I sold a Breakfast Bubby at 8:30a. While I was writing on the menu board. This guy came up behind me and basically whispered in my ear: "Are you serving yet?" I thought I would turn around and see Jason Rogenes. Or Seth Crawford. Making a pervy joke. But no, it was this same guy that sometimes comes early and loves the Breakfast Bubby. I sold him one and got back to work.
I mean, it was a great morning. I sold all the Breakfast Bubbys by 10:30a. And half of all the other stuff. By 11:15a I only had about 15 things left. And then it got hot. Real hot. I mean, people were interested, but people stopped buying things. I mean, I sold the GF Breakfast Bubbys by 10a. One of the GF Cubby Bubbys. And a bunch of the Veggie Bubbys and Cubby Bubbys proper. I mean, I need to bring more Breakfast Bubbys is all that means. Especially as it gets hotter in the month. I mean, I probably could have sold 10 more of the things. I mean, tomorrow I am going to make 25 Breakfast Bubbys and 5 Ham & Cheese Bubbys. See if those work. 10 Cubby Bubbys and 10 Veggie Bubbys. I mean, I sold a total of 53 Cubby Bubbys today. A grand total of $318 doll hairs. Not bad, right? I mean, I should shoot for $400 dollars per market in September. I think. Which would mean, 30 Breakfast Bubbys, 15 Cubby Bubbs, 15 Veggie Bubbys, and six of the GF Bubbys. Or some combination of that. I mean, we will see how the ham and cheese ones go. Sample ham in tins! I meant to fry up that ham this afternoon. Tomorrow, always tomorrow. I mean, I got super distracted when I got back today. For reasons I will shortly describe.
I mean, really the vibes were odd today. Not just the Putin of Gluten being half drunk and hungover, I mean, at one point there were vultures circling the market, which was pretty cool. I mean, their shadows circling the browns. The browned greens. The Putin of Gluten pointed it out. We both left our booths. To have a look-see. Abbie yelled over: "Hey, you two! Back in your booths!" Just joking. But we did leave our posts to look up. There were probably 20 of the things circling. I mean, I am writing this mystery novel at the moment, and I plan to have the last scene happen at a farmers market, and this little detail just codified it. I mean, vultures circling over the farmers market? I mean, perfect! And Detective Rogenes Zone being a vulture himself? I mean, this makes me happy. God shuts a window, and he opens a porta potty, ATBMS. I mean, your dad is so dumb, if his ass itches he swallows some sandpaper. Ah! So close!
I mean, the Putin of Gluten told me this one. I mean, we got on the subject of farts with this other Boother. The one that had cancer but decided to walk 100 hundred miles. I mean, I don't know what she sells, but she is hilarious as all get out. I mean, I told the toothpick joke, saying: "Jared," Jared is the name of the Putin of Gluten, "Jared is so stupid, if his ass itches he swallows a toothpick." And he retorted: "If you didn't know it was a fart, it would make you hungry." I mean, he qualified that with: "Seriously, I knew a guy that would say that. And not in a joking manner." I mean, that kind of stopped the conversation in it's tracks. The Hundred Miler took that as her cue to ditch.
I mean, but really, there were upskirts abound today. All the ladies were wearing skirts. I mean, I can count four of them. Maybe five. Which! I mean, it is so weird to me. To wear a skirt while doing this work. I mean, I think it is great. Destigmatize the body, for sure. And whatever, but me, being kind of a prude, I guess, or maybe it because I grew up in Racist Wyoming, where they burn your books because god hates masturbation, I mean, but still, imagine if I was wearing a kilt or something. Bending down, the breeze blowing the thing up, lugging coolers of fish, or artisanal things out of trucks beds or whatever. I mean, sure, as a dude, it would be just gross, but also as a dude, I might be a little self conscious, right? Especially if I wasn't wearing underwear. But not these gals. They let it all fly. And I am reaping all the benefits. Alas, still no butthole sightings.
I mean, the Fish Monger, the UpSkirter, the Tonya, the Vermont Style Tamales Gal, the Delaudnum Addict. I mean, it was upskirts all day long. I mean, to make things worse, the band on stage was a funk band. So everyone was as funky as could be. Plus the heat.
I mean, aside from all of that, the day was mostly normal. I sold what I sold. Getting annoyed a little that people would come around and say stuff like: "Oh, how cute!" Or, "Looks tasty! But I just had lunch." Or, "What is it? Oh, that! Let me look around first, I will be back." But they never come back. I mean, one woman bought four Breakfast Bubbys and was about to buy a cutting board from the Putin of Gluten when she got a phone call about how her kid had stepped on some rusty metal. So she had to ditch and she would be back. I mean, she meant it. For once, she meant it. I could tell. And she did come back. And then for some reason the conversation when she came back involved a dead cat in a plastic bag, so that was interesting. She bought a cutting board.
I mean, I guess there was an interaction with a gluten free lady that really didn't like the GF Veggie Bubby. I mean, she was so excited about it when she bought it. She had come around last week, when all the GF Bubbys were already sold out. I mean, she really was excited about the GF Veggie Bubby she bought. And then when she walked back by, later, I did a thumbs up thing? And she shook her head. I did a thumbs down thing? And she walked over to the booth and said:
"Yeah, no. It was not good. Too wet. I, um, thought it might be undercooked, I took two bites and had to stop. I am going to take it home and see if I can resurrect it." I mean, I appreciated her honesty, but at the same time, she seemed very, very critical. I mean, I trusted what she said, but I did feel like she had a very high, uh, how do you say, criteria, to what she wanted from the $6 dollar sandwich I sold her. I mean, she apologized for me. Saying that it was hard to do this stuff right. That I shouldn't feel bad, but I should try harder. That she has to cook her gluten free stuff first and then cook it a second time. I mean, she scared me about it enough that I had the Putin of Gluten eat the other GF Veggie Bubby. To test it. Because, like hell I was going to sell the thing to somebody thinking it tasted like wet diapers. Or whatever. And he ate it with aplomb. I mean, he was half-drunk and hungover, but he had some very good things to say about it. That the mushroom-ness was mushroom flavor in the extreme. I mean, those damn things. They make me a liar. I mean, my entire philosophy is thus: Don't sell things you won't eat yourself. I mean, I never, ever, eat the old Veggie Bubbys. I throw them in the compost heap. Not because they are bad, just because I don't like them. And then to get such a scathing review? I mean, I am sad that I only have one more week to work with this material, because I would love to figure out what this lady would like. I mean, the Putin of Gluten did say the the mushrooms were too big. The cuts, or whatever. Which, I mean, if you know how lazy I am while cooking those bee stings. I mean, I am not surprised. The whole structure is a house of cards. That leaves me with gallons of useless veggie water. I mean, what? I use a three gallon pot to cook the stuff in? Filled to the brim with racist onions and mushrooms. And I get like a gallon of guts a two gallons of veggie water? And not only that, but I have to keep them draining for hours and hours because they are so gosh darned wet? I mean, you wonder why I get bitter about this stuff? This is why. The amount of time and energy and thought that goes into it, and the response I get is: "You mushrooms are too wet." I mean, Shirley, you're joking? Right? I mean, on the other hand, I know she is right. But not in the way I think she means. Her criticism is not in good faith. She just wants what she wants. Which is fine. And I did ask, so I can't be mad at her, but still, I mean, it's like I asked her how my outfit looked and she said: "You're too short." I mean, sure, I may be too short, but that has nothing to do with how my outfit looks. I mean, kind of, it does, but that statement doesn't actually address the question I asked. But still, if I could get her approval, I mean, it wouldn't actually make the things better, but it would definitely remove any scrutiny moving forward. So, I mean, whatever. I will keep her critiques and the Putin of Gluten's critiques in mind when I bake these things tomorrow. I guess. I mean, we'll see. I may do a wild card sort of market next weekend. A little F.U. for all the haters. Maybe I will do a super spicy guy just to mess with them? Scandalize the scene. Maybe someone will have to call an ambulance because they ate something too spicy at the farmers market? I mean, whatever. Seeing that endless line at the crepe booth just makes me think that people are idiots and nothing will ever change that. I mean, they don't deserve me there. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.
I mean, okay, I won't go into it. But I will say, eventually today Professor Curly showed up. Coming in hot from NYC. Her hands dripping with the blood of a thousand film cuts. Red and curly. Like curly rusty wires. I mean, she ate a Veggie Bubby. And she loved it. Because they are good and I do a good job. No! I do a great job! I pour my heart and soul into these things. And they are good. They are great even. I mean, I don't even know what to say about it. I said as much to the Putin of Gluten: "Nobody likes the weirdo until everyone likes the weirdo." I mean, guess what I did after the market was done? I went back to Beaver Haus and saw that elusive butthole. I mean, it was like riding a donkey into the Grand Canyon. And I shot a load so far and fierce that my bonin' turned into a shoulder rub because there was so much jizz that I would be remiss to not put it to work.
I mean, I guess my point is, Professor Curly is in town for one night only. And she came to the farmers market and she came at home too. Zing! Say what you will about how sex goes at any age, but when it is few and far in-between, and you are living in a sex-free desert up in grouchy White-guy Vermont, I mean, take all of those tiny non-sexual thoughts you may have, put them in an expanding balloon and then when you get a chance to ride a donkey into the bottom of the Grand Canyon and the balloon explodes? I mean, it is zesty as all get out! It's like standing on stilts and then falling to the ground because somebody attached rockets to the things. I mean, you didn't even know you were standing on stilts. And then suddenly you are standing on real ground again. I mean, I don't mean to be gross, but shucks, it's like tipping a vat of hot lava onto basin of ice while a bomb goes off. It is the opposite of thinking. And then suddenly you are awake again. Wondering how you got here. I mean, is this how the Universe feels every time it constricts and explodes again? Tiny death, I suppose, I mean, it's more like Black Betty all over again.
[Insert Black Betty]
I mean, whatever. Today was great. I actually learned some things. Not that they will help me come September when I get back into the business again. But still. Even if these goons are as fickle as they seem to be, I can still make an imprint. I mean, I got the radio show to look forward to. I mean, I think I may under-write the radio station to get advertisement. I mean, right? How much money do they need to advertise for me? $200 bucks? I mean, a month of ads for basically free? I mean:
"This program is underwritten by Cubby Bubbys. A one piece sandwich, available every Saturday at the Waitsfield Famers Market."
I mean, right? I mean, I don't need to sell more, I just need to get my name out there. And then when it is a thing, I strike! Because, guess what? I have quite a few things to offer. And the wheels of the bus go 'round and 'round.
[Insert Wheels of the bus]