The Feet of God

7 - SWEET MENACE

It is a great thing to appreciate art, but it is a greater privilege to watch the artist at work.

Personally, I used to think of myself as a pretty sharp operator, the kind of dude who knows a good scam when I see one and how to work it to my advantage, but the next couple’a days on the road with Bob was an education and a revelation.

In Armona she traded six free turkeys for ten gallons of gas and a set of Goodyear retreads.  In Ivanhoe she traded the tires for a case of beer and an extra six-pack so’s we could enjoy a few brews while keeping an eye out for Smokeys and speed traps.  Then, between Mendota and Tres Pinos she went right back out and got us six more free turkeys, 25-lbs. of flour, rice and beans, and a set of sparkplugs she palmed at the Prunedale Texaco.

I learned things like how many food banks there was in an average county, the locations where warehouses of government cheese was stored, and Bob gave me particularly detailed instruction on what faiths was easy marks and which ones to avoid.

As you might imagine, you can’t find Episcopalians in towns too small to have a bank, and they sure didn’t get to be as rich as they was by handing over free stuff to indigents.  Now your garden-variety Roman Catholics are simply too preoccupied with taking care of their own overpopulated congregates, so there ain’t much left over for the needy poor or idle drifters.  And Baptists are just plain suspicious of everyone because of the sin thing.  Oh sure, Baptists might give you a bag of groceries, but count on a sermon about the evils of drugs, alcohol, sex outside matrimony and other forms of deviancy.

All I know is Bob would seek, and Bob would find:  food, clothing, showers, shelter, medical and dental care, pet-grooming aids, all kinds of crap, and all with the help of Krishna Merman’s handy guide.  Nobody ever bothered asking us if we wanted to do the dishes or sweep up, except at that Mormon place.  Labor in exchange for a hot meal or deserved handout was not included in the Krishna Merman doctrine, although Bob did point out that Mormons grow their own organic produce so it’s worth it sometimes just for the fresh veggies.

For the most part this was turning out to be what rich people must live like, being treated to all the best for nothing more than a nod of the head and a gold-plated smile plastered on your face.

We headed northeast again, one turkey lighter but with a new six-pack on board, when Bob turned to me and said, “You’ve had a nice free ride so far, but it’s time to put your hand to the plow.”

“Work?” I grumbled.

“No.  I need you to help me out on this one.  We’re going to pull the ‘poor little woman with the disabled husband’ routine.”  She slowed down and turned into a parking lot next to a huge stone church of indeterminate denomination.  “We need some real cash, and this is the best way to go.”  We rolled to a stop and parked.  “All you have do is stay quiet and look pathetic.  You’re a natural.  This’ll be a piece of cake.  Just pretend you’re my husband, and you’re deaf and dumb.  You do know what deaf and dumb is?”  Bob momentarily stopped and looked me in the eyes.  “You can’t hear or speak.  And just look pathetic.  They’ll figure I got mental disabilities to be hooked up with you.  Got it?”

I gave her two thumbs-up.

“Yeah right, come on now and be sure to keep real quiet.  Remember, you’re dumb.”

We got out of the truck and walked to a side door to what appeared to be the church office space.  A proper elderly woman sat primly behind a teacher’s desk.  She looked up from her computer and smiled at us like someone’s kindly spinster aunt, “May I help you?”

“Hello, ma’am, my name’s Rebecca.”  Bob then pointed in my direction, “And this here’s my husband, Deke.  He’s afflicted with being deaf and dumb since birth.  We were hoping we’d be able to talk to the Pastor.  We got kind of an emergency.”

“What type of emergency, dear?”  The old lady’s hands flapped and waved as she directed her words directly at me.  “Sexual battery?  Drug abuse?  Porn addiction?”

I couldn’t believe this old bitch was suddenly throwing shade my way, so I flipped her a gesture of my own.  Bob batted my finger away.  “Sorry, ma’am,” she apologized.  “Pay no attention to his signing.  That’s just his Tourette’s acting up again.”
 
“Another cross to bear, Amen,” the old lady shook her head.  “What can we do for you?”

“Oh, nothing too complicated, ma’am.”  Bob was smooth.  “We just finished picking oranges down south and now we gotta get up north in time to pick apples, but we ran out of gas money, so we were wondering if the Pastor would let us have twenty bucks or so, just to get us to our next job.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, of course we can help you.  We have a Distressed Wayfarer’s Relief Fund for just such occasions.”  The old lady pulled open a desk drawer and whipped out something that looked like a ray-gun and she plugged the thing into her computer.

“If you don’t mind, I have to get a retinal scan before I can release any funds.  It won’t hurt a bit.  This allows me to get an online report on how many other charitable organizations and public agencies you’ve hit up in the last year.  I can also find out if you have any outstanding warrants, if there’s a bounty on your head, tax liens,” the old lady fondled her ray-gun, “why, I can even find out your mother’s maiden name with this.”