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Rose and Company
Jul. 8th, 2010 07:35 pm
I walked into the house and straight to the computer. I told Teph "I have an idea for my LJ post, and I have to get it done while it is.. heh heh.. fresh. So to speak."
She eyed me suspiciously. "What does that mean?"
"You shall see."
***
My latest shipment of Coffee from the Company Formerly Known as A&P, from the exotic Land of New Jersey, is still most of a month off, and I'm running low. So I was in the coffee aisle at Shifty Acres picking out a plastic can-oid thing of Folger's Black Silk when the manager walked by. I looked at him, opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"Can I help you find something?"
"Well, no, um, ah, it's not really a.. I mean, I don't think I should, ah.."
"Really, I'm here to help you. What do you need?"
I cleared my throat. "I wondered if you knew you had a truck from a rendering plant parked out in front of the store."
He gave me a blank look. "Rendering?"
I nodded. "From Rose and Company." That's not the real name, of course-- I almost never use real names here-- but the real name is just about as ironic. "It's a rendering plant down in Saginasty. You know how they talk about making glue out of cattle hooves? That's the factory where they send the dead cows to do it. Not the hooves alone, of course, the whole dead animal..."
He paled. "Are you telling me we have a truckload of dead cows in the parking lot? Just parked out there like one of the customers?"
I shook my head. "Nah. It might be dead horses or pigs. I've been hearing of bovine tuberculosis in the captive deer herds at some of the game farms, so it might even be captive deer."
I knew about Rose and Company because I used to work down near Saginaw, or Saginasty if you prefer to call it that, as many of us do. Frank and I went out to check on a complaint there once.
Let me tell you about Frank. Descendant of dying farm towns that I am, I had never worked much with any Black guys until I worked with Frank. Now, he was and is just about the sweetest, most courteous, soft-spoken men I have ever known. Killer handsome too. He's also about five feet twenty-seven and looks like if he ever had a dry throat he could punch down a stone wall and squeeze water from the cobblestones to slake his thirst-- but he wouldn't, because somebody worked HARD on that wall and knocking it down would be impolite.
I was brand new on the job at the time, so Frank went in to talk to the rather angry, abusive, and unreasonable old man who ran the place (who for some reason was more polite with Frank than he ever was with me). I walked around outside and documented what we could see and, more importantly, what we could smell.
Even that was no great treat, let me tell you. I never got within 100 yards of the place, but the smell just about made me hurl right there on the street. I would say the smell was enough to gag a maggot except that there was ABUNDANT evidence that the smell didn't inconvenience maggots in the least.
Flash forward about 20 years, and I'm facing a pale grocery store manager who has realized that he has a tractor-trailer load of dead cattle-- or perhaps diseased deer, if he's lucky-- in front of his store on the hottest day so far this summer. Rapidly decomposing. At the meat market entrance of the store, no less.
"So what do I do?" he whispered.
I shrugged. "He's parked out there like a customer, so probably he is. If he leaves soon, no problem."
"I'll keep an eye on it. Thanks for telling me."
I smiled and nodded. Then I went over to the wine section and bought a bottle of something strange.
See, I'm an air quality guy, so if that truckload of dead animals is wandering around the county and a phone call gets made, sooner or later it gets to me. However, we have an absolute zero tolerance policy with regard to alcohol. So if I have any alcohol in my system whatsoever, I'm required to say "I'm sorry, I've been drinking, so I can't go out on this call."
Because twenty years ago the smell of a rendering plant would make me puke if I caught it a hundred yards away. And you know what? Some things haven't changed.
The "wine" is imported from Denmark. It's called Cherry Kijafa, described as "Cherry Wine with sugar beet alcohol and other natural flavors added." It sounds horrible, but it's actually borderline delicious.
Of course the sugar beet alcohol bit, by coincidence, reminds me of another stink I encountered on the job. Another stink that almost made me puke right on my boots. But that's another story.
She eyed me suspiciously. "What does that mean?"
"You shall see."
***
My latest shipment of Coffee from the Company Formerly Known as A&P, from the exotic Land of New Jersey, is still most of a month off, and I'm running low. So I was in the coffee aisle at Shifty Acres picking out a plastic can-oid thing of Folger's Black Silk when the manager walked by. I looked at him, opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"Can I help you find something?"
"Well, no, um, ah, it's not really a.. I mean, I don't think I should, ah.."
"Really, I'm here to help you. What do you need?"
I cleared my throat. "I wondered if you knew you had a truck from a rendering plant parked out in front of the store."
He gave me a blank look. "Rendering?"
I nodded. "From Rose and Company." That's not the real name, of course-- I almost never use real names here-- but the real name is just about as ironic. "It's a rendering plant down in Saginasty. You know how they talk about making glue out of cattle hooves? That's the factory where they send the dead cows to do it. Not the hooves alone, of course, the whole dead animal..."
He paled. "Are you telling me we have a truckload of dead cows in the parking lot? Just parked out there like one of the customers?"
I shook my head. "Nah. It might be dead horses or pigs. I've been hearing of bovine tuberculosis in the captive deer herds at some of the game farms, so it might even be captive deer."
I knew about Rose and Company because I used to work down near Saginaw, or Saginasty if you prefer to call it that, as many of us do. Frank and I went out to check on a complaint there once.
Let me tell you about Frank. Descendant of dying farm towns that I am, I had never worked much with any Black guys until I worked with Frank. Now, he was and is just about the sweetest, most courteous, soft-spoken men I have ever known. Killer handsome too. He's also about five feet twenty-seven and looks like if he ever had a dry throat he could punch down a stone wall and squeeze water from the cobblestones to slake his thirst-- but he wouldn't, because somebody worked HARD on that wall and knocking it down would be impolite.
I was brand new on the job at the time, so Frank went in to talk to the rather angry, abusive, and unreasonable old man who ran the place (who for some reason was more polite with Frank than he ever was with me). I walked around outside and documented what we could see and, more importantly, what we could smell.
Even that was no great treat, let me tell you. I never got within 100 yards of the place, but the smell just about made me hurl right there on the street. I would say the smell was enough to gag a maggot except that there was ABUNDANT evidence that the smell didn't inconvenience maggots in the least.
Flash forward about 20 years, and I'm facing a pale grocery store manager who has realized that he has a tractor-trailer load of dead cattle-- or perhaps diseased deer, if he's lucky-- in front of his store on the hottest day so far this summer. Rapidly decomposing. At the meat market entrance of the store, no less.
"So what do I do?" he whispered.
I shrugged. "He's parked out there like a customer, so probably he is. If he leaves soon, no problem."
"I'll keep an eye on it. Thanks for telling me."
I smiled and nodded. Then I went over to the wine section and bought a bottle of something strange.
See, I'm an air quality guy, so if that truckload of dead animals is wandering around the county and a phone call gets made, sooner or later it gets to me. However, we have an absolute zero tolerance policy with regard to alcohol. So if I have any alcohol in my system whatsoever, I'm required to say "I'm sorry, I've been drinking, so I can't go out on this call."
Because twenty years ago the smell of a rendering plant would make me puke if I caught it a hundred yards away. And you know what? Some things haven't changed.
The "wine" is imported from Denmark. It's called Cherry Kijafa, described as "Cherry Wine with sugar beet alcohol and other natural flavors added." It sounds horrible, but it's actually borderline delicious.
Of course the sugar beet alcohol bit, by coincidence, reminds me of another stink I encountered on the job. Another stink that almost made me puke right on my boots. But that's another story.
