A View To A Kill?

I've had a number of different customers threaten me over the years. Some have been as blatant as a Mexican making the proclamation that he was going to sink a shiv hilt deep into my pancreas. Others have used a bit more subtlety in their verbal threats. Like this one white guy who had Germanic scripture tattooed onto his forehead. My Aryan brother spent the better part of six minutes demanding that I cut him a better deal. He never literally threatened me. I just felt that there was an unspoken hostility that went with the command. Who knows, maybe I'm all wrong, maybe he was just hoping for a better price and I was letting his forearm tattoo of Hitler sitting on a throne of skulls get to me. 

At least with those customers, I knew what I was getting. Their threats are either emphasized by the weapon they're wielding or by the amount of damage an ink gun or piercing pistol had done to their visible extremities. There's a somewhat smaller and less aggressive minority of the population that uses a somewhat more ambiguous way of dropping threats. For example, one time I delivered to a rather upscale home that was situated on the edge of Ramona Valley. The home was so luxurious that it was isolated on its own mountaintop. The problem with that was that the mountain was situated inside the Cleveland Forest, making the dense tree growth somewhat difficult to navigate, and thus making it exponentially more challenging to find the front door of this palatial estate. You'd think it would be easy to find a front door, but when you're dealing with mcmansions that are located in the middle of a Pine filled forest, it means that there will always be at least four different unpaved fireroads masquerading as driveways leading to an apartment complex worth of doors. I think this problem is most commonly caused by having way too much money and having a wife that has a hard-on for being progressive. The fact that the place was forested just added to the difficulty level. Bushwhacking through shrubbery while lugging around enough pizza to feed a small African village (or one World of Warcraft fan) makes isolating the correct front door next to impossible. Add in that these homes are generally contemporary and you have what amounts to love seat-sized windows coupled with what looks like master-bedrooms behind each and every door. 

That's exactly where I ended up, too. The door I chose was a door that opened up into the master-bedroom. Usually customers would just meet me at whatever door I went to and then I'd make them feel bad enough about their Rubik's Cube of a home that they'd apologize and toss me an extra bit of pity gratuity for my retarded struggles. The problem with this home was that I was staring through a set of French doors with a rather large glass port hole in the middle of it and I spent the better part of a minute-and-a-half watching what looked like a 60 year-old executive-type taking a bong load. This guy seriously looked like he was taking a little stay-cation from his job as lead attorney for Exxon oil, so it was puzzling to see him hitting something that is usually packed by 16 year-olds that spend the better part of their life glued to MMORPG's and not getting laid.

The man mid-toke noticed me and noticeably panicked. My suit and tie wearing homeboy then came to the door and said, "I see you couldn't find the front door. Everybody has that problem. Anyway, my son ordered that. I'll go get him." He then started walking away, stopped, hesitated, turned and said, "You saw absolutely nothing. You got that? You don't mention this to anyone. Okay?" He wasn't hostile when he said this. He was more stern and matter of fact. It was definitely a rhetorical question backed up by some serious bravado. Whether the bravado was fake or not, that's anyone's guess. All I know is he managed to squeeze enough sincerity and meaning into the comment to convince me that telling anybody would be an unwise decision. Well, until now I guess, but I'm not mentioning names or places. I value my life enough to realize that that would be rather foolish move on my part. 

What's the point of this story? Well, there's a few points. Threatening me, a 5' 8", 155 pound white guy, can only lead to two outcomes. You're going to kick my moderately midget-like ass for nine dollars worth of food and change, or you're going to get an unexpected beat-down by a Norwegian with a Napoleon Complex. Neither outcome is one you really want, so think about the next time you want to try and shake me down for food or money. Also, let's all think about the architect we're trying to get to build our hillside manors. It's better if their not super baked and drafting the floor plans with a broken etch-a-sketch. I mean, I'm no draftsman, but I'm willing to bet that the less blitzed your contractor is, the more high you'll be able to get in the safety of your not-so-visible master-bedroom. Just a thought.