Farmer Bob

PREVIOUSLY:

1. The Department of Regulated Industries vs. Everything good and decent in the world. Plus: how Jill overcame a phobia (hint: it was by passing out.)
2. In which Jill gets in trouble with a temporary staffing service. PLUS: Chico gets hired. ALSO: Paintings of the walking dead.
3. A Season of Baby Ashley
4. Terminal Fatigue
5. Sexxxy
6. Andee is a Genius
7. The Midwest Food Expo, Part 1
8. The Midwest Food Expo, Part 2
9. The Long Happy Life of Mr. Fantasma, Part 1
10. The Long Happy Life of Mr. Fantasma, Part 2

Chico and I jumped out of the Truth Truck’s rear gate. I immediately tried to blend in with the abortion protesters. In a high-pitched girl voice, I shouted, “KEEP YOUR ROSARIES OFF MY OVARIES!” But a woman in a Ralph Nader t-shirt pummeled me with a sign that said “SIX BILLION MIRACLES IS ENOUGH.” Violence usually hurts, but these were a bunch of lefties with Garrison Keillor t-shirts and bony upper arms. If Andee hadn’t been there, I would have come away totally uninjured. But suddenly, there she was, working my head and chest with quick jabs and uppercuts. Chico grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me away from her.

“Let’s run!” he said. “Andee, are you going to my art opening tonight?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” said Andee, chucking a rock at my head. Stars exploded. When my vision cleared, I was looking up at a policeman.

“…and that’s why I devoted my life to the study of microbiology,” I was saying for some reason.

“Sir, telling me a really long story about your educational background doesn’t answer my question — which was about your liability insurance provider.”

“What? I’m sorry,” I said. “I was unconscious there for a few minutes.”

The cop refused to believe me — apparently, I’d spun an articulate fiction about my non-existent graduate school experience while I was knocked out. I thought I probably had a concussion, but the paramedics were busy talking to Andee, who had strained her shoulder by throwing a rock at my head.

“Sir,” said the cop, “if you don’t want to file a complaint, I need you to move your disgusting van. It’s obstructing traffic. And if I ever hear that you drove it anywhere that my daughter might see it, you’re going to earn a display of unnecessary force involving pepper spray and pistol whipping.”

My cell phone rang — it was Jill. “I won’t answer that,” I said to myself, shoved the phone in my pocket, and then blacked out for a minute. When I regained consciousness, I was talking to Jill on the phone. “That’s why I’m willing to take such a massive paycut,” I was saying. “GODDAMMIT!” I yelled. “What in the hell was I just saying?” I asked.

“Well, before offering to work more hours for less money, there was a bunch of fruity nonsense about how much you love Colin Firth. Are you coming to my art opening tonight?”

“Yes — I’m bringing Amy. It’s a date!”

“Uh-huh. Is that going to interfere with driving me to the gallery?” she asked.

“What? Why can’t you drive yourself?”

Jill had lost her driver’s license. Although the Paseo Bridge had been closed for twelve weeks for repairs, she just kept using it. I guess she flew past those concrete barriers, construction equipment, and terrified MoDot contractors one too many times. Friday, there were police cars waiting for her in what I would describe as “improbable numbers” if this was any place but North Kansas City. But what with all that sweet, sweet casino tax revenue, every third car on the road in North KC is a cop. I rarely drive >20 mph up there. Plus, all their new squad cars are Police-ified Lexus IS Sport Cross models. If you’re ever arrested north of the river, you’re in for one sweet ride.

The police caught up with Jill out by the Isle of Capri casino. Reflexively, she tried talking her way out of a ticket, until she it dawned on her that they were actually arresting her, at which point she began screaming, “ATTICA! ATTICA!” The funniest part of the story is that Jill has a pop-culture blind spot, and she didn’t even understand her own Dog Day Afternoon reference.

“Your new job is going to be driving me around. You just bought a car, right?” Before I could articulate my blooming trepidation about my new customized van, Chico walked up. “Dude, are you about done here? I need to get ready for the art opening.”

And I needed to get ready for my date. “Chico,” I said. “I think that rock Andee threw at me dislodged something in my head. I keep blacking out, and every time it happens, my subconscious undermines me. Also, my jaw clicks when I talk.”

Chico punched me in the head. “Then quit being such a passive motherfucker,” he said. “Stand up to your subconscious and act like a man. I know that’s unfamiliar behavior, but maybe you could try it just this once, since you’re, y’know, going on a date tonight. OW!” I punched Chico in the chest. It was the first time in my entire life that I’d ever hit anybody. It hurt a lot.

“OOO-OOOW! I bent my wrist back!” I yelled. I was hoping that Chico would be impressed with my sudden outburst of violent manliness and say something like “Yeah! That’s exactly what I was talking about,” and I’d get to feel really awesome and masculine while simultaneously getting away with hitting Chico. Instead, he punched me in the head again. I shut my eyes and flailed my arms wildly in the air in front of me for a few seconds until I heard the van door slam shut. I opened my eyes. Chico was sitting in the passenger seat, embarrassed for both of us, I guess.