Howdy!

“So what is it that you do, exactly?”
My date and I were headed to a company function, an event held by my work, so that we employees could enjoy an evening of drink and food, uninhibited by the regular workaday concerns. The theme was—I think—“Cowboy Night.” At least there were many references to the old west, gunfighters, saloons and gambling. And everyone said “Howdy!” I said howdy, too—not wanting to be too outside the spirit of things.
“I, umm..you know—when someone needs a…”
The truth is, what I did for a living is something that no one should ever talk about—not even long after the person doing the job is dead. Not ever. If someone were to be tempted to put into words what I did, that thought should be wrapped tightly in a sealed tube, shot into outer space, where no one could ever get at it—unless it accidentally dropped back down to earth and someone found it on the ground.

I knew already that my date wasn’t much inclined to like me so well, that for her this was an outing, a brief diversion. I was a charity case. She looked smart in her close-fitting jacket, a stylish scarf or something along those lines casually draped about her neck. We’d chanced upon each other at the book club, in a moment of weakness or just not much caring, she said, “Why not?” Lisa was—in fact—head of the Ultra Molecular Biology Omni Yingling lab, most commonly referred to as UMBOY. I, on the other hand, tracked and inventoried parts for agricultural tractors. Not just one brand, but several different ones, because the enterprise I worked for distributed these parts to different dealers and parts suppliers. Oh god.

“I make Moon-Pies,” I said. This couldn’t be any worse than what I actually did, and I already knew that Lisa and I were not destined to “hit it off,” as they say. I had nothing to lose.
“Yes, Moon-Pies,”I reiterated, warming to my subject, as I took in her wide-eyed and unspeaking response.
“When anyone on the East Coast needs some, they have to call my office. Then I issue an order, either approving or denying the request.” I said this with an air of importance, as if I wielded a good deal of power, being something of a mega-merchant, but also one who is entrusted with dispensing careful judgments that may affect thousands—if not millions—of people.
“I’m the one who decides.”

“Don’t customers just buy them from your company?” Now it was Lisa, Miss Omni-Yingling, trying to shoot holes in my important spiel—not caring much about Moon-Pies, one way or the other. She yawned a lot. “Why don’t they just call up your salespeople, ask for an order of Moon-Pies, and tell them where to send it?” she asked. “Personally, I never eat them—I don’t know what the fuss is all about.”

I explained that not all stores carried this product, that there was a screening process, and that no one could ever know what was involved.
“Suffice to say,” I said, “Not all customers measure up.” I winked, tipped my hat, and said, “Howdy.”

At dinner there was no more talk of Moon-Pies. We sat down in the hall devoted to the gala event, watched as servers in black bowties placed warm rolls on the table. Then it was the main course, after nibbling on some breads and other things. I remember the soup was very good. With my delicate constitution, I could eat scarcely anything that was placed before me. Red meat dripping with blood makes me sick; fresh fish just out of the ocean sends me to the ground, writhing in convulsions—like a fish out of water. It may be a sympathetic reaction—I don’t know. Both a juicy red steak and some kind of fish were served that night. I looked at my plate, picked a little at the potato, didn’t want to make an issue of this wonderful food that everyone was devouring, pausing every once in a while between bites to say howdy to a passing acquaintance or one of the bigwigs making the rounds. Lisa seemed to be doing pretty well with her portions, which were fairly small—owing to the high quality of the meat and fish. My company had paid a good deal for me and my companion to be there—of that I had been reminded during the weeks leading up to the event. I would often hear my boss lamenting one of my co-workers—a man notorious for accepting these high-priced invitations, then not showing up.
“You know what I’m gonna do if Franks (the coworker’s name was Mr. Franks) doesn’t show? I’m docking him eighty-five bucks from his check, that’s what!”
Every few days this would be repeated. After the first warning, I got the idea that I’d better show up, or pay for the evening regardless. Eighty-five bucks. It did seem like an awful lot, especially since I couldn’t eat much more than some bread and a little potato.

So Lisa got up, left the table. Where she went I don’t know—not then, not now. I didn’t much care, for this was my chance to wipe my plate clean. When she returned, she had fresh servings of meat and fish—untouched—on her plate. During her absence I’d been saying howdy, telling the others at the table how good the food was, and what a shame that Lisa hadn’t touched hers.
“This food is so good,” I’d say, “That I swear I could eat double portions!” Then, turning to a graying man passing in a cowboy hat, “Big Ed! Is that you? Howdy!”

Feeling very satisfied with myself, pointing to my empty plate, I told Lisa what a delicious meal it had been. “Look! There’s scarcely anything left—even the potato is mostly gone!” I enthused. She was immediately suspicious of the fresh servings on her plate, with her remaining steak and fish pushed slightly aside.
“They came around with extras,” I said. “I saw that you were enjoying the meal so much that I thought you should have some.” Then I added, “I’d be glad to help you out, but I am really full; I’ve never had such good steak and fish!” I rubbed my belly, resisted the temptation to say howdy, then went ahead and said it anyway.

I didn’t want to linger in that place, was more inclined to be away from the event hall and the people I had to work with five days a week. There was bound to be talk of tractor parts, other work-related references. Besides, the silent auction was all themed around automotive and light industrial things. Sponsors of racing cars and similar things were represented. There were bound to be questions about how Moon-Pies fit into this scenario. I explained to my date—who wasn’t much interested in sticking around—that maybe we’d better be on our way.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, “After all that steak and fish, I need to lie down and take a good long nap!”

I let her out at her door, leaned in for a last-ditch kiss, watched as she turned her cheek to deflect one full on the lips. On the way home I rolled down the window of my ailing Toyota, watched a lively dog cross a deserted city intersection, and yelled, “Howdy!”

Back to reality: Bone-crunching, backbreaking work on the house is what it is. Never-ending bags of cement, poured one by one into the clattering and clanking mixer, then poured back out again as a thick soup of sidewalk ready to be smoothed over in the prepared area. God, it just never ends. These bags weigh eighty pounds each, and sometimes I carry one by myself. For laborers around town, it is customary to see them hauling these heavy weights around on worksites or places where a mixer truck has not supplied the cement. Mostly, J.O. and I carry each one together, but it’s still heavy and awkward.

Finally, this afternoon, I just gave up. Not wanting to load more of the hideous things into the truck by hand, but needing to restock, I had the store people load a complete pallet of them with a forklift. Over thirty-three hundred pounds is what these forty-odd bags of cement weighed. Big J.O. and I made the drive home, the few miles covered with the two of us holding our breath, waiting to see of the overloaded truck would break. It ran fine; the rear end was sitting much closer to the ground, and the front wheels were light on the road, but it didn’t so much as hiccup on the ride home.