New Job

     Gun Barrel City, Texas is surprisingly limited in its opportunities for gainful employment and understanding of sarcasm. However, I have found a bit of odd work, and I'd now be most pleased to regale you with the story of my first day.

So I answered an ad in the local classifieds about driving a shuttle for a nearby home for the disabled. I say disabled, but what I really mean is special needs, or whichever term gets me in the least amount of trouble, I don't care anymore. We're all in the re-re van together now.
I show up early to inspect my short bus and am pleasantly surprised to discover that it is covered with the characters of Sesame Street: Bert, Ernie, Snuffie, Dopey, Waldo, Atreyu, they're all there, and it's great. This is already the most excited I've ever been about a job. The boss man or Head Orderly (dibs on porn name) takes me through a safety seminar that seems pretty straightforward. It's a small town, so the background check isn't very thorough, which would concern me if I wasn't getting paid. We check the vehicle over and under and go over the route before he takes me in to meet some of the gang.
And what a jolly bunch they were.
First there was Patricia. Patricia is quite large, has gout, and insists upon being called "Pattie", which would make me giggle if I wasn't getting paid (I did anyway). During Patricia's introduction, another large woman approaches, angrily, like a charging rhino in a petting zoo for, well, fat rhinos, apparently. The orderly stops her short, but her explanation must be proclaimed:
"Don't listen to a word she says! I'M PATTY! I'm the only PATTY here! She's a liar!"
I'm a bit put off by all of this, but I need the work, so we move on.
Next up is Ross. Ross is a great kid, funny, self-aware, self-deprecating. He reminds me of a young Dudley from The Royal Tenenbaums, but with more pizazz. He even asks that I refer to him as "special", which is cute and then sad and then uncomfortable because I'm just a mess emotionally.
There's a few other randos who neither frighten nor impress me, so I don't bother with their names or ailments. I'm not one to judge. All I have to do is count and drive. "Everyone on? Good, great, grand, wonderful!"
Not so fast. We forgot about Lester.
Yes, Lester.
The aptly named southerner sits in the back, in a sunbeam reserved for sling-bladers, digging into his toenails with the odd end of a plastic spork. I approach with understandable caution...
"Hey pal, whatcha' got... in there?"
My voice raised on the end, and I could feel the power shift.
He remained quiet.
"So, looks like I may be driving ya. Lester, right?"
"Lester G."
"How's that?"
"There use'ta be 'nother Lester here... use'ta be."
"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh..."
I stretched that out into like at least a minute, I swear to God.
"So, Lester G."
It was then that I noticed Lester's activity of choice. He was digging into a bunyun on his foot. One of many.

So we're back in the office, and I'm explaining to Head Orderly (no longer sexy) why I just can't take the job.
"Well, what d'ya mean? What's the problem?"
"What's the problem? WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?" I say, incredulously, prepping my mind to attempt a level of political correctness it has never known...

"The problem is... 2 all beef Patties, Special Ross, and Lester G. pickin' bunyuns on a Sesame Street bus."


And then we just kind of looked at each other...