I call him Charlie but I don’t know his name. Not a bad looking dude, always sports a smile, pretty good shape, interacts well with people, could use a change in hair style and some fashion advice but all in all, the sort of guy you could sit down and discuss sports with over a beer.
I see Charlie mornings, Monday through Friday. Charlie has an office at the corner of Wall and Bay streets, the financial heart of our fair metropolis.
Charlie works for a little money among those dealing with a lot; Charlie doesn’t have his hand in the business, more a hand out for the business; Charlie’s a beggar.
Although I see Charlie every day on the way to work I don’t grace Charlie’s outstretched palm with coin. I’m conditioned to work for my money so I want the same from even those who want a handout. Scratch out a tune on a violin, strum the same three chords on a guitar, whatever, just make an effort and I’ll oblige.
Which got me to thinking, what could Charlie do to earn my custom? So I took my idea to him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
‘How’s business?’
“A little slow today, probably the weather. Good weather makes for happy people. Happy people share the wealth.”
“Have you always done this?”
“I have been gainfully employed, as they say. Things changed: went out of bounds, if you’re a golfer. Not a lot of opportunities for a guy in my current position.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“Fancy word but I don’t kill people.”
“How if I buy you breakfast and we can talk about it.”
“I’d appreciate that but I’d be losing business.”
“Fair enough. I’ll buy breakfast and cover your loss. Gather your stuff, my favourite diner’s across the street.”
Charlie ordered the lumberjack special and told the waitress to hold the water. I warmed to a black coffee, settled the expected cost of taking a coffee break and started my pitch.
“My proposition needs a little background, have to ask a few questions. You OK with that?”
“Shoot.”
“How much would you make in a day?”
“A good day, 50 bucks.”
“My proposition hopefully would get you $100. Maybe more.”
“What’s in it for you?”
‘I’m a marketer, hard to test my theories at work. If my idea holds up, my reward will be the satisfaction of proving an idea. And maybe get to write it up.’
“OK, let’s hear it.”
“I’m looking at what you do as a business. My theory is you’d make better money, steadily, if you offered your clientele something in return. Something they’d come back for, see the value in it, not just as a handout.”
“Clientele, I like that. But I don’t juggle, can’t play a musical instrument and my singing would scare you off.”
‘Offer them a Joke-of-the-Day’
“You want me to tell them a joke?”
“No, give them a joke.”
“I’m a little behind in the joke department.”
“I’ll start you off.”
“A stand up marketer, fascinating image. How is this supposed to work and please go slowly?’
‘You write up a joke on a piece of paper, do a bit of advertising with a sign that says, let’s see, something like: ‘You’ve earned a laugh,’ hand them a slip and see what happens.”
“You said $100, at a buck a joke, my typical take, I’d have to write up a hundred jokes on a hundred pieces of paper. My MBA didn’t cover that.”
‘Same joke, new joke every day and print the jokes.’
“I don’t have a printer.”
“I’ll look after that to start; if this works, we plan the next step. Your job is to create the jokes.”
“As I said, I haven’t laughed in a while.”
“That’s your skin in the action, and I’m sure it’s something you can do. I’ll supply the first week’s jokes, you concentrate on next week’s. I’ll see you Monday with that day’s joke on 50 slips of paper.”
“What if they’ve already heard the joke?”
“You’re in business now, offer a money back guarantee.”
“Should be interesting.”
Monday
A lab rabbit’s furry friends break into the research facility and free him from his cage. Once outside they head for the fields to enjoy fresh lettuce and carrots, a distant memory for their friend. Then it’s off to the hutch to enjoy the pleasures of those winsome bunnies. It couldn’t be more perfect. He’s overwhelmed, can’t thank his friends enough but he regretfully says he must return to the lab. ‘But why?’ question his perplexed buddies; ‘I’m dying for a cigarette.’
“Not bad, hadn’t heard that one. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Tuesday
“How did it go yesterday?”
“I only gave out 13 jokes. But everyone gave me a dollar.”
“Give it time. And save what you didn’t sell for a later time; call it inventory and think of having a sale down the road. Here’s $37 and today’s joke.”
‘When I die, I want to pass on like my grandfather, peacefully in his sleep. Not like the screaming passengers in his car.’ Will Rogers
“I like it, who knew a marketer had a sense of humour.”
Wednesday
“Well?”
“Much better, 22 jokes and two of the guys from yesterday came back for today’s joke.”
“Ah, repeat business. How are you doing on next week’s jokes? You have to handle production.”
“Sales and production, heavy, but I think I’ve got one.”
“Good, I’ll need it by Friday. Here’s $28.”
“You only owe me $27; a gal gave me $2.”
“Ah, an honest business man with a satisfied customer; here’s today’s smile, see you tomorrow.”
“The secret to life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.” Groucho Marx
Thursday
“Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, kind sir. 32!”
“Great, well done; here’s $18 and tomorrow’s joke.”
“What do you call the person who comes last in their graduating class at medical school?”
“Doctor.”
Friday
“I’m a little nervous.”
“Why’s that?”
‘Well, things are catching on. Your jokes are pretty popular but now I’m the one that has to come up with the jokes; what if they don’t like mine?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get feedback. You’re growing your business, that’s good news; they don’t want you to go out of business. Let’s have a look at Monday’s joke.”
“Why do fire engines have Dalmatians?’
“To help them find the hydrants.”
Ha, ha, pretty good, this should sell.
Charlie couldn’t hide a smile, “That’ll be $1 … only kidding.”
“You’ve missed your calling, here’s Friday’s joke.”
Winning the lottery would solve all of Cameron McSweeny’s problems but he didn’t want to rely solely on chance so he faithfully went to church each and every Sunday to get an edge through prayer.
After a year without success, however, Cameron was having second thoughts about the power of prayer so he doubled his efforts and went to church in the evening, too.
Frustration was setting in so Cameron, when alone in the church, decided to voice his need. Maybe God couldn’t hear with all the construction going on.
“Will ye no gimme a sign, oh Lord? Let me know you hear my plea for recognition of my faithful devotion over the years and the good deeds I’ve done to those less fortunate.”
And then, suddenly, the church darkened. Cameron could feel his knees shake. Then the cacophony of a thousand organs hitting E minor erupted.
“Cameron!” came the thunderous delivery.
Frightened, but not too out of it to realize this could be his day, Cameron, in a querulous quaver and a searching glance, stuttered, “Aye Lord.”
“Meet me half way.”
Confused, but not wanting to lose the moment, Cameron quickly yet reverently voiced, “Lord?”
“Buy a ticket.”
A week later
“Let me buy you breakfast. You look a little concerned; let’s talk about it.”
Charlie ordered a croissant and coffee; told the waitress to leave the water.
‘Well, it’s been two weeks.”
“Business wise, it couldn’t be better; I’m out of 50 jokes before noon, went to the printer guy on the corner and he helped me crank out 50 more.”
“That’s good; I’m glad it’s working out for you.”
“Well, now that I’ve saved up a bit and have a little confidence, I’m thinking of getting out of the begging business and looking for work.”
“Good, what did you do, if I may ask, in your former life?”
“I was a teaching pro at a private golf course.”
“You don’t lose those skills, why not go back? Didn’t you like it?”
“Oh yes, that’s my life, just had a bit of a misunderstanding with a member.”
“I understand those things can happen in that environment and most times it isn’t necessarily the staff’s fault.”
“Well, I don’t think that will go away.”
“How ‘bout working where there aren’t any members? I’ve a buddy who has several driving ranges. He might me interested in adding teaching lessons. Do you still have your card?”
“Yes, but I’m a little behind in my dues.”
“You said you saved a little from your business, how much do you need to make up what you need?”
“About $250.”
“If you give me the rights to your story, it’ll be worth $250 to me. I’ll speak to my friend and see if he’s interested. See you in a couple of days.”
Next week
“My buddy would like to meet you. When’s a good time for you to connect; I’ll call him.”
Two weeks later
“Thanks to you, I’m out of the begging business and back in the teaching business. Can’t thank you enough.”
“You’re welcome; I’m pleased for you. I should drop around and see how good you really are, I’m a terrible golfer. (Smiling) And that’s no joke.”
“It’ll be on me. And oh, I have a little something for you.”
Charlie handed me an envelope and waved goodbye.
Dear Chesterton*
You’ve earned this laugh.
Three beer-gut-proud, borderline-redneck golfing buddies died in a car crash and amazingly went to heaven. Upon arrival they discovered the most beautiful golf course they had ever seen. St. Peter warmly welcomed them to play the course but he cautioned that there were rules: “You must play every day and you mustn’t hit the ducks.”
The men, blank expressions all, queried in unison: “The ducks?”
“Yes,” St. Peter expounded, “there are thousands of ducks waddling the course, and if one gets hit, he quacks; then the one next to him quacks and soon they’re all quacking. It totally destroys the serenity we’re famous for so if you hit one of the ducks, you’ll be critically castigated. Otherwise everything is yours to enjoy.”
Heading to the first tee, the golfers noted that there were indeed ducks everywhere. And, as luck would have it, within minutes one of the trio levels a drowsy drake with an errant lob wedge. True to form, the duck quacks, then the one next to it quacks and it quickly develops into a cacophony of quacks. Suddenly, St. Peter emerges from the mists with an extremely homely woman of indeterminate years, wearing sensible shoes and sporting a missing-tooth-smile, in tow and demands, “Who hit the duck?” The buddy who loosed the duck hook at the eider, sadly confessed. St. Peter pulls out a pair of handcuffs and cuffs the man to this Broom-Hilda doppelgänger. “I told you not to hit the ducks, now you’ll be stuck together for eternity.”
Talk about critical castigation! The other two men immediately become nervously cautious but a couple of weeks later, accidentally, one of them mashie-d a mallard. The quacks began again and within minutes St. Peter appeared with an even uglier distressed damsel who gummed a smile and proudly modelled a growing zit that she hailed as her beauty mark. Shackling the hacker to the hag, St. Peter remonstrated, “I told you not to hit the ducks, now you’ll be together for eternity.”
Well, as you can imagine, the third player quickly became quiveringly qualmish. He even switched to using his putter out of the bunkers for fear of slicing his feathery into a feathered friend. After several stressful months, and a rising handicap, his luck held; he’d missed every muscovy. Then, dramatically, as if on cue, St. Peter emanated cloaked in cloud, but arm-in-arm with a drop-dead gorgeous nubile nymph; the most beautiful, full-set-of-teeth, clear-skinned beauty the golfer had ever seen. St. Peter knowingly smiled and, without a word, cuffed him to this vision of loveliness then ebbed into the brume. The duffer, knowing that he would be tethered to this Venus forever, let out a contented belch and, posturingly picking at his cigar-stained solo incisor with a broken tee, wondered aloud, “What did I do to deserve this?”
The dream ruefully replied to the rhetoric, “Well, I don’t know about you, but I hit a duck.”
Yours truly,
Barry Links
* The waitress gave me your name and mine (sic)