My delivery driving days were a hotbed of weird and disturbing experiences. Fortunately, almost all of those experiences were funny. There were times when Trevor would get on the CB radio and call out "ZEEEEEEEERRRRROOOOOOO" (Zero being my call number, taken from the Smashing Pumpkins song of the same name) and then there would be a simple keyword that was enough to know I was in for something funny.
"Yes, 99" (99 being Trevor's call number).
That was it. From those two words I knew everything I needed to. Two-six was in reference to the 26oz White Sail that I would pick up from the nearest liquor store and deliver to a lowly gentleman living in an apartment complex which I affectionately referred to as "the slums." The guy was a clear-cut case of alcohol dependency. He was always drunk. Like ALWAYS. I only ever saw him for a few minutes at a time, but the sheer number of times I saw him was more than enough to know the basics of his life story.
He once had a wife and child. But the booze got in the way. Wifey kicked him out and he moved into the slum dungeon apartments behind the old Canadian Tire in Airdrie. His kid was allowed to come visit him one weekend a month, but even a child in his home wasn't enough to stop him from getting his buzz on.
The guy was a friendly drunk but a bit of a crazy drunk. Whenever I delivered to this chap, I insisted that Bob come up with me. Usually Bob would wait in the vehicle while I did a delivery, but Bob always came to the door with the more risky clients. Every time Bob and I went to the door with the man's 26oz, the guy ALWAYS said something along the lines of "ohhhh, takes two to deliver some rum? Maybe that's why delivery is so expensive." He would also always ask me "who's your buddy?" But can you blame him? He was always drunk when he came to the door.
On one such occasion, Bob and I retrieved the man's precious White Sail and went to his apartment for delivery. This particular night, the man had his child over. The child was about eight or nine years old and looked as disheveled as his father. The man handed me payment for the booze and I gave him his liquid survival. And as per the standard routine, he attempted to engage Bob and I in some sort of conversation. As Bob and I were attempting to wriggle away, a tenant living across the hall left his apartment. The man was wearing grey sweatpants and a muscle shirt. As Mr. Sweatpants walked past Bob, myself, and Captain Drunkasfuck and son, the child noticed that the neighbour had a small hole located on the ass of the sweatpants. The kid started to laugh hysterically! The kid then declared that the man who walked by had a hole in his sweatpants. The father began to laugh as well. And then the child stated:
"He has a hole in his sweatpants! That means he's GAY!"
The father's eyes grew HUGE as he cocked his head back, much in the style of a villain whose master plan was unfolding to success. A hearty chuckle burst forth from the drunken moron while his child nearly fell over with laughter. Bob and I stood there dumbfounded. We wanted to leave but we couldn't stop watching. The child began yelling "gay gay gay" over and over again while the father OPENED his bottle of White Sail and took a chug while still laughing himself.
The man then said that he was happy his son didn't have any holes in his pants or else he'd send his son back home. I can't speak for Bob but I was hoping the stupid alcoholic would make some sort of comment about Bob or myself having holes in our sweatpants just as an excuse to punch this idiot square in the jaw. But no, Drunkie McWasteofskin walked back into his apartment while still laughing away. His son followed, still spouting "gay gay gay" and the door shut.
I'm unsure if I was able to properly convey the insanity of the situation in words. It truly was an example of an experience in which "you had to be there." But there's still something inherently amusing about this story that it has to be shared. So simple yet so crazy. Something so not funny creating such uncontrollable laughter. I hope that you enjoyed this tale from my past and I hope that you learned a valuable lesson.
If you have holes in your sweatpants, you're gay. Pass it on.