Sunday, August 15, 2010

Trevor and the Tripod

Meadowbrook Deliveries. I've mentioned this company in previous posts as it was a big part of my life for a couple of years. It was the first job that I had that was actually FUN. I worked at Dairy Queen, a bowling alley, a music store, and a video store, and they were all dreadfully uneventful jobs for someone who needs constant stimulation in order to not become bored. But Meadowbrook Deliveries provided me with nothing but stimulation.

It was a delivery job. A company created solely for the purpose of providing delivery services to businesses in the Airdrie area that did not necessarily have the customer traffic worthy of hiring a delivery person. Smaller pizza outlets, Chinese food restaurants, or larger chains that needed to give a little extra help to their in-house drivers during peak hours.

How it worked was simple. The business would charge us, the drivers, the cost of the food/items being delivered, minus a "delivery fee" which we pocketed. We'd then deliver whatever needed to be delivered and charged the full value of the product to get our money back.

Enter Trevor. Trevor was our "boss," though I use the term loosely. We were sub-contractors more than employees. He would carry around an outdated P.O.S. cell phone and when delivery requests came through, and then he would call us via CB radio or on our cell phones and give us the details. At the end of the night, he would take a cut of our earnings as his dispatch fee.

Trevor was...interesting. Yes, let's say interesting. He was a loud Chinese man (though EVERYONE thought he was Native) who was 6'2" if he was a foot. He had chin-length black hair that waved in an uncooperative manner and a smile that was nearly earlobe to earlobe. HUGE smile! Trevor was a big fan of Diet Coke and drank it by the litre at a sitting. He tanked back so much of the stuff that the aspartame affected his brain and made him's say loopy. He was very very loopy.
Trevor wore those old school huge framed glasses that your dads used to wear in the 70s and his attire was as predictable as anything. He would always wear a t-shirt under a ratty greyish-blue vest (colours are tough for me, because of my colour blindness, so if anyone reading this remembers him, feel free to correct me). In winter, he would wear a pair of khaki cargo pants and a big puffy jacket. In summer, it was the vest/t-shirt combo, socks that were desperately stretched over his enormous and taut calves, and...always the same pair of shorts.

These shorts were nothing short of an abomination. They were the kind of 70s/80s style shorts that were too short and flapped around like a flag in the breeze. They were blue and probably had the nutsack netting that you see in swimming trucks and that used to be common in regular shorts back then too.

Trevor had NO shame. None at all. He would stand defiantly in front of us while we chatted, with his thin short-shorts flailing around when the wind picked up. Bob and Shawna both swore on separate occasions that they saw his twig and berries peek out to say hello when a gust hit the shorts just right, but surely they were seeing things. I'd never had the misfortune of seeing anything like that.

Until the night that my eyes burned.

Trevor had moved out of his sister's basement and into a nasty apartment building with his good friend Mike the Mystic (more on him to come in future entries). One night, Trevor invited a few of his sub-contractors over to see the new place. What a dump! Mike was extremely protective of his own area and refused to let us see his room (Bob saw that Mike had several crystal balls and both Bob and I saw a variety of dragon statues and such on his shelves). Trevor's room was a barren waste, with a mattress on the floor, his Sony Wega television in the corner with a Sega Dreamcast attached, and a 2L bottle of half-drunk Diet Coke on the floor.

The living room was even worse. There was a nasty sofa along the wall and a shelving unit. I think that was everything. So some people sat on the sofa. I chose the floor, which was not much better. The carpet was stained and riddled with holes. This place was brutal.

Trevor, having no place to sit, decided to whip out one of those tripod chairs. You know the ones. You unfold them and it is similar to a bicycle seat in shape. Well, Trevor sat on down on his tripod chair and that's when I realized it was a terrible mistake to be sitting on the floor. You know that nutsack netting I mentioned earlier? If it was in there, it wasn't doing its job. Slowly, Trevor's left testicle creeped out from the left leg hole of his shorts and dribbled down until it reached the end of its rope. The thing was huge...just as Bob and Shawna had attested previously...Trevor had HUGE balls!

I pretended to cough and adjust my shirt so he wouldn't see me trying SO hard not to crack up. But I just couldn't handle it. I excused myself to use the washroom and laughed under my breath until my abs were sore. I flushed the toilet so there were no questions and ran the tap. Then I returned to the floor.

Alas, what happened while I was away? Trevor's right nut popped out his other leg hole and was dangling back and forth while he laughed and talked. So there's Trevor, sitting comfortably atop a tripod, talking and joking with his company...all while his ballsack was drooping out both openings to his shorts. Like two baby hippos trying to escape a plastic bag. If you are having trouble picturing the image I saw, just imagine two bowling balls in stretched bags made of bubblegum. It was nasty.

Thankfully, a delivery order came in on the phone so Trevor got up and his buddies sucked back up into the security of his Richard Simmons shorts. I can't remember if I was given the order or someone else, but I decided it was prudent to leave. I don't think I stopped laughing for the rest of the night, and even the best part of a decade later I still crack up when I remember it.

While it wasn't a visual any person wants to see, at least it's a fair warning to us all. ALWAYS wear your underwear, because you never know when you'll get caught with your junk out.

I guess this is a perfect example of the age old expression:

"Look down! Your fucking balls are showing!"

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