El Burro Volador

I had reached the parking lot of Wesco, a somewhat superfluous structure since there were no roads leading to the place.  Indeed, it looked as though a few tumbleweeds and I had the place to ourselves.  I took a few moments to assume a gunslinger stance and visualize St. Clint of Eastwood to prepare myself for whatever hellish confrontation awaited me within the drab grey brick walls of the squat, unlovely edifice before me.

As I drew near the building, my newly donned tough-guy demeanor was immediately cracked by the slogan adorning walls of the godforsaken structure : “Wesco, the extra effort people”.  My incredulity brought me to a dead stop – extra effort?  extra effort?!  In addition to atrocious customer service and deliberate misinformation regarding the company’s whereabouts, I had just recently overcome the difficulties placed in my way by the fact that the place was located in the least accessible region of the city and had guard-piranhas!  Extra effort was certainly on display, but it was all directed at keeping customers out!

Recovering myself sufficiently to continue, I approached the main entrance.  At least, the door said “Main Entrance” on it, though underneath it bore the additional legend “Please use service counter entrance during business hours” and an arrow pointing left.  I wondered for a moment what kind of business had a main entrance for use only after or before business hours, but I decided to play along.

I strode along a blank stretch of brick wall to a heavy steel door that said

Service Counter

Business Hours

M-F: 9:00 A.M. to 4:30 P.M.

Ah-hah!  So the little phone punk had been lying to me after all – “We, uh, close at three-fifteen.”  Feeling vindicated, I tried the door.  It was locked.  I checked my watch.  11:03 a.m. on a Wednesday.  I tried the door again, twisting on the handle and yanking on the door until it rattled in its frame just to make sure.  I pounded on the door and  hollered the usual things one hollers in such situations:

“Hello?”

“Is anybody in there?

“Are you guys open -it’s Wednesday!”

“Let me in!  For the love of God, let me in!”

“Candy-Gram.”

“Pizza delivery.”

“Fire!”

“Rape!”

“Weasels!”

But there was no reply.

“Alright,” I thought, “I’ve tried it their way, now I’m going in that main entrance.”  I barreled back along the wall and grabbed the handle of the main entrance, pulling it…well, nowhere, because it was locked tight and didn’t budge an inch.  Grabbing tight hold of the handle I leaped up and placed a foot on the wall at either side of the door, heedless of the consequences that prying it open would now entail for various parts of my anatomy.  Again and again I heaved with every muscle I possessed, my magnificently overdeveloped flacktoids straining mightily, but to no avail.  Exhausted, I dropped back to the ground, noting with a certain grim satisfaction that I had at least left my mark – two footprints, each about a half-inch deep, were pressed into the brick of the wall.

Half-muttering, half-growling I prowled around the perimeter of the building until I spotted a door marked “Employees Only”.  Deciding that at this point I was working harder to put money in this outfit’s pockets than anyone on their payroll, I decided that I was entitled to get in any way I could.

I pounded across the pavement and gave an almighty wrench to the handle, flinging wide the door.  “Success!” I thought, racing inside.

And that’s when I ran into the security guard.  Into his midsection, to be precise.

Light-bulb saga trivia: a few posts ago I used the nonsense words “blantoon” and “sninkleboffins” in my post.  The WordPress spellchecker objected to “blantoon” but not to “sninkleboffins”, which begs the question: are these a real thing?  Has anyone ever heard of a sninkleboffin before?   And if so, why?  What are they?