I believe, with all my heart, that everyone has a story to tell.
Whether they should tell it, or know how to tell it, is another story. A story I will tell right now.
So I’m at the pickle stand on Carmine and 6th Ave, asking the guy for samples. (If you think that all my human interaction centers around mooching food, you’re right. That’s the only time I talk to people.)
The guy, 20-something, unshaven, in a black concert sweatshirt and big chain necklace, holds out a jumble of horseradish pickle slices in a clear pint container and says:
“Sorry I don’t have toothpicks. Just take ’em with your hands.”
As I do, wondering who else has been given that germy privilege and not really caring, he nods to my Talking Shrimp tote bag.
“What’s that about?”
I explain that it’s my company, and that I do different kinds of writing, including a blog.
“Cool. What’s the blog about? And like, how’d you get that job?”
I start to tell him, but he cuts in.
“I ask because I’m really good at writing. Everyone tells me if I wrote my life story in a book, it’d make a million bucks.”
“A million bucks,” he says again.
I consider whether to tell him the news about the book business. But why crush dreams? I say something encouraging followed by, “I’ll take an 8 oz of kosher dills and then some of the horseradish.”
“Yeah,” he continues. “I’ve got so many stories that would make me a million bucks, but I’m too lazy to write them.”
Which is, of course, how every great book came to be.
“Maybe start with a blog,” I suggest.
Him: “My friends say I should carry around a notebook and like, write down my ideas, because they’re crazy.”
“Yes! You should,” I say, because it’s true.
Now, there’s another lady waiting for pickles.
Pickle Guy is still holding the empty container, too distracted to grab the tongs and fill it with the kosher dills.
“Even the story of how I got this job would make a book. Hold on. Take whatever you want from the samples.”
I try brown mustard, bloody mary flavor, jalapeño and half sour while he serves this other lady. I was first, but you know. Samples.
He comes back.
“So how did you get this job?” I ask.
I love a good story. Even though, now, a line has formed behind me. I hear one person sigh loudly.
“So –” He raises his eyebrows in a “you ready for this crazy shit?” expression.
“– I was at a Phish concert on Long Island. OK? Right, a Phish concert. Already, like, what, right? And I start talking to this guy. Just randomly. And he’s like, ‘What are you doing for work right now?’ And I’m like, ‘Nothing.’ And he’s like, ‘Cool, why don’t you come help me at my pickle stand.’ And I’m like, ‘Cool.’ So I show up for work and start selling pickles. And that guy who hired me?”
…Turned out to be be your long-lost twin brother?
…Is Sir Richard Branson?
…Died and left you a massive fortune in addition to the pickle stand, and now, though rich as Croesus, you stand around peddling fermented cukes outside a sex-toy shop and tattoo parlor simply for the love of it? And, you hired Phish to play at your next birthday party?
I’m breathless, waiting for the big finale.
“… Isn’t even here now. He’s like, so lazy.”
That’s the million-dollar story.
And now that I told it for him, I make the million dollars.
I’m waiting for the sequel, where he gets fired for losing pickle customers while he talks. Now that’s a story.
Now you.
Got a great story? Got a better ending to the pickle job story? Go for it.
Or, know anyone who sucks at telling stories?
Also, do you like pickles?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS.
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Laura I thought this post was very entertaining. You hooked me right at the start…”If you think that all my human interaction centers around mooching food, you’re right. That’s the only time I talk to people.)” I love that you so love food…and stories.
This reminds me of when I was very, very young, and my Papa used to take me on Saturday to a local haberdasher store, and somehow sold everything known to man as well as seed for farmers and pickles in huge barrels. I loved the mix of smells, fabric, food, seed.
Thank you, Jul’s. And it’s not simply food that I love. It’s free food.
Laura
Daddy David Belgray taught us a lesson in his post….a story hangs on the pivotal silly word. Pickles, fingers in Pickle barrels, a contractor named Pickles. I’m dusting off my copy of The Artist’s Way and filling up my journal with words that tickle.
It’s true, Dawn — there’s no funnier name for a person, especially.
Honestly? That’s the best story involving a Phish concert (did you know it’s spelled Phish?) that I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard a few. They’re like dreams and stories about ski runs or surfing. And the same people usually tell them.
Of course I know it’s spelled Phish – if not from going to Wesleyan, at least from eating Ben & Jerry’s – and yet my brain translated to Fish when I was typing it up. Brain farts. I fell asleep while reading your brilliant observation, “dreams and stories about ski runs or surfing.”
This little blog post was a zillion times more entertaining than that whole movie about the woman who according to the stupid misogynist and strangely self hating Jewish logic of Hollywood should have married the pickleman before her ovaries are pickled.
Wait, what movie? Whatever you’re talking about, thank you for saying this post is better.
Remember Man-Sun? He used to park his dirty van near his dirty store and sit on a stool with his dirty feet up too near his open barrels of pickles. His food inside his store was always uncovered, and the halvah had flies buzzing around. I was afraid to buy anything from him, even though Dad tried to prove he was Jewish.
Of course I remember Man-Sun! We had a theory that he was a disciple of Manson, and hinting about it with his store name.
Laura, “Pickles” was the name of the contractor who built so many of the houses at Lake Nineveh, VT, where we spent at least a dozen summers, during some of which you and Marian were at “Naked Camp” nearby. Pickles would suddenly disappear in the midst of the jobs, and then return months later to finish.
And that’s the story of Pickles during your early years.
Love,
Dad
Dad, was Pickles friends with Shorty?
“Already, like, what, right?” I love this, because this is the moment that the suspicious feeling you had that the story miiiight not be quite as good as he thinks becomes certainty. Yet the bulk of the story is still ahead of you. Trapped!
Yeah, there was definitely a sinking feeling right about there.
“Everyone tells me if I wrote my life story in a book, it’d make a million bucks.”
I wonder what his friends are smoking. It sounds good.
They’re all tripping on free pickles.
I’m pretty terrible at stories. To the point where I’ve been made fun of for my story telling abilities.
Think: Telling the punchline of the story in one sentence, then going on for another five about the details.. Often inturrupting myself to go off on a tangent I decide is relevant. Yessss.
Oh, you’re the worst! Though you told the story of your terrible storytelling pretty concisely. Maybe you have it in you after all…
I was JUST writing my BFF an email about my own personal amazing story when I got an email from a NY VIP and her amazing story.
Whose story is more amazing?
Well, I can’t tell mine. It’s a secret. But I am sure if I told it, it would be better (and make me a million $).
(Hey, did you realize that pickles are an important ingredient in potato salad? Maybe you can hook up your Mr. Pickles with the Kickstarter Potato Salad Family and take your cut in the profits.)
The story that’s a secret is always the better story! An eternal cliffhanger.
I love the Kickstarter potato salad guy.
How can I (or anyone really) tell a story after you? It’s gonna suck. But I’m happy to tell you my three favorite lines from THIS story…
1. Which is, of course, how every great book came to be.
2. “Yes! You should,” I say, because it’s true.
3. I was first, but you know. Samples.
Hehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehe!
Laura, I could type little hs and little es all day in response to your stories.
Oh wait! I actually do have a funny story that involves me making Mike eat (what I thought to be) cookies (and turned out to be…ART!) at a swanky cocktail party last week! Sadly, like your pickle friend, I’m too lazy to write it down.
Oh well, it’s a good thing you don’t need a million bucks to eat Peacefood and Harry’s Burritos!
Oh, Abby, I am really laughing about Mike and the swanky cocktail party!
Oh man, I wish I could hear that story. But I respect your laziness. And love your (numbered) compliments!
Ab, your food preferences are financial freedom on a plate.
I think I pretty much suck at telling stories. I know I suck at telling jokes. I’m pretty sure stories too.
I’m loud, easily excitable (only when story telling) and use too many words. Sometimes, at the end of my story telling, I think, “Shit. Did I really ramble for that long? I need to work on that…” But then I don’t. I have worked on my loudness though, so there’s that.
Laura, you need to watch out for those public pickle jars. You know, there’s that Ebola thing going around. Two people (out of over 300 million) in this country have it.
I heard that pickle brine kills the virus. Only us Jews are safe.
Of course. You’re the Chosen One. I, on the other hand, am an ex-Catholic. So I’m dying first. You’re welcome.
…and that guy who hired me? Well, he lost his vendor license for some stupid hygiene rule they have and now the city is trying to shut him down but they can’t catch him because the pickle stand is on wheels and he moves it to a different location every day except today the axel broke and he doesn’t think it can be fixed so of course he’s in a real pickle…
Sorry, I just had to do that.
That was good. I like that.
Nice! And very likely. All those fingers in the pickles, they really do need wheels on that thing.
This reminds me of the time when I thought I was going to marry a Chilean pop star…..and then didn’t.
WHAT A LETDOWN, YOU GUYS.
The guy in the black? Yup. He had my early 20 something heart, alright. (You know…when muscles are the most important thing you look for in a mate.)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYq1p_W-2k4
Today’s dose of Latin-themed discussion sponsored by nostalgia and the fact that I found a white hair in my eyebrows today and the bitter realization that I’M NOW OFFICIALLY OLD.
Maybe one of the Menudo members would have you? Si Menudo dice, move your hands like this!
Regarding MY Latin escapades? I’ll find you a picture one of these days that shows how little a priority muscles were for me. They were under many layers of pernil.