Believe it or not, I’m not a garden gnome kind of gal. I know, it’s hard to believe, as me and my moo-moo dress (sans bra) totally scream “I have lots of magic trolls and celestial balls outside my house!”
Actually, I literally scream that, but it’s only to keep the crazy neighbors away. It works too, because we don’t have any crazy neighbors. Wait a minute…maybe I’m the crazy neighbor…
Regardless of whether I reside in Crazytown, one thing is certain: I’ve fallen in love. Allow me to explain.
Saturday, Matt and I went to Walmart. Yes, Walmart. I know. We obviously hate America, but we also hate high prices.
We also hate ourselves whenever we go there, but the hate dissolves quickly when we realize we can toot around the store on a motorized cart (assuming they aren’t already checked out by fat people.)
This recent trip was for plants. We needed flowers to spruce up our house. Flowers were our attempt to hide the fact that our shutters need to be painted and our front steps are suffering from a bad case of scoliosis.
Enter geraniums and daisies.
As we walked around the gardening section of Walmart, cursing ourselves and our love of a bargain, I ran across this fine looking gentleman:
There he was. Standing on a shelf, looking all street-rat and tough, yet there was a softness to him.
Matt was a few aisles over, and if we were in a normal store, I would have politely called or texted him and asked him to join me in aisle 7. However, when in Rome, do as the Romans, right? So when in Walmart, yell loudly to people in your party because no one gives a $hit.
“MAAAAAATTTT!” I yelled, in my best scratchy voice, trying to mimic the sound of years of cheap cigarettes and alcohol abuse.
“What?” he screamed, from approximately five feet away.
“Check this out, yo.” I said, trying to embrace the essence of the gnome.
“Whoa! That gnome is gansta!” was all my darling husband could muster up for a response.
I knew we had to have him. (The gnome, not my husband.) We adopted him immediately and give him the home he clearly needed.
As we drove home, I looked over at him, all buckled in safely in the front seat. (Matt sat in the back.)
What was his story? What made him get to this lowly place? Well, maybe it wasn’t a totally lowly place, as he was on the second to top shelf at Walmart before we rescued him, which is a pretty high rank in the retail world.
I looked into his unevenly and sloppily painted eyes and I saw his story. Not really, I just saw the imperfection in the paint, but whatever. Follow along.
His name is Jerry, and he was a corporate accountant for a large company before he turned to thug life.
Jerry was a fierce accountant, with a specialty in stocks and an eye for earnings tax.
They called him “Journal Entry Jerry,” and he ruled his accounting staff with an iron fist. (And an iron internal control system.)
But one day, he traded in his calculator for a Colt and had an overall breakdown.
(See what I did there? “Overall breakdown” because he’s wearing overalls, but he also had a breakdown “over all.” Yeah, it’s brilliant. Give it a minute to sink in.)
So what would be so horrible to cause Jerry to shun secured transactions? What was so bad to make him turn a blind eye to budgets?
I didn’t know, so I turned to my ever insightful husband for answers.
“What do you think made Jerry go gansta?” I whispered softly, making sure Jerry didn’t overhear my inquiry. I didn’t want to offend him, especially if he wasn’t ready to talk about his past.
“I’ll tell you what made him lose it. Cuz bitches be trippin‘,” was all my sweet groom said.
Yes, I married that guy. I know.
But maybe he’s right. Maybe Jerry had enough of the corporate world and women always sweatin’ him for cash and capital gains. Maybe Jerry wanted to go to a different life.
I can’t fault him for that. If I could go to work everyday wearing denim overalls and a sweet medallion, I’d do it too.
I let Jerry know we weren’t there to judge.
Then I looked a little closer and realized that although Jerry had gone gangsta, he still had hints of his old life. They were there, but hidden a bit.
For instance, I’m not sure if Jerry has a gun in the hand that’s in his pocket. He might, or he might not. It could just be an abacus he uses to count his cash from pimpin’ hos.
Either way, if you put a debit where a credit should be, Jerry will still cut you. He’s not above it. Seriously. Or maybe he’ll just send you a polite, yet strongly worded letter, advising of your error.
But that’s not all. Do you see Jerry’s red bandanna? It’s yet another throw back to his number crunching days.
He’s trying to make a statement with the red by saying “You don’t want to be in the red when it comes to your fincances.”
As much as he tries, Jerry can’t break away from his true love; numbers.
So we’ve decided to adopt Jerry and give him a new home, where he’ll always be loved, but will also serve a purpose.
We put him in the best place ever. A place where you might not know he’s there, but he’ll be watching.
We live in a house built in the late 1940s, and it has three steps you must walk up to get to the front door. If you look to the left and down, you will find Jerry.
He’s hiding in the bushes, out of plain view from the street, as he’s hiding from the po-po. However, he’s watching the comings and goings of our house, protecting us from danger, or maybe just an audit.
I’ve named him Jerry Yardcia, as that’s the domain over which he will preside. Look at that swagger.
Here are a few other places Jerry has been spotted around our house. He’s everywhere. Yes, indeed. Jerry Yardcia will always be watching, with a phone in hand, ready to call the IRS.