I have an unusual job. I’m an acquisitions agent, which sounds kind of cool and glamorous, but really isn’t. I’d like to say I acquire jewels or antiques or even companies, but I don’t. What I acquire is land. Fifty foot strips of land to be specific, across people’s property for an oil pipeline that is coming down from Canada in a year or so. We pay them really well, so don’t think I’m out gun slinging. Cue dangerous music: And that’s all you need to know. Doesn’t that sound cool and glamorous? No? Well, okay, it’s not. My job does bring me in contact with a lot of, um, interesting people though. Let me preface all of this by saying that I am an urban sort of girl. I like cities. I like condos, townhouses, public transportation and being able to walk places. The oil pipeline is obviously not going through any major cities (though I live near one), so I mostly drive out to the county and meet with landowners to negotiate a purchase price. Some are fine with it, because they like the money (and it frequently is a lot of money) and others are not fine with it. To the point of threatening to have me arrested should they ever see me again on their property. Good luck with that. These landowners are generally country people. Not rednecks, but solid, salt of the earth mid-western farmers who grow the food that you put on your table. Some of them are doing very well, some are making a decent profit and others are just barely eking out a living. I recently had to meet with one of those who is just barely making it, though I did not know it when I set up the appointment. I got their address, did a quick Yahoo! map (I prefer it to Mapquest, which I think is snooty) and hopped in my car. I tried programming the address into Elsa von Nordland’s nav system (the Yahoo! map is my back up), but she just blinked at me and told me I was on my own. She had no such address in her data base. I mapped out the town (she did know where that was, at least) and off we went. An hour and a half later I was on a road that Elsa didn’t even recognize as existing. I couldn’t find the farm so I called the phone number to confirm the address. Mrs. Farmer told me I was indeed on the right road, to keep going about 5 more miles and turn down the gravel road. I knew right then it wasn’t going to be good. Gravel roads never lead to good. Trust me on this. Five miles down the road, I saw an old silo set way back off the road and guided Elsa up the worn gravel. As I got closer to the silo, I saw what I assumed was an abandoned old farm house (you know what they say about assuming). There were broken shutters dangling precariously from old hinges (some had lost their struggle and lay broken in the debris that surrounded the house), the front door was overgrown with weeds and what appeared to be a small tree, and the glass in several of the attic windows was fragmented and covered with wood. Surely this was not where I was to have my meeting. When I was almost at the end of the drive, I realized there were several cars parked behind the house, most of them looking like they could run. There was also a barn that I couldn’t see from the drive and animals. Lots and lots of animals. Ooookaay. I sat in Elsa for a moment, trying to figure out where to go when the back door to the house opened and out came a man dressed in faded jeans and a torn t-shirt. He walked up to my car and I opened the door and held out my hand. We exchanged pleasantries and walked to the house. A brown goat wandered over, along with a pack of dogs, followed by another slightly more aggressive black goat. Mr. Farmer smacked the black goat on the head right between the horns (you read that right) and told him to go away. Surprisingly the goat listened, but I could feel his eyes boring into me as we walked away. When we got closer to the back stoop I realized there were about 30 feral cats milling around. Ack! As I carefully picked my way through what must have been pounds of poop in my 4 inch black patent heels I saw 3 of them eating what looked like a heart. I swallowed audibly (think Shaggy and Scooby gulping) hoped it was a pig heart (we’d past a pig pen) and not human, and fought the urge to call my office once again and remind them where I was (they knew, but still, the sight of the heart spooked me). This is where the danger part of the job comes into play. What’s down that gravel road? Friendly farmer or homicidal maniac who will feed your heart to his cats? Who knows? Let’s drive down and find out shall we?
Anyway, Mr.Farmer opened the door to the scary falling down house and I was faced with a set of 6 steps that sagged in the middle and didn’t look like they could hold my weight. I gingerly put my foot on the step, reminding myself that Mr. Farmer, who weighed considerably more that me, had to have come down these steps, so they would likely hold me, and up I went. Quickly, before he could add his weight to them. I wasn’t going to press my luck. They could be a trap door that led down to some dungeon where I’d have to put lotion on three times a day to keep my skin soft. Creepy. The steps led to a living room at the front of the house and I saw the other side of the front door, which was nailed shut and covered with boards. A dining area was just to the right and held an old Formica table with 5 chairs. The 6th sat at a desk in the corner where Farmer, Jr. sat shirtless at a computer looking at John Deere tractors online. I would not have thought you could get internet out there, but from the multiple pages Farmer, Jr. was flipping through, I guess you can. It’s true, miracles really do happen. A kitchen was to the right of the dining room where Mrs. Farmer stood doing dishes. She greeted me warmly and asked if I wanted anything to drink. I looked past her to the grimy kitchen and declined.
We sat at the old table and talked about the easement, negotiated a few items, they signed, I fended off the pack of indoor dogs eager to sniff my crotch, I wrote a large check (and for once wishing it were more, giving the state of their current standard of living), shook their hands and stood to leave. Normally I stay and chat with my landowners (cause I’m that kind of person), but the smell of the house was overwhelming, and I still had the slight fear in the back of my mind that I would be turned into a winter coat or something. I thanked them for meeting me and headed towards the door. Mrs. Farmer looked at her husband and said words I never in my life imagined I hear: “Walk her to her car to make sure the goat doesn’t attack her.” I blinked for a moment, taking this in, my fear of the goat momentarily overtaking my fear of being turned into a coat. I practically ran down the rickety steps before Mr. Farmer could join me on them and stopped at the door, waiting. He opened it and led me past the cats (still eating on the heart), the pigs, the outside dogs, and towards Elsa who sat waiting for me like a shining like a beacon of cleanliness and hope. We were approximately 50 feet from her when the black goat, who had been standing there watching, made his move. He’d been near the barn but in mere moments came hurtling at us, horns down. I was sure he was going to run right into us (or worse my beautiful Elsa) and took an involuntary step backwards. Mr. Farmer stepped in front of me, took an aggressive stance, put his hand out and waited. I fought the urge to cover my eyes with my hands and squeal, but then I would have missed the utter absurdity of having a goat charge me. The goat ran at Mr. Farmer fast. At least I think it was fast. I have no idea what’s fast for a goat, but when it’s coming at you, it seems like a cheetah. When the goat reached us, Mr. Farmer shifted his hand so that the flat part of him palm came in contact with the top of the goats head (again) and told him to go away (again). The goat stopped, looked at us, shook his head and trotted off in the opposite direction, making some scary sounds. Once I could breath again, I thanked my protector, climbed into Elsa and drove away as quickly as I could, checking my rear view mirror for charging goats and heart eating cats. When I got back into cell range (I was seriously out in the middle of nowhere) I called my office and related my story. Our secretary laughed and said she was waiting for me to call to tell her what had happened. This was not my first adventure. I had come in contact with a man we called Naked Guy, a crazy couple with an all white house, and a tree hugging Marilyn Monroe fanatic, to name a few. Those are stories for another day.
Anyway, Mr.Farmer opened the door to the scary falling down house and I was faced with a set of 6 steps that sagged in the middle and didn’t look like they could hold my weight. I gingerly put my foot on the step, reminding myself that Mr. Farmer, who weighed considerably more that me, had to have come down these steps, so they would likely hold me, and up I went. Quickly, before he could add his weight to them. I wasn’t going to press my luck. They could be a trap door that led down to some dungeon where I’d have to put lotion on three times a day to keep my skin soft. Creepy. The steps led to a living room at the front of the house and I saw the other side of the front door, which was nailed shut and covered with boards. A dining area was just to the right and held an old Formica table with 5 chairs. The 6th sat at a desk in the corner where Farmer, Jr. sat shirtless at a computer looking at John Deere tractors online. I would not have thought you could get internet out there, but from the multiple pages Farmer, Jr. was flipping through, I guess you can. It’s true, miracles really do happen. A kitchen was to the right of the dining room where Mrs. Farmer stood doing dishes. She greeted me warmly and asked if I wanted anything to drink. I looked past her to the grimy kitchen and declined.
We sat at the old table and talked about the easement, negotiated a few items, they signed, I fended off the pack of indoor dogs eager to sniff my crotch, I wrote a large check (and for once wishing it were more, giving the state of their current standard of living), shook their hands and stood to leave. Normally I stay and chat with my landowners (cause I’m that kind of person), but the smell of the house was overwhelming, and I still had the slight fear in the back of my mind that I would be turned into a winter coat or something. I thanked them for meeting me and headed towards the door. Mrs. Farmer looked at her husband and said words I never in my life imagined I hear: “Walk her to her car to make sure the goat doesn’t attack her.” I blinked for a moment, taking this in, my fear of the goat momentarily overtaking my fear of being turned into a coat. I practically ran down the rickety steps before Mr. Farmer could join me on them and stopped at the door, waiting. He opened it and led me past the cats (still eating on the heart), the pigs, the outside dogs, and towards Elsa who sat waiting for me like a shining like a beacon of cleanliness and hope. We were approximately 50 feet from her when the black goat, who had been standing there watching, made his move. He’d been near the barn but in mere moments came hurtling at us, horns down. I was sure he was going to run right into us (or worse my beautiful Elsa) and took an involuntary step backwards. Mr. Farmer stepped in front of me, took an aggressive stance, put his hand out and waited. I fought the urge to cover my eyes with my hands and squeal, but then I would have missed the utter absurdity of having a goat charge me. The goat ran at Mr. Farmer fast. At least I think it was fast. I have no idea what’s fast for a goat, but when it’s coming at you, it seems like a cheetah. When the goat reached us, Mr. Farmer shifted his hand so that the flat part of him palm came in contact with the top of the goats head (again) and told him to go away (again). The goat stopped, looked at us, shook his head and trotted off in the opposite direction, making some scary sounds. Once I could breath again, I thanked my protector, climbed into Elsa and drove away as quickly as I could, checking my rear view mirror for charging goats and heart eating cats. When I got back into cell range (I was seriously out in the middle of nowhere) I called my office and related my story. Our secretary laughed and said she was waiting for me to call to tell her what had happened. This was not my first adventure. I had come in contact with a man we called Naked Guy, a crazy couple with an all white house, and a tree hugging Marilyn Monroe fanatic, to name a few. Those are stories for another day.
2 comments:
Just a little piece of advice...maybe you should start packin' some heat. I wouldn't have hesitated if some white trash goat started charging me.
Interesting to know.
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