In a Pickle
I decided to sell my homemade apricot jam to my neighbors because I’m a great person.
I happen to make some fucking delicious jam. I’m not a homemaker type in the least; I really can’t stand living in the ‘burbs and talking about this kinda shit, but that’s my life at the moment until I can get a more reliable car and get back to chasing my dreams and being a menace on the highways of Southern California.
Anyway, I got these beautiful apricots from a neighbor down the street. She wasn’t really “down the street”, it was more like three blocks down and one block over… and she didn’t really “give” them to me… it was more like I did her a favor and took some off her hands because her giant apricot tree was overflowing with them and they were falling all over the ground, going to waste.
I always ask her first if I can have some and I intended to ask her this time too, but it was nine o’clock at night by the time I remembered to get some and I didn’t want to bother her.
Okay, okay, okay… I stole her fucking apricots.
So I made a big batch of delicious jam and put them in these jars that I decorated with an idea I got off Pinterest and Jesus Christ I sound so pathetic. This is not me, people… I don’t log onto Pinterest ever!
I have way too much time on my hands. See, the thing is, my car is not running well and I’m afraid to drive it too much and I’ve been looking for over two months for another car and I don’t want to get into detail about it… let’s just move on.
You know what? Thank God I am an apricot thief, otherwise my reputation would be fucked.
So I packed up these pretty little jars of jam in a cute basket like the friggin’ moron I’ve become and walked door to door in my neighborhood to sell them. You know, you can learn a lot about your neighbors when you’re trying to sell them something.
Like, for instance, the woman down the block: when I told her I was selling my delicious jam and would she like to buy a jar? she said “Maybe, how much is it?” and when I told her eight bucks, she acted like I was asking for a thousand. She said that was too expensive, even though she had two BMWs in the driveway of her huge house. Poor thing… couldn’t afford it.
Then there was the guy two doors down and across the street; he’s a builder, and right now, he’s adding onto his house and it’s a major project. It’s annoying as hell because of the noise, the trucks coming and going, and the general nuisance that goes along with building.
I used that to my advantage though… he knows he’s being a big pain in the ass so of course he would buy a jar, and he said apricot happened to be his favorite. Doesn’t matter if he hated apricot jam, he was gonna buy a fucking jar whether he liked it or not.
I sold a couple to his builders, too.
The mom of the nice family that lives next door to the builder has her dad visiting from Czechoslovakia and I can hardly believe I spelled that correctly, but anyway, he invited me in after saying the rest of the family wasn’t home.
He then proceeded to tell me in broken English how he escaped communist Czech during the Eighties. At least, I think that’s what he was telling me, I could barely understand him. After about fifteen minutes of listening to him talk, I knew exactly how it felt to want to escape.
The one neighbor at the end of the block, I didn’t even bother going to because it looked like no one was home. I noticed he had one of those statues of a footman on his walkway, you know the kind I’m talking about? They’re called lawn jockeys, and his was a black footman… so I knew right away he was a Southern white dude, and we all know the implications of that: he would never buy apricot jam, Southerners only eat peach jam. Plus, those accents make me want to plug my ears!
Whenever a neighbor said they didn’t have any cash, I told them I accept PayPal and Venmo because I’m persistent and persistence pays off. Plus, I wanted to sell the goddamn jam, which was getting really heavy.
The good news is I sold every last bit of it and let my neighbors know next month, it’ll be plum jam.
I’ll be sticking needles in my eyes if I’m still making jam next month.