THESE TIMES

A couple of weird stories for these times

Kirk Ericson | Jun 15, 20230

File this one under “Beware of trucks bought from Canadian mines.”

Mrs. Ericson and I were nearing her car in a parking lot a couple of weeks ago. She was several steps ahead of me when she depressed the button on her key fob several times to unlock the car door, to no effect.

A fellow standing on the running board of a utility truck about 50 feet away started making noise, directed at us. The man’s truck was a working person’s rig, not one of those spotless Ford F-150s people buy to “protect themselves” from crazy drivers. The truck bed was filled with tools and construction gear.

He was apologizing because, he said, his truck had a “jammer in it.” He told us he bought the truck from a mine in Canada and the jammer, perhaps installed to deflect errant signals from creating errant explosions, also blocks the signals from some people’s car key fobs.

What a fascinating thing. I walked up to him and we chatted. He said he had been through every inch of his truck to find the jammer but couldn’t find it.

He said he bought the truck in January and became aware of his truck’s blocking skills about three months ago. The truck’s ability amused him at first, but it had become a nuisance because people who come to visit him sometimes couldn’t open their car doors. Now it’s gotten very annoying, he said.

We talked a bit more, then I asked, “Have you ever used it to annoy people you don’t like? Maybe by parking next to them and walking away?”

He laughed. “Oh, no. I’ve never thought of that.”

That’s a superior human.

■ ■ ■

File this one under “Things I’ve never been called.”

I was standing on the sidewalk outside the club where I play ping-pong in downtown Olympia last week when I heard a woman’s scream to my right, down the next block. My view was blocked, but I could tell it was more a scream of irritation or anger than terror or pain.

A fellow was standing about 15 feet to my right. “A screamer approaches,” I said.

Within 30 seconds, the woman who screamed appeared and passed us. She was in high anxiety. A few seconds later, a fellow appeared from my left. He was a skinny guy with the kind of jangly energy that makes one wary. As he walked past, he said to me, “It must be great to be white, you (expletive deleted).”

I looked at him and said nothing. He walked a few more feet away from me, then turned fully around to face me, probably 20 feet away.

“You’re a cracker, you know that?” he continued. “You’re a (expletive deleted, expletive deleted) cracker. You think it’s funny to make fun of people, don’t you?”

Again, I said nothing, but I stared at him because I wanted to read his intention, and I was also trying to figure how race had entered this engagement. He was a little off-white, but that might have just been a result of his living conditions. His skin was the color of burnt pine tree ash.

My animal instinct said this guy wasn’t a threat. What he wanted was an argument, but maybe he was also hoping for some fist cuisine, to quote the late, great musician Daniel Berman.

He started calling me a “cracker” again. Again, I remained still and quiet.

Then he shifted strategies. He called me a “honky” several times, maybe to see whether that would land. But I’m a native Washington boy. The words “honky” and “cracker” don’t stir anything in me. “Honky” and “cracker” seem like words you’d use to insult a Southern white cracker. I continued my silence.

He turned on his heel, extending an explicit finger as he walked away. I figured his troubles weren’t over for the night.

Then the woman passed by again, this time stomping toward the fellow with the extended digit. I got a close look at her too, and she didn’t appear to be nonwhite either.

Was this some kind of racial incident?