Castor Oil...sickeningly good

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Kidner Transport Roll Call - Part Two

Jeff of the Powers of Pain – Jeff was the elder of the Payne Brothers (hence the cutesy Powers of Pain moniker).

As I recall he was a wiry, bug-eyed, feather haired, hard drinking and drugging loose cannon that kinda took me under his badly tattooed and powerful wing when I entered the world of Kidner Transport. Jeff was small in frame but could, and frequently did, beat the holy shit out of anyone that roiled his sense of right and wrong (fluid at best, warped beyond belief most consistently). I have seen a lot of fights and have never seen anyone that could fight like Jeff. It was surreal, he was like Riki Tiki Tavi with India ink tattoos and a 70’s porn mustache.

One time Jeff was having a tit-for-tat disagreement in the truck parking lot with one of the slabs of meat that worked at the company. Jeff was standing outside the truck and the wall-eyed soon to be beaten lard of crap that he was arguing with was in the passenger seat of one of the trucks. When the switch flicked in Jeff’s head that this verbal “fuck you asshole” style diplomacy was getting nowhere he snapped and in a bare instant the door to the truck was yanked open and Jeff had the 300 pound antagonistic redneck out on the pavement and beaten unconscious with a flurry of punches to the face before the fat slob even had a chance to flap his meaty jowls in defense of his position. He was a scary little man but damn it if he liked you, “he was good people” as the lower-class likes to say. I never had to worry when I was out boozing it up with Jeff, we may have been stupid but I was insulated and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Jeff was all about women with a proclivity to early middle-aged alcoholic sluts that liked to drink and screw dudes they met at the bar in chain restaurants. Many were the day that I stopped the truck illegally on Duke Street so Jeff could hop out into traffic and scurry up the hill to Bennigan’s where, “some real fucking sluts like to hang out.” He always had a cadre of sobbing whores waiting for him at work and driving our boss John Kidner insane by calling the office looking for him every five minutes. John would yell at him but Jeff would just smile and say, “hey Johnny, you can’t blame me for doing them so good I drive them crazy. I was just born natural.” In the face of that kind of self-confidence can you really hope to win an argument? So we put up with his whores, some of them would come out to the jobs (drunk) in their piece of shit cars all dolled up like clowns from Hades and bring lunch for the crew. Jeff would boss everybody around and take his shirt off and generally be the head rooster for a while. I didn’t really give a shit as when he was showing off he got a tremendous amount of really heavy furniture moved which meant I didn’t have to do it. Point to the whores!

Jeff was full of knowledge about everything under the sun and loved to share his observations with those around him whether he knew them or not. While in line at 7-11 he gave me some time-honored advice on love and relationships. He said he did, “You know what you do…you stick your tongue up a woman’s ass and she’ll never leave you. You can beat that bitch with a two by four and she’ll keep coming back for more.” While the rest of the consumers were horrified I just had to smile and nod in agreement. Really, can Dr. Phil hold a candle to that kind of homespun wisdom? He was like a perverted Methed out Yoda with advice on love and how to get rid of STD’s for all his young Padwans.

Jeff had lost his license years and years before I met him and it bugged the crap out of him that he wasn’t the offiicial crew-chief on the moving jobs. That title was reserved for nitiwits like myself who had a valid driver’s license and not enough sense to avoid getting behind the wheel of the death-traps that we took to the job everyday. Whenever we got to a job Jeff would bound his boozy ass out of the truck and scamper to the customer’s door to intorudce himself as the “head mover in charge.” If the customer were female he would return to the truck and the rest of us how bad she wanted to fuck him. If the customer was a guy Jeff would laugh at what a homo he was. It was pretty much like clockwork and I just filed it away as part of the routine. He never really hurt anybody (except for the people he beat the crap out of) and honestly he had a good heart, he was just fucked up and couldn’t really do any better.

When Kidner died I saw Jeff at the funeral and introduced him to the Mrs. He leered respectfully and gave me a big hug and after we chatted about the old days for a bit he said he had to go. He pointed to a car parked across the lot. “My old lady’s waiting to drive me home.” I asked him why she was waiting in the car and he said without a hint of irony, “awww, it would be disrespectful to bring a drunk bitch in here.” Well he was right. Sometimes in life the more things change the more the drunk bar sluts stay the same.

Next stop – the Harvester of Sorrow


  • The weirdest thing. I worked at a moving company in Central Va during the summers of jr high and high school. Basically all the same people were there.

    One of the favorite things that these guys used to do. One guy would be in the truck packing stuff. He'd be on a ladder. He'd call out that he needed help ASAP. Then you go running in there just in time to catch a horredous stinky fart right in your face and all the hicks bust out into knee slappin hilarity.


    By Anonymous Anonymous, at 5:35 PM  

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