Home > Musings of a Decorative Ham Man > Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

By Chris Vitiello
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A group of men in yellow jumpsuits came to install the pneumatic ham tubes.

“We require an efficient way to be able to transport hams to the basement quickly,” I had said.  The salesman eyed me suspiciously.  “I don’t think the air current could be generated…for something of that weight…the engineering is not available…”  He paused when I produced the whip.  “Make it happen, Mr. Woppy (for that was the man’s idiotic name).  Make it happen.”

He left the room quickly with his sad little tweed case.

They found a manufacturer in the islands; someone unfettered by the taint of regulation.  The tubes were delivered via a fleet of tractor trailers.  I got Woppy out of bed at 3 A.M.

“The tubes have arrived,” I commented sternly.  “When will you?”

“Jesus Christ.  In the morning.  We’ll be there in the morning.”

“I’ll be closely monitoring your arrival.”  I hung up and returned to a long film that featured some spacemen firing lasers at dinosaurs.  It was mere background.

I stayed close by during the installation.  Woppy was  clearly hungover; for that, he deserved a whipping but I abstained throughout the morning.  Around noon, he made an inappropriate comment as a female secretary passed by.

“Jeezus, wouldn’t mind gettin’ my noodle wet in that sauce.”

I asked him to come outside.  He followed me to a small yard with a high fence and it was here that I whipped him mercilessly.  I sent him home in a cab.

Near dusk, I dropped the first ham into the tube.  I could feel the air suck it briskly downwards through the floor.  Then, I called downstairs.

“Never arrived boss,” they said.

“Are you lying?” Are you a liar?  Are you creating illusions?” I asked.

“No sir,” they said, seemingly perplexed.  “We heard a loud bumping noise and then nothing arrived.”

I quietly hung up.  It had not worked.  It was inefficient.  I tore the tube out myself.  It took all night.

It is 3 A.M.  I am staring up at the darkened second-floor windows of Woppy’s house.  Light tuba music is playing on the radio.

I know not yet what I will do.

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