“Pork, Tenacity”

This one goes out to all my quote-unquote friends at Nielsen Media Research. Merry Christmas, guys.

* * *
“Is this Melwyn Camembert?”

“Speaking,” I said, wincing in faint humiliation at the sound of my own name, just as I had every day for the past forty years. And, yes, I am forty years old. I was born with a remarkable ability to feel ashamed of myself, and remained in an advanced state of shame for my age all the way through primary school. They even gave me a medal for it, a fact of which I am—predictably—ashamed.

“I’m calling on behalf of El Puerco Loco Restaurants, Incorporated, Your Number One Source for Quality Mexican Pork! Home of the Ranchero Pork Taco!”

“Uh huh,” I said. “So… what do you want with me?”

“We’re calling to let you know,” said the voice, “that you have been selected for a wonderful opportunity!”

“Related to pork tacos?” I asked.

“Yes!” said the voice. “See, Mr. Camembert, you have been given an opportunity that most sane men would murder their own mothers for.”

“Related to pork tacos?” I repeated.

“Yes!” repeated the voice. “You have been selected to single-handedly direct the future of the entire Mexican pork industry!”

“Okay,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “But I don’t know anything about Mexican pork. Giving me control over the future of the entire Mexican pork industry would be a little bit like giving me control over one of those enormous cranes that they put up entire buildings with.”

“Sir, just let me—”

“Or maybe giving me control over somebody’s brain tumor surgery.”

“Sir—”

“Or maybe, and just hear me out, it would be a little like giving me control over somebody’s brain tumor surgery and expecting me to do it with one of those enormous cranes that they put up entire buildings with.”

“Sir, if I could—”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t think I’m your guy.” Then I ended the call and went back to attempting to navigate the surprisingly complicated menu at the beginning of my Gunsmoke DVD. Here’s my problem, and maybe you can help me with it: sometimes there’s not a little “arrow” next to the option I want to select. Sometimes, instead, it shows which episode I’m about to select by changing the color of the episode title. With me so far? Good. Okay, so my problem is, when there’s only two episodes on a disc, which color is the “selected” color and which color is the “not selected” color? Every time I press either the “up” or the “down” arrow, it just makes one of the episode titles green and makes the other one white, and I don’t know which color means which thing. I principally care because while one episode of Gunsmoke is pretty much interchangeable with any other episode of Gunsmoke, there are certain L&M cigarette ads where James Arness is particularly on-point, and—

—oh, hey, the phone was ringing again. I picked it up without reading the caller ID, because I have no life.

“Perhaps you didn’t understand me the first time,” said the slightly less-cheerful voice on the other end of the line. “Mr. Camembert, we are counting, just counting on your input to shape the future of quality Mexican pork dining in this country.”

“Okay, see, but—”

“Are you an American, Mr. Camembert?”

I found the question pertinent because the pork product he was apparently obsessed with was not, so I admit that I answered “yes” because I thought maybe it would make him stop.

“Do you care what happens to the average American who chooses to dine on Mexican pork?”

“Well—” I said.

“DO YOU WANT THEM TO SUFFER HORRIBLY UNDER THE BITTER LASH OF BAD RESTAURANT MEALS?”

“No!” I protested. “But—”

“What about trichinosis, Mr. Camembert? Have you ever heard that word before?”

“Well, sure,” I said. “It’s when—”

“It’s a nasty, nasty disease, Mr. Camembert. You get it from pork, you know?”

“Yes, I—”

“What if, bereft of your guidance, the El Puerco Loco slips into a shoddy state of poor food sanitation and safety? Serves its customers under-cooked pork, or pork that has been stored at the wrong temperature for extended periods of time?”

“I think that—”

“I,” said the voice on the other end of the line, hissing dangerously, “am going to hold you personally responsible FOR EVERY INNOCENT MAN, WOMAN AND CHILD WHO DIES AS A RESULT OF YOUR WANTON AND INEXCUSABLE NEGLECT!!!”

“Okay! Okay!” I said, becoming genuinely frightened. “What do you want me to do?”

“See, that’s better,” said the voice, regaining its composure. “Mr. Camembert, I’m calling to let you know that we’re going to be sending you a large packet of forms to fill out regarding your most recent El Puerco Loco dining experience, for which you will receive compensation in the nature of one (1) sawbuck.”

“Um,” I said, inescapably finding myself wondering if the parenthetical digit was really required in a verbal medium like this one. “There’s a problem. I’ve never eaten at El Puerco Loco before.”

“Never?” said the voice. “I find that hard to believe.”

I was crushed by the overwhelming force of the voice’s billowing fierceness and by my own dishonesty in the face of it.

“Okay,” I said. “My mother once told me that when I was a year old, she took me to Tijuana, and I guess that when we were there she fed me, like, a fried potato thingy, and she only mentioned it because I barfed it up in public all over a guy who was trying to sell us maracas a half hour later.” My mom loves that story.

“So you have visited an El Puerco Loco restaurant in the past!”

“Yes,” I said. “And it was even within the past thirty-nine years.”

“Hm,” said the voice, to a background chorus of furious clicking and beeping. “Our computer system can’t handle entries from that far back. We don’t have records from when we were a subsidiary of Bell Telephone.”

“Oh, well, sorry,” I said. “Tough on you, then.” I went to hang up the phone, momentarily forgetting that he was going to call me right back if I did.

“DON’T YOU HANG UP THAT DAMN PHONE, MISTER!” commanded the phone voice, strong enough to make me drop the phone into the rabbit cage that I keep beside my couch. It contains no rabbits. Do not ask.

I retrieved the phone. “Sorry,” I said. “I dropped you into a pile of rabbit crap. Now what exactly are you yelling at me about now?”

“I’m afraid your thirty-nine year-old dining experience is not going to cut it, bub. You’re just going to have to find an El Puerco Loco restaurant and dine at it before the paperwork we’ve already sent to you arrives.”

“Look,” I said. “I only know about you people because of the ads I see on satellite TV. As best as I recall, there isn’t an El Puerco Loco in the entire tri-state area. In fact, I’ve only ever seen it in the Southwestern states and in certain parts of Central America!”

“Well then,” said the phone voice, “you’d better get driving.”