Let me back up a little. You see, I knew Herman before he became Dirty Herman The Humbug Hermit. I worked with him. Then he was Herman Halstead, a senior copywriter for a mid-sized ad agency where we two-finger typed our way toward illusory fame. Even then his personal hygiene was not the best. “Soap and water only serve one purpose,” Herman maintained. “They allow evil spirits to scrub their way into your immortal soul. Have a Cheeto.”
Now, while Herman was an exceptionally gifted ad man, his Cheetos jones interfered with his work, even moreso than his b.o. The account execs got tired of seeing Herman’s greasy orange fingerprints on their ad copy and everywhere else; on his clothes, desk, chair and everything he touched. Sticky orange goo on the men’s room fixtures became a hot button issue. Some men grumbled about becoming downright constipated when seeing Herman’s powdery orange prints on the faucets and towel dispensers. Even worse was the smelly gloom of Herman’s b.o. and Cheetos excreta that hung in the air like a toxic fog. Especially if Herman had forgotten to flush. Well, he didn't forget. He just never did it. "Why disturb the cosmos?" he'd shrug when criticized.
The account execs formed a posse and told the boss. “Either he goes or we go. You can probably buy out his contract with a nice severance package and a case of Cheetos.”
And that’s sort of what happened, but not right away. What tore it for Herman was the Christmas season, an otherwise boom time for the ad business, but which gave Herman the worst case of holiday angst since Mary and Joseph had to sleep in a stable.
I can see why. Herman got stuck with writing what are known as “radio doughnuts.” That is, lines of sappy drivel with bracketed blanks where an advertiser’s message could be inserted. For example:
“In this festive time of the year, when the world rejoices in hope for all mankind, [ABC Wheel & Battery Service, 1421 Porkpie Blvd, open 'til noon on Sunday] joins the world in celebrating the birth of the Messiah [Ask about the Duraline Special] and extends best wishes for a prosperous New Year. [All major credit cards accepted.]"
Okay, into each life a little rain must fall, but to Herman, this assignment was a cloudburst. He went postal. Suddenly the air around his desk was shrapnel shower of paper clips, colored pencils, ad copy, a coffee mug (“World’s Greatest Golfer”) and flying Cheetos as Herman either lost his mind or had a holy epiphany, both similar conditions.
“Scrooge was right!” Herman bellowed. “At least he was right before he ran into that goddamn gimpy kid with a crutch! Christmas is a humbug!" He threw a fresh shower of paper into the air, then stood on his desk and harangued the staff like a sidewalk evangelist. “A humbug, I tell you!”“
"Is the Humbug a new Volkswagen line we should know about?" asked a very young copywriter.
Herman pounced on this new thread: “Cars! Henry Ford was right too! Christmas is bunk!”
“Um, I think Henry Ford said ‘History is bunk,’” said the very young copywriter.
“Shaddap kid!” Herman yelled, then paused to fish a small pack of Cheetos out of a stained pocket and ripped it open with his teeth, like he was pulling a grenade pin in a John Wayne war movie. Rrrrrrrip rustle rustle rustle. He shoved a handful in his mouth. Mulph crunch crunch. The Cheetos had a calming effect. Herman wiped his fingers on his stained knit tie and continued in a nearly normal tone:
“Look, it just gets more commercial every goddamned year, ever since those Coca Cola assholes put their goddamned Santa layout in the goddamned Saturday Evening Post. There he was, the big fat slob, the very picture of jolly beneficence in four color majesty, holding a bottle of Coke."
He paused for a breath. " I mean, couldn’t they have at least hired that cornball Norman Rockwell to make Santa look ugly? Rockwell had an absolute gift for making people look ugly. Everybody he painted looked ugly. Now if those frigging Coca Cola jerkoffs had had a lick of honesty, they would’ve specified a grubby Rockwell Santa wearing a green eyeshade and chomping a cigar while sitting with a hand cranked calculator figuring out ways to screw the public and the IRS." Herman pulled an imaginary handle. “Ka cha ching!”
“Herman,” said the calm voice of authority. The Get Herman Posse had been on the move and summoned the boss. “Is something wrong?”
“The worst part,” Herman continued, ignoring the boss, “the very worst part is that we, and I mean all of us, my co-harlots of commerce, are part and parcel of this this myth, this fraud, about a little Jewish girl who got knocked up two millennia ago and didn’t know who the daddy was. And she was supposed to be a virgin? Oh please! What was Joseph, some kind of gong-ringing eunuch? Can you imagine their wedding night? 'Keep your dong in your drawers, Jo Jo my boy, I'm saving my pussy for the pecker of Providence.'"
"Herman?" the boss repeated.
Herman ignored him. "Yet here we are, pretending this annual yuletide nonsense is not just a swell opportunity to pillage the public’s pockets. Oh yes, oh yes, and remember this: even the Cause Of It All, this Jesus ninny who got himself nailed to a tree, chased the money changers from the temple. I bet He would have something to say about a commercial Christmas!”
While Jesus remained silent on the subject, the boss did not. “Herman,” the boss said. “My office. Now.”
Herman was escorted from the building by two fat bellied security guards 20 minutes later, carrying that sad emblem of the freshly unemployed, a cardboard box full of personal clutter. In his case, a coffee mug and 12 bags of Cheetos, one for each day of the Twelve Days Of Christmas. Oh, the irony!
Herman’s transformation from city dwelling ad man to cave dwelling Cro-Magnon was rapid. His loss of income ricocheted into a loss of his co-op condo, his leased BMW, a girlfriend and seven credit cards. But he’d always been a bit of nature a boy and was at home in the woods. So he decided to go completely off the civilized grid and lead what I mistakenly called a Thoreauvian life in his idea of a wooded Walden, only with a cave instead of a pond.
“Don’t talk to me about that phony freeloader,” Herman huffed when I mention Thoreau. “Nonsense, man! He squatted rent free on Emerson’s property and inherited a bundle from his family’s pencil factory. Oh, he had options. If he'd really gone back to nature, he sure as hell would not have had time to scribble his screeds. Trust me on that one."
So I added Thoreau to Herman’s growing list of forbidden topics once I found out where he was and began visiting on a now and then basis. (He had written me a stained postcard in care of the agency. The mailroom staff treated the card like a parcel from the Unabomber dusted with Anthrax and handled it with tongs.)
In addition to Thoreau, religion and Christmas, Herman’s Pissed List included Ralph Nader, Bill O’Reilly, Mother Teresa, elderly Cadillac drivers, Greenpeace and the Saint Louis Cardinals. He also professed to hate aging tree-hugging ex-hippies who wear Birkenstocks and still say things like “Oh wow.”
“Hmph,” he snorted. “Let them try to live on boiled bark and spotted owl stew. In a week they’d sell their souls for a Big Mac and fries.”
Which still makes me wonder: has Herman sold his soul to some vague Druid divinity, or has he simply reclaimed his soul from the world as he sees it?
Oh well. Have some Cheetos.
Comments?
That could be a movie, a good one at that. Call Depp, Brad and Norton. You have a winner there. Thanks for the read -- Nick and Amy
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'Cheetos excreta' really cracked me up. -- Lady W
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Tomatomike: There is nothing quite like your stories...and Cheeto orange. -- Pirate
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Aw jeeze, tomato brains. I wish you’d a stayed in the cave, you hack! -- Zip LaPrune
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Herman makes me laugh. Where do I send a case of Cheetoes and another of stout malt liquor? Hugs to you -- Fay
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We had a couple of foul smelling folks like that in our community, Sangho Jim and Tade Mitchell. Having encountered them made your story that much more pungent. Thank you for keeping me on your list. I enjoy your missives -- Doc
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Wonderful, Mike. I’m thinking of making a video about the real Mrs. Claus, the power behind the global enterprise that is Santa Inc. I'm a believable consultant in my Santa Hat and my little old grandma smart-ass. Merry merry, honey -- Canny
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I really liked your story. Herman sounds like quite a character, to put it mildly! Maybe things would have gone easier for him if he just ate non-greasy baked potato chips and learned to love a little Irish Spring? -- Soy
Baked potato chips are girly snacks. Yick.
Oh, I agree, they're terrible but not greasy. FRITOS are my snack of choice! -- Soy
I knew I loved you.
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Still laughing here. Oh gosh what a character. You do a great job of describing Hermann. I love your writing, Mike. I REALLY hope that all your anecdotes are published one of these days. They are all gems. -- Peg
So are you.
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Good topic for a Hiaasenian novel! -- Gerard
Busted. I admit to being, um, influenced by Carl Hiaasen’s character of the reclusive ex-governor of Florida who lives in the Everglades and survives on a road kill diet. But I have known a Herman or two, and I became cynical Christmas when I worked in radio.
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Thank you for entertaining me
on this weary winter day. -- Mary Pat
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Do you ever get tired of accolades and unbridled admiration? Have some more. I loved your story and smiled the whole time time I read it. You are big-heap talented, cuz. :) --Sandy
Never, and thank you.
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This could be my absolute favorite of all your pieces, (though it's really hard to single one out). I can't tell you how I look forward to seeing "A Tomatoman Times" when I open my mail. Keep them coming. -- Linda
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Funny, Mike! You really are a hoot, and this one made me LOL.
I enjoy your blogs so much. Hugs and have a great holiday. -- Ann
