As a volunteer to a non-profit organization, called Service for Peace, I had the pleasure of traveling all around the United States.  On one of my adventures in Asheville, Tennessee, I was raising funds, going from business to business, with my product, wind-chimes.  Everywhere I walked, the constant banging of the chimes was reminiscent of Christmas Eve, like Santa’s sleigh landing on the roof.  Bystanders would turn to locate the source of this high-pitched racket. The Vaseline Man took particular interest.  I was talking to a couple in front of a Border’s Bookstore when he pulled up next to me and parked at the sidewalk.  He was in his late thirties or early forties, thin figure, balding brown hair and had a relatively pleasant smile.  I assumed he was financially challenged based on the appearance of his station wagon, and the contents that lay in back.  The car was a two-tone beige Chevy Celebrity with grey hood and rusting fenders.  The sound of the engine’s belts was like the ropes of a draw bridge straining against an unoiled dead weight.  The back seat and cargo area was filled with clothes, boxes, and food wrappers, leaving me to assume that this suffering wagon was also his home.  When the man shut off its motor, the Chevy was gay with satisfaction for the temporary ease of its suffering.  He then leaned over and manually rolled down his window in order to ask me, with a slight lisp, “Hey, whaddaya got there?”  I told him that “they are wind-chimes, and I am selling them for my volunteer group in order to buy supplies for our service projects”.  He then asked, “Can I see?”  I agreed to let him see, with only slight hope he may be able to contribute to my group.  That is when things started to get strange.

          After I gave him consent to look through the trinkets hanging from the tie rack, he rolled the window back up, and reached for something on the passenger seat.  He picked up a jar that was a light cream color, with a blue label.  I was able to recognize the jar right away, seeing it multiple times in my childhood when my mom would need it to lubricate the thermometer for easy insertion.  The man then proceeded to run his fingers through the jelly and spread a glob on and around his lips.  He then got out of his vehicle, and lightly minced around the car towards me.  He made the typical remarks about the wind-chimes like everyone else.  “Ewww, they’re nice” and, “I bet you can’t sneak up on anybody!”  We then proceeded into some small talk like, “where are you from?”, and “So what is Service for Peace all about?”  Our conversation was normal up to this point, and then he asked, “Where do you stay when you travel?”   I told him the truth. “We usually stay at hotels, but if we’re tired, we will park at a Wal-mart or something and sleep in the van.”  “Do you need somewhere to take a shower?” he asked, “Because I know how to sneak into the YMCA in town.  They have good showers there!”  I was playing along, but in my mind I was asking myself, “Why does he know how to sneak into the YMCA?  Why did he rub Vaseline all over his lips?”  This statement only confirmed my perception of the Vaseline man as financially challenged.  While sifting through the wind-chimes, he finally saw a dolphin one that struck his fancy, but he did not have any money.  I was so surprised.  He asked me to continue on my peripatetic route, that he would catch up to me.  I immediately fell upon this as my opportunity to flee and went into a Red Roof Inn where the clerk up front was able to make a generous donation.  As I was walking out the front door, the Vaseline man called out my name.  He was parked on the side of the hotel with his arm dangling out the window clutching a crisp twenty.  I was a bit apprehensive to approach him; my gaydar was registering an 8.0, but profit motive overruled.  Once I reached his car, the first thing he said was, “Ya know, I’m not gay or anything, but I have friends that are, and they would pay you two hundred dollars to take off your shirt.”  At first, I honestly felt a little flattered, but then I realized who was delivering the comment.  I told him thank you for the donation, but I had to get going.  The whole experience was odd and uncomfortable, and the Vaseline man will be forever engrained in my memory.