Sometimes, There’s Simply No Use Trying to Explain
Sam Venable
Department of Irony
It was a textbook case of failure to communicate.
Mary Ann and I recently took a two-day road trip. Among our luggage was a 48-quart cooler filled with packs of frozen meat — meat that needed to remain frozen until we reached our destination.
Day One didn’t present a problem. Before leaving home, I wrapped each pack in paper and lined the cooler with frozen chemical “blue boxes.” But I knew this arrangement wouldn’t last through an overnight motel stay, plus long hours on a hot interstate the next day.
Easy-peasy, I figured. When we stop at the motel, I’ll pop into a grocery store for dry ice.
I didn’t realize, however, that dry ice appears to be unknown in certain rural South Carolina towns. Like unicorns or pixie dust, maybe. The tipoff that something was amiss came when a worker at the first store I visited said this to my request: “Dry what?”
“Dry ice,” I repeated.
Blank stare.
So I played my second card: “Is there an ice cream store anywhere around here?” (Ice cream stores were my go-to source for dry ice when I regularly hunted in Louisiana and headed back to Tennessee with frozen ducks and venison.)
The guy thought deeply. “Way-yel,” he finally offered, “you might try Dippin’ Dots down at the fillin’ station. I know they got ice cream sam’iches.”
I thanked him just the same and drove to our motel. After checking in, I posed my question to a lady behind the counter.
I got the same “dry what?”
“Dry ice.”
“What’s that?” she asked, a quizzical look on her face.
Like a fool, I said, “Frozen carbon dioxide.”
She cut her eyes in one of those “Son, don’t mess with me” looks.
An assistant clerk chimed in: “I’ve heard of dry ice. They sell it in cans.”
“No, ma’am,” I continued. “It comes in blocks, inside thick plastic bags. It’s colder than regular ice. If you don’t wear gloves, it’ll burn your hands.”
Their collective looks spoke volumes: “Son, don’t make us both come across this counter and slap th’hell outta you.”
I beat a hasty retreat for the elevator.
Safely inside our room, I deployed Mary Ann’s laptop computer to locate a supermarket couple-dozen miles down the road. The clerk fielded my request like I’d asked if they sold Rice Krispies or Diet Coke: “Of course we’ve got dry ice. Plenty of it.”
Perfect. All’s well that ends well.
But I sho’ would love to be a fly on the wall when those two motel clerks regaled their friends and families about some lunatic tourist looking for a cold bag of carbon dioxide that burns your hands.
Sam Venable is an author, comedic entertainer, and humor columnist for the Knoxville (TN) News Sentinel. His latest book is “The Joke’s on YOU! (All I Did Was Clean Out My Files).” He may be reached at sam.venable@outlook.com.