Ham-Strung: Recession Cuts Across All Walks Of Life

It was an image seen thousands of times during the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression.

A dirty figure leaning against a light post, a cardboard sign propped up in front of him. The scrawl on it indicated he wanted a job.

But this wasn't a scene from St. Louis or some other large city, but here in Cape Girardeau out by I-55 and Route K. I don't know if I'd ever seen a sadder-looking fellow. He didn't even attempt to wave down any passing motorists, letting the sign do all the work. Between his lips he gripped the nub of a smoldering cigarette that a smoker had discarded while waiting for the light to change.

It's not usually in my nature to stop when I see characters like this one, but something about him made me. He was... different. I pulled over, got out of my truck and asked him his name.

He said it was Harold.

"Harold what?" I asked.

"Just Harold," he replied as he took one last long drag on the cigarette before flicking it away.

"So what's your story, Harold? How'd you get here? How'd you get like this?"

He looked kind of pissed.

"How'd I get here? I thumbed a ride with a semi hauling cheap Chinese crap to your Wal-Mart, that's how I got here. Now, if you are really interested in my story, I'm kind of parched," he said, smacking his lips.

By coincidence, I'd just been to the Wal-Mart that had gotten the load of "cheap Chinese crap" and had a bottle of tequila in my truck. He chugged half of its contents before wiping his lips with his extraordinarily hairy forearm. He belched and asked me if I had any cigarettes. When I told him I didn't smoke, he shuffled over to the curb where he found a fresh butt. He returned to his spot against the light post.

"Now where were we? Oh yeah, how did I get like this, begging for work at an intersection in Southeast Missouri?"

He took a drag.

"I had a good job up to a few weeks ago down south. I'd worked there all of my life. Lived there, too. Then one day, out of the blue, the owners told me my services were no longer needed, that I was being let go. I found out from my co-worker Spike, that they were replacing me with some robotic junk made in China."

"Did they let Spike go?"

"Naw. Spike is in security. I think folks in security are pretty safe from this recession."

"So did the owners give you any severance pay?"

"Sort of. They let me keep my tools. You know the plastic tubes I'd run through to entertain their stupid kids and the wheel I'd jog on for exercise. They said the robots didn't need those. They had their own equipment.

"A lot of good the severance did me. I've already lost most of it. I got into a poker game with some guinea pigs and they took me to the f****** cleaners. All I have left is that travel ball." He waved his paw at the clear plastic sphere sitting in the grass a few feet away.

"I even tried getting a job as a gerbil, but they said I was too big and had no tail. I don't think my life can get any worse. And it's all because of those G****** Zhu Zhu robotic hamsters."

"I've heard of them, Harold. They're supposed to be the hot toy this year. I read that the company that makes them is based in St. Louis. Are many of your friends losing their jobs because of the Zhu Zhus?"

"Hell, yeah! I know a half-dozen that all got pink slips at the same time as me. They say they might sell millions of them. Millions! Can you believe it? What are all of the out-of-work hamsters like me going to do? It's not like we've got a huge-skill set."

Harold got a hard-look on his face and took a long drag on the cigarette nub.

"Those SOBs have got to be stopped! Stopped for the good of pet kind, I tell you! This year it's hamsters, but what about next year? Robotic gerbils or guinea pigs. God help us if they starting making cats or dogs. No, those SOBs have got to be stopped and stopped NOW. Didn't you say the company that makes those little pieces of s*** is out of St. Louis?"

"Yeah. I think the company is called Cepia."

"Cepia... well those b******* shouldn't have messed with this hamster. They have no idea what I am capable of."

Harold the Hamster appeared to have a new lease on life. Gone was the dejected soul, leaning against the light post. Before me was a rodent with a mission, a renewed sense of purpose.

He tossed what was left of the bottle of tequila into the travel ball and squeezed in along side it. And without another word he headed north on the interstate with only one thing obviously on his mind.

Payback.