Big Jim McCardle Answers Your Gardening Questions!!!

The Uber I sprang for drops Professor McCardle off in my driveway at 9:50 AM and I walk outside to meet him.  A fastidious man in his mid-fifties, of average height and build, and with what looks like a set of manicured fingernails, he’s wearing, naturally, a tweed jacket, bow tie, and round wire-rimmed spectacles.  He also sports a Vandyke and carries a Zero Halliburton briefcase.  He looks just like his photo on the dust jackets of his books, and he doesn’t seem terribly happy to be here.

Me:  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor” (extending my hand).  “Thanks so much for agreeing to this session and for coming out to take the calls.”

BJM:  “A pleasure, I’m sure” He sniffs, and briskly shakes my hand (one perfunctory pump).  “And please, enough of this ‘Professor’ business.  You may refer to me simply as ‘Doctor’.”  His brief, tight-lipped smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which seem to regard me from a point far above the tip of his patrician nose.

McCardle settles into his chair, sets the briefcase down at his feet, reaches into a breast pocket and produces a pipe, then pulls a pouch of tobacco and a lighter out of a front pocket of his trousers.  He packs the pipe – a smooth Calabash, of course – and fires up.  As an afterthought: “May I?”  Right away, this guy’s turning out to be a bona fide arrogant prick.

Me:  “Yes, well, Dr. McCardle… ” I’m wondering where the “Big Jim” comes from.  He’s not a big guy, and the nickname is a down-home kind of nickname, and as of right now, there’s nothing that I can see that’s down-home about Big Jim.  “It’s such an honor to have you here, you’re The RGG’s most famous guest to date.”

BJM:  (Through a cloud of pipe tobacco smoke) “Yes, I’m sure.  And let’s do dispense with the platitudes, shall we?  I’m a very busy man.  Let’s please get to the phone calls and questions.”  This last word is curiously stressed and accompanied by the rise of one eyebrow above the frame of his spectacles.  He puffs on his pipe again, and the scent of cherry carcinogens hangs in the air.

Me:  “Alright, let’s take some calls.”

As I put the first caller through, Dr. McCardle pops the Halliburton, where, among a sheaf of important looking papers, rests a full fifth of Old Grand-Dad 114.  He swiftly removes the bottle of whiskey and unscrews its cap.  It’s now approximately 10:05 AM.

Me:  “We’ve got caller one on the line, and it’s Sheila from Decatur, Illinois.  Good morning, Sheila, go ahead with your question for Dr. McCardle.”

Sheila:  “Good morning, John.  Good morning Big Jim.”  To this, I needlessly fear an insulting retort from McCardle.  Instead, he grasps the bottle of 114 by its neck with his right hand and benignly puts it to his lips and takes himself a solid slug.  He does not replace the cap and there is no “May I?” this time.  He deftly sets his pipe down on top of the briefcase with his other hand.  Sheila continues. “Well, my question has to do with my hydrangeas.  I cut them back every year, and I hope that they’ll bloom, but they never do.  What am I doing wrong?” 

I don’t wait long for Doctor McCardle’s insulting retort.

BJM:  “Certainly, madame, you will have researched your particular species of Hydrangea before attempting such foolish and ham-handed butchery.  Some Hydrangea species bloom only on the previous year’s growth.  In the future, please honor yourself with the favor of researching your plants before not only pruning them, but purchasing them in the first place.  And for God’s sake, do engage in this edification process before peppering an expert in his field with this kind of fatuous banter.  Good day.”

This ain’t looking good.  After a barely perceptible shake of his head, the good doctor removes his spectacles, places them in his lap, delicately dabs the inside corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger (pinky extended), replaces the specs, and takes an even longer slug of the hooch.

Two more calls come in, and McCardle manages to exhibit an even greater degree of condescending assholery than in the initial call.  After the third call, Dr. McCardle sticks the business end of the whiskey bottle firmly in his pie hole and drinks deeply.  The vessel’s content level now requires that it be aimed severely downward into the esteemed professor’s mouth.  While he holds the bottle by its neck, I notice a distinct lack of pinky extension.  He puts the bottle on the floor and, miraculously, it’s now what I’d consider to be well over two-thirds empty.  Dr. McCardle once again removes his glasses, but does not put them back on.  They rest on the floor between the Halliburton and the bottle of Old Grand-Dad.

Me:  “Let’s take another call.  It’s Jen, from Falls Church, Virginia.  Welcome to The RGG, Jen.  Go ahead with your question for Dr. McArdle.”

Jen:  “Thank you so much, John.  And thank you Dr. McArdle – it’s an honor to be speaking with you.”

BJM:  “Damn glad to hear it.”  Silence.  And then,  “You sound hot.”  McCardle’s pale blue eyes now possess a feral red cast.  They roll in my direction and hold my own gaze as he upends the Old Grand-Dad and pours more of it down the hatch.  He wipes his lips with a tweed sleeve and musters a stupid, crooked grin.  The bottle is almost dry.  “You still there, sugar-pants?” 

Jen:  Silence for a few beats.  “Um… I, uh, yes, I was, uh… I was wondering why my rose bushes…  why my rose bushes seem to sag, you know, sort of the tips of them… I was wondering why they sag like that in the bright sunshine during the day, but then perk right up again in the evening.  Do you know what causes them to do that, Professor McCardle?  And does it mean that something’s wrong with them?”

BJM:  “Roses are red, violets are blue, the sun sure is hot, and baby, you are TOOOO!!!”  Big Jim lets loose with a screeching banshee laugh.  “Goddamn!  I mean, GODDAMN!”

Me:  “Well, Jen, I think what Dr. McCardle is getting at is that roses, like almost all plants, tend to wilt and contract their foliage in bright sunshine in an effort to conserve moisture.  It’s a transpiration mechanism.  Am I right, Dr. McCardle?”

BJM:  “Whatever you say, ma boy, whatever the fuck you say.”  While I answer Jen, and before he responds to me, Big Jim drains the last couple of ounces of whiskey.  Now, he shifts in his seat, brings a tasseled loafer-shod foot down on top of his forgotten specs, and smashes them. 

Jen:  “I’m sorry I ever subscribed to your stupid site.  What a joke.  Screw you both!”

The line goes dead.

Big Jim is now fumbling for the briefcase and in doing so, knocks the Calabash to the floor where cherry-scented dottle spills out.  He manages to open the briefcase and push the earlier-glimpsed sheaf of important looking papers out onto the floor next to the pipe and dottle.  A second bottle of Old Grand-Dad 114 is revealed.  A pint this time.  Big Jim snatches it up with a stupidly crafty look on his face.

Me:  “Listen, you son of a bitch… One more phone call like that and you’re gonna wreck my brand and my livelihood.  And then, I swear to God, I’m gonna clean your greens.  You got it?”  (We’re totally off-mic now.)

Big Jim elevates in his seat, tucks his chin, and puffs his cheeks.  He furrows his brow in a drunken, pseudo-scowl.

BJM:  “Blah, blah, blah…  ”  He turns to me, and his eyes are red pinwheels, but he seems to regain some composure.  “Sure, ma boy.  I got this.  No problem, baby.  No problem at-tall.”

Me:  (Still off-mic.)  “I’m tellin’ you…  One more fucked up call… “

BJM:  “Lemme have another shot.  One more shot, ma boy.  I’ll do you proud.  I – will – do – you – PROUD!”  Against all good judgement, I acquiesce.

Me: (Mic’s back on now.)  “Let’s take another call.  This one’s from Robert.  He’s calling from Bloomington, Indiana.  Welcome to The RGG, Robert.  Go ahead with your question for Dr. McCardle.”  I look at Big Jim, and relax just a hair.  He’s definitely drunk off his ass, but he appears calmer.  He seems to be listening.  He seems to be concentrating.  I widen my eyes and I point a finger in his face.  He looks back at me, and his own eyes, through their scarlet veil, appear to convey a sense of comprehension.

Robert:  “Thank you, John, and thank you, Professor McCardle.  I appreciate this opportunity.”  Robert, at this point, is imperturbable.  He has not heard any of the previous calls, as my session with Big Jim is pre-recorded and the calls are not cast live.  Robert continues, blissfully unaware of Big Jim’s earlier exchanges.  “So, I’m a grad student in Botany at the U here in Bloomington, and my girlfriend is, too.  She believes that the phenomenon of fruiting in an isolated dioecious specimen occurs as a result of incidental, but actual pollination, as carried out by a random pollinating vector, like a bird, or some type of wide-ranging, individual insect.  She refuses to consider the probability that the fruiting has manifested as a result of parthenocarpic action.  And she won’t even dissect the individual fruits to check for the presence of seeds.  Her position is that the evident lack of seeds isn’t necessarily a case for this type of fertilization.  I believe, instead, that it’s irrefutable proof.  What do you think, Professor?”

BJM:  McCardle chugs whiskey from the pint in his hand, then again wipes his mouth with his sleeve.  I’ll be damned if that pint bottle isn’t almost empty.  “Save yourself some trouble an’ dump ‘er.  Iss waaayy cheaper to jus’ jerk off.”  A moment of shocked silence, and then: “Hey… you know why they call me ‘Big Jim’?  I bet that girlfriend of yours does!  Mbahhhh-hahhh-hahhh-hahhh-HAAHHHH!!!”  McCardle is laughing so hard that he hardly notices when he slides out of his chair and onto the floor.  He lays on his back, screeching his banshee-screech.

Me:  (Disconnecting the call.)  “Alright, McCardle, you piece of shit.  You’re outta here.  I’m shipping you back to A&M.  Just be glad I don’t send you to the ER instead.  You just wrecked everything for me.  Goddamn it.”  His laughter subsides in fits and starts, and for a brief moment, he fixes me with his scarlet eyes.  Jesus H. Christ.  I grab him up by the lapels of his stupid tweed sport coat, his head lolls, and he giggles.  I set him back in his chair and stare at him.  His chin touches his chest.

BJM:  “Can I jus’ say one more thing?  Please… jus’ one more lil’ thing?”  He looks up at me, with an expression on his face that manages to be simultaneously slack and imploring.  His red eyes make lazy clockwise orbits in their sockets.  I continue to stare at him.  “I bet you don’t think I read the crap you churn out here in yer stupid little website.  Am I right or am I right?”  His face regains its stupid-crafty expression.  “Well, all I gotta say to that is ‘Cheers, and damned happy frickin’ gardening!’  So there.”  

Big Jim McCardle sticks out his tongue and makes a fart sound, while spittle flies and his bow tie sits askew.  And finally, just before he passes out, he extends the practically empty pint bottle in my direction, holds it out to me, and asks, “But where are my manners?  Mbahhhh-hahhhh-hahhhh-hahhh-HAAAHHHH!!!”