As told to me by the Bargain Hunter himself:

You want zeal? I got zeal. I reckon every man does, whether they know it or not. Some men’ve got a zeal for old cars, or women, or booze. I’ve known more than a few who mainly had a zeal for evadin’ blame.

Me? I got a zeal for bargains. Bargains are my life, and I can sniff ’em out better ‘n anyone you know, like the way a black bear can sniff out a crusty old meatball in a dumpster full of cardboard.

And nobody, and I mean nobody, ever puts nothin’ over on me. I get the last word. Always.

I tell you this, though, whatever your zeal, there’s a price to be paid for it.

Give you this example:

One mornin’ I’m driving down Cleveland Street, just mindin’ my own, when the sweet smell of low prices hits me like an ocean wave, like one of them west coast ocean waves with a big log ridin’ on it. I slam on the brakes and wheel my old Cherokee hard to the left. Tires squeal like kicked cats and horns start honkin’ up and down the street as I jump the curb and tear across the oncoming lanes like a madman on a mission. A mission for bargains. The parkin’ lot of the Super Walmart’s full. My muffler’s layin’ in the median.

I push back the bill of my cap and light up a Camel as I walk through the automatic doors. “You can’t be smokin’ in Walmart,” says the greeter. Her name tag reads “Petunia.” Petunia’s totin’ a whole lotta ugly. A whole lot.

“Now, gorgeous, I know that ain’t true,” I say, giving her a wink. “Or else they couldn’t let you work here.” Now the fact of the matter is, you gotta be smooth to get the best bargains. Flatter the help and they’ll show you where they are.

“Well, now, if you put it like that,” Petunia says. She looks down, pretendin’ to be shy, then looks up and bats her bulbous eyes. “Is there anything I can…help you with?”

“I was passin’ by and I … smelled some bargains,” I say. “You got any bargains here?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she says, trying to be coy. “Maybe you was just smellin’ the bright lights and all them pretty cars in the parkin’ lot,” she says. “I hear them cars can take pretty girls far away from here … maybe out to where somethin’s happenin’.” She’s a tough cookie, Petunia is. She ain’t interested in showin’ me bargains, but got her sights on somethin’ bigger. She knows what she’s doing. But so do I. On a hunt, you must stay focused.

“Nope.” I tell her, taking a long draw on the Camel. “I can tell the difference.”

Petunia snarls her lip. “Then you got a good nose, mister,” she says, raisin’ one side of her unibrow. “You should keep it.” She reaches for the line of shopping carts. “You’re gonna need this,” she says, pushin’ one over to me.

“Thanks, doll.” I say and start to walk off with it.

“Hey, Mister,” she says. I stop and turn. She’s lookin’ at me with a smug smile. “The clues are in aisle 22,” she says. “You seem to be in short supply.” She gives a little puff, thinkin’ she has me.

“Oh is that right?” I say, “Well let me give you a little sayin’ from back home, Petunia.” I exhale a real long stream of Camel smoke. “The real fact of the matter is, you could tree a haint at midnight.”

“What does that mea…” she says, but I don’t stick around to hear the rest. Triumphant, I enter the store with no further trouble.

By now, my Camel’s gone sour. I snuff it out on a box of Hot Tamales and flick the butt over the pharmacy counter while no one’s lookin’. I replace it with a fat Nicaraguan cigar and light it with a blowtorch from the hardware section.

My nose does not lie. Through the thick cloud of my cigar smoke, I find Bisquik biscuit mixes for 78 cents apiece. Now, if you don’t know what that means, let me tell you. You could look all year in every Albertson’s and Safeway in the West and never find ’em for less than a buck twenty. Feels good. Feels damn good.

I grab up some ground turkey about to go bad for barely a dollar.

I get a sweet deal on some sour cream. Real sweet. Name brand, too. A dollop of Daisy? Huh. Try 16 ounces. The hunt goes on, aisle to aisle, rack to rack.

Later, I step into the check-out line, feelin’ like the top lion on the Serengeti. In front of me a pretty lady is checkin’ out with about 30 cans of peaches in light syrup and the biggest country ham I have ever seen in her cart.

“What the hell are you doin’ with all them peaches?” I ask her. She turns and gives me a cold look, like an iceberg out to sink a cruise ship. I look right back, not backin’ down. My cigar has burned down too far to hold. I extinguish it on the bottom of my boot, then hide the stub in the middle of a magazine rack. The Weekly World News, to be specific.

“What’s it to you?” She says.

“I like peaches in light syrup,” I tell her as I pull a corn cob pipe from the front pocket of my shirt. I fill it with the finest, cheapest Kentucky burley, then light it with a pair of flints. “You’re driving up the price.”

“Well,” she says, “I don’t think a man with a dozen ‘Stop or My Mom Will Shoot’ dvd’s in his cart ought to be talking.” Now with that, she hits a nerve, for reasons I’d just as soon not discuss.

“That’s none of your [expletive] business,” I say. “Besides, you don’t know nothin’ about bargains. Them peaches ain’t even on sale.”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use that kinda language around my young son.” She says. Sure enough, the ham in the cart starts movin’. I see what sorta resembles a child’s head and arms.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought your kid was a country ham.” The ham-boy flings applesauce on my shirt and giggles.

“Are you saying my son is ugly?” She asks.

“Well,” I tell her, “you know what they say. If the shoe walks like a duck and talks like a duck, best believe it fits.”

A little too proud of my comeback, I inhale a gulp of pipe smoke and let out a cough, which sends the pipe flyin’ through the air. It lands in the cart of a passin’ shopper. He don’t notice.

“The surgeon general says that stuff’ll kill you.” She says.

“The surgeon general talks too much,” I reply. “Besides, I’m a fast movin’ bargain hunter. Grim reaper’s gonna have to be a pretty quick cookie to catch me.”

“Well,” she says, “they say he can run a 4:40.” She takes her receipt, gives her hair a flip, and walks off.

Damn, I think. She got the last word. But just before she gets out of earshot, the response comes to me. “Hey Lady,” I yell out, “Make sure you don’t bake your son next Christmas!” She pauses, but decides to let it go. Yes, sir, I say to myself, still on top.

After paying nearly nothin’ for a hell of a lot, I walk toward the exit. Craving somethin’ sweet, lamentin’ the loss of my pipe, I remember the pouch of fine Granger Select in my back pocket. I pull out a nice chaw and set it in my cheek. It’s sweet stuff. Real sweet.

Outside, I find that my Jeep’s been towed. I guess they mean it when they tell you not to park in the fire lane. I reckon there’s no appreciation for a man on fire for bargains.

I begin the long walk home, pushing my cart full of bargains in front of me. And that right there is the price of my zeal. Walkin’ home. Seems even a zeal for low prices will cost you big if you let it control you.

Before I leave the parkin’ lot I hear some punk’s voice behind me. “Excuse me, sir,” he says, “But you can’t take the cart…”

“Zip it, Beavis.” I say without turning around. “I ain’t in the mood.” I push the cart through the traffic and cross the median, pickin’ up my muffler along the way. Then I head on down Cleveland Street, mindin’ my own.