I live in a small rural town where the first day of deer or elk hunting season is more exciting, for many, than Christmas or New Year’s Day. The ratio of pickup trucks to sissymobiles is high. A flamethrower or a nice flatbed trailer is a status symbol. I understand that culture. I’ve lived here for 20 years.
Sometimes I make plans to move to Las Vegas (and some of my stuff is already there, in storage, as part of the move) and then I postpone them again. I’ve been in the process of moving to Las Vegas for a long time.
I like the little town where I live, even though the other night it was 2 degrees, and I don’t mean Celsius. Of course folks here have a concealed carry permit and a revolver and a pistol and an AR15 and a shotgun, as do I. That goes without saying. But, how many speedloaders does one keep with the revolver and how quickly can one cycle them? That’s the sort of question worth discussing here.
If one doesn’t own a pickup truck then one had damn better own a Jeep, and I don’t mean any of that sissy new stuff Chrysler made. I mean something with an AMC or older engine in it, and if the Jeep still has a good paint job on it, it had better be primer or flat black or camo. So, yeah, I also still own a Jeep like that, and I wasn’t kidding about the guns. If I violated these basic rules of citizenship they might deport me to a nearby big city, and I won’t like that. Don’t get me wrong, I walk around in high-heeled stilettos here sometimes. I’m not grungy. I’m just aware of what works here.
People here know me here, and they like me, and if someone threatens me with violence he’s probably someone new from out of town (which is anyone who’s lived here for less than 5 years) and he’s likely to get beat up by a local protective-of-me redneck guy more quickly than I could shoot him or that the local PD would arrest him, which means … pretty darn quickly.
Still, big cities are fun to visit, and today I went to a nearby big city, and had my long blonde hair done, all nice and straight with flippy ends like I’m a 1950s housewife or a dental hygienist. I had a fresh set of fake eyelashes glued on. The pink Hollister top and the chickey black leather jacket that I wore accentuated my huge fake boobs A LOT. Plus, my black skirt looked nice, and went with my black cowboy boots. I don’t look all that pretty, but today I looked hot. (I don’t confuse the two).
I felt so good that at 5 p.m. I didn’t wanna go back home to the small town where I live, so I treated myself to dinner and three cups of coffee at a local big casino in the big city. As I walked towards the restaurant, I saw signs welcoming the Wild Sheep foundation. If you think these are tree huggers or animal rights folks, you’re mistaken. The reason people like having wild sheep around is not for hand-wringing reasons but because come hunting season, they wanna have something interesting to shoot at.
So, the folks looks a lot like the folks in the little town where I live, but these people came from other small towns and I’m not allowed to take my gun into the casino so I was unarmed, and getting kinda nervous because the only thing worse for a homophobic redneck than a t-girl, is … a hot-looking t-girl with long, flippy blonde hair, long eyelashes, huge fake boobs and pretty cowboy boots, and she shows up while his friends are around.
In case you’re not clear on what homophobia means: it’s basically where someone feels an attraction to someone else and he thinks that makes him gay and it bothers him — so he tries to be mean to whomever he is attracted to. It’s basically the asshole-adult version behavior of the little elementary-school boy who is mean to the little girl on whom he has a crush. So, if someone homophobic is attracted to me, then he goes into an internal meltdown and if his friends are around, he feels the need to act mean towards me to hide his embarrassment. That’s how many t-girls get beat up or killed. So, looking hot to a homophobe can be dangerous.
Imagine, then, how I felt about my safety as I walked back to my car. By then it was already dark. I’d parked in a quiet, dark-ish section of the parking lot, which is normally not a great idea but when there isn’t a redneck convention going on, the place is very safe, and I didn’t realize there IS such a convention here until I got inside. And it didn’t occur to me that I had better go back and park in a safer area.
After all, it’s not like these people are violent trained killers. Oh, wait, that’s actually precisely what they are. Anyway … mostly rednecks I meet know me and are nice to me and protect me. So, I feel sort of conflicted about them. It’s sort of like Wizards. There are good ones and evil ones.
As I approached my feminine-looking little gold-colored 3-series BMW, I saw three redneck guys in their early 20s standing near the front of my car, chatting cheerfully and enjoying cigarettes. I didn’t know any of them, which means one of them (if I go by past odds for redneck strangers) was quite likely dangerous to me.
An acquaintance of mine is an evil redneck. He used to be married to a close friend of mine. He’d love to go hunting, of course he drove a pickup truck and had a collection of guns, and he’d yell mean things out the car window when he drove past people who were openly gay … he’s an evil redneck. The way he’d start his offensive diatribe was with the phrase “what the …?” I’m not omitting an expletive. He really just said only those two words. They are the magic phrase of the evil redneck going into active-asshole mode.
I decided the best approach was to consider these guys to be invisible, and to walk past quickly, NOT say hello, not smile and not make eye contact in a way that socially engages them.
Walk past, get into the car, back up … don’t drive forward, back up, leave. Survive the day.
Before they saw me, the conversation literally involved the Jeep flat-six engine and how reliable it is. That kind of caught me off-guard. See, I really do own a Jeep and I didn’t know Jeeps ever came with a flat-six engine. Did they mean flat-six as in the Porsche 911 boxer air-cooled engine, which is certainly a model of reliability? Or was flat-six redneck-speak for straight-six, which, yeah, of course, Detroit made many of them, and some of them were famous for reliability. Heck, I’ve owned a couple of Plymouths with Chrysler straight-six engines.
So, instead of concentrating on being safe and walking quickly and getting the hell out of there, when seconds count … I was a ditzy blonde and I slowed down, and listened, and pondered what they were saying, and I almost asked them in my chickey voice which flat-six engine they meant.
Then I heard it: “What the …?” … and then I heard one of the other two rednecks say: ” … easy … !” Meaning: “don’t do anything stupid, Stupid, just keep your mouth shut and let her go.”
So, for the good gentleman who kept his dumb-ass friend in check long enough for me to walk past and start my car and back up and drive away … thank you. The terms “gentleman” and “redneck” are very much not mutually exclusive, I know, and tonight I saw one more example.
As long as there’s a good Wizard to be a counterforce to every evil Wizard, the universe is a safe-enough place. As long as there’s a good redneck who says ” … easy … !” when an evil redneck says “what the …?” then my life is safe enough.