Getting Mooned By a Redneck, When All that I was Doing Was My Job

I was winding my way down neglected roads, named after various creeks in St. Clair County, Alabama. I had already had an interesting adventure hopping upon a hidden trailer off a dirt road, where it looked abandoned or like someone was squatting inside or hiding from the law, but I couldn't make my entrance; all the doors were locked and most of the windows had something draped over it like curtains. And I figured that I could be being watched. Though, I doubted it. I went back to my car. And in the abandoned mailbox found old mail. That led me on the to both the name of the person who used to live there and the actual address of the place. My job takes on the form of detective work occassionally. But this is perhaps the making of another story..

The next house that I came to on Dry Creek Road was the making of my tale. It was a house quite in the backwoods style, of having various assortments of junk, all different random items strewn about the place. It's as though, these people have yard competitions to see who can have the most random pieces of useless junk scattered throughout the yard.

The address number to this house, was not in my binder. (The people who made these binders did a shoddy job of it.) And I was sifting through my maps trying to make sure that this particular house was the one that I needed to interview. As I did so, parked in the road, several older kids in the back of this house, saw me and took me to be some sort of spectacle. I don't know why. The youngest little brat, in the distance, bowed up like he was challenging me. Little did he know that I would pull in his driveway. Again, sitting in their drive, singing along with Waylon Jennings in my car, trying to find the forms for this address which was not listed, it took a little time. And whenever I perceive that the people are immediately distrustful and impatient, there is a part of me, that likes making them even more suspicious and impatient. One of the boys watching me, goes inside his house and gets his pa.

Papa Bear comes out wearing nothing but pants and shoes, and from the look on his face and the great volume of his protruding stomach, it looks as though he likes to swallow whole and let digest in that bountiful sack of his, unfortunate intruders who sit in their car in his driveway. I take this as a cue to hop out and give a soothing salutation, that I am not a robber, a terrorist, or even Muslim. Usually, I can win them over with my affability. Sometimes, I can't.

After confirming the address, and when I kick off the first question, he shoos me saying that he doesn't want to have anything to do with this. I proceed on in an unarming way. He then points at his driveway and bellows out, "You see that! Now, you know the way out of here! Go on, Git!" or some such Jedd Clampett imperative. I swirl around back to my car, and say, quite vexed at his tone with me,"Okay, but you can be fined. Just warning you."
He gasps and then yelps something incomprehensible, but the end I hear."There ain't nuthin but 6 people livin' here."

I raise my binder and pencil and then ask, "So do you have any names for these 6 people?"

He blurts out, "Why, yep...that's Abe Lincoln, there's Moe, Larry, Curly." His boys chuckle. And I seize the sarcasm to make my own jab at his shirtless jelly belly, and him being an ignoramus, "So you must be Curly, right?"

At this he stood cut to the quick, and could find no suitable response, but to turn around suddenly and drop his drawers. Fortunately, I could see it coming, and covered my eyes before the ghastly sight. His children looked on and laughed, maybe even hoorahed. I couldn't hide my own laughter and just belted out that "Alright, you win. I'm outta here. I don't want to see that." I got in my car and drove off. Though, looking back, I wish I would have had the presence of mind to say, "Now which ass do you want me to be talking to?" But who can compose themselves under such revolting circumstances.