Hello Prorogued of the Damned,
I speak to you while on eternal airport hold. I’ve spent the week in the great State of Tennessee, and find myself in Memphis waiting for a flight that may never arrive from New Orleans. After all the years of traveling too and fro, I’ve discovered a great and self-evident difference in us Americans on a regional level. While this may not be a great surprise to many, it was certainly reaffirmed while in Jackson, TN. As most of you know by now, I’m addicted to NTN Trivia. I seek participating locations via the Internet, and while on the road, usually find bars (NTN refers to them as retail outlets) not more than 10 miles from my cheap motel. Today’s entry is my observation of such differences. Although it may not contain references to fecal matter, or other such bodily functions, it’s none-the-less an interesting observation. I’ll not put it terms of good vs evil, as it was pointed out quite clearly by my Son as well as several others, that I shouldn’t put everything in such bi-polar terms. However, this experience blew my mind, and I felt it worthy of entry.
I met Betsy at McCallihan’s in Jackson, TN. last Thursday. She’s a beautiful southern woman some 45 years of age. She has kept herself in good shape, and is widowed 19 years. She’s one of those hippie types with a lot of silver and turquoise jewelry. She spoke of her departed husband in glowing terms until a couple hours later, after several Gin & Tonics, she candidly admitted to his peccadilloes. I’ll not elaborate on that, but will tell you he was not the prince she’d described earlier in the evening. I don’t know if it’s me, or if it’s my imagination, but it seems most Tennessee-ans have some sort of gap between their teeth. Not Alfred E. Newman proportions, rather, closer to David Letterman spacing. It seems to occur genetically often enough to take notice of anyway. Betsy indeed had this modest gap displayed between her two front teeth. I thought it was cute.
After hours of small talk and flirtation, she asked me to take her to a little hotel dance club (disk jockey). It was one of those places that look like the inside of an XXX theater (so I’ve been told anyway) and generally smelled of mildew and urine. It was obvious she was a regular, as everyone knew her by name. Evidently, I was not the first person she’d introduced to the “Blueberry Lounge”. She was partial to slow country western songs I vaguely recognized, and it was clear by her dry-humping dance style as to her ultimate goal of taking me to bed. Not wishing to be another notch on her bedpost, I began playing hard to get. The irony of this was yet to be revealed to me.
For those of you who know me well, this may seem hard to believe, but she was so all over me, it actually put me off! She seemed to think I was a man of means, capable of bringing her to the Promised Land. Her own poverty was exemplified by her beat up 87 Honda that wouldn’t allow access through the driver’s side. She had to scoot over to the passenger’s seat to get out. Little did she know that I’m only three dollars away from living under the viaduct. She obviously was playing right into my hands. Betsy had now begun what appeared to me, to act as an interviewee for the highly prized position of being my girlfriend. I found this truly humorous.
We left the Blueberry and went over to the Waffle House as I promised to buy her breakfast. By now she was quite drunk. Juan, our waiter, was doing his best to keep up with the crowd that had overwhelmed the shorthanded staff. Betsy is an ugly drunk. She obviously looked at Juan as someone inferior to herself and began browbeating the young man. Juan couldn’t do anything right. The coffee was too hot, the spoon was dirty, and above everything else, he was taking too long to fill our order of eggs and grease.
Juan, in his humble manner, asked if our breakfast was alright. The reality of Waffle House is; your food will always be tepid. This wasn’t Juan’s fault necessarily, but he certainly was the front man. The next time Juan came by to check on us, Betsy took matters into her own hands. She drew her straw to her lips, and from her glass, the deliberate crepitated sound of water through a straw could be heard as she gathered her reserve of spittle. I knew what she intended, but couldn’t possibly believe she’d actually do it. Before I could warn poor Juan, she launched her liquid measure through the modest gap in her front teeth. I looked up in time to see Juan’s grimaced face as the aftermath of Betsy’s attack rolled off his nose.
Betsy’s laughter only served to inflame the situation further. Juan, using his sleeve, wiped the excess moisture from his face, and politely asked if there was anything else he could do for us. Betsy couldn’t answer because she was snorting hysterical laughter and could hardly breathe. So I asked poor Juan for the check and hoped to leave, without further incident. I was totally turned off by the scene and wanted nothing more than to get in my car and get the Hell out. Betsy on the other hand, had other plans for me. We left the Waffle House and stopped at our respective car doors; hers being on the passenger’s side caused us to be face to face. Before I could say a word expressing my disgust over her outrageous behavior, she drew me to her and stuck her tongue six inches down my throat.
All the disgust and nauseating revulsion of her attack on Juan disappeared. Schwing! as Wayne & Garth would say, I was now interested in something entirely different. It was agreed that I should follow her to her home five miles north, off the I-45 bypass. I followed her erratic path to her house anticipating the hedonistic pleasures surely to be found a few miles up the road. Walking in the door, I was not quite prepared for what I saw…
Given the wee hours of the morning, it was difficult to make out the surroundings that would describe Betsy’s yard. But generally it looked to be run down and unkempt. A couple of lawn mowers, a refrigerator, some old wooden boxes, and other various pieces of junk decorated the front yard. However, at this juncture I was not there to critique her slothfulness; for at least she had a home.
As Betsy unlocked the door she was fumbling to find the light switch, but with a “damn it” the lights went on. Her living room was full of what looked to be erotic art works of all kinds. Paintings of bodies, sculptures of Karma Sutra looking couples were on every conceivable ledge, but most disturbing, were the cast phallic pieces that lined an entire wall! There they were; ceramic male members in various stages of erection like a big game hunter would hang prized trophy heads. Some were fully extended while others were flaccid. There must have been two hundred of them with all manner of heads both circumcised and not. It was obvious she’d taken much time in decorating them. Some had the heads glazed with gold overlay, some had the traditional red white and blue motif, while others had multi-colored rings adorned with beads. Betsy was obviously enjoying my reaction to her bizarre collection of penises, because she nudged me, and with pride exclaimed, “whadda y’all think”? I was struggling for something to say that wouldn’t reveal my utter shock, and act as though I’d seen this all before. It was beyond my ability.
As I stood gapping at this freakish interior design, Betsy disappeared into another part of the house, and then returned with a bag of plaster and plastic form material. It was obvious she intended to add my pride and joy to her weird collection, and was evidently a prerequisite to my getting into her pants. Wow. What a choice.
As I was driving back down the I-45 bypass, it occurred to me how many people think the life of a salesman is easy and with little effort, makes a great living. Not only did I waste an entire evening buying her drinks, and eating at the Waffle House, I ended up with a facsimile of my manhood lost amidst hundreds of others sticking out of a wall. It certainly wasn’t the largest, but I must say it dwarfed many of them. Upon further reflection I decided that this was a good experience all-in-all. As my days on this rock eventually subside to dust, and only perceptions exist of my time here, it’s good to know a part of me will be enshrined for someone to ponder 100 years from now. Life is never easy doing windshield time.