Saltered States
by Bruce Salter
EN ROUTE TO SAN FRANCISCO, CA—(Weekly Hubris)—8/16/10—It was a pleasantly warm Sunday afternoon, the finches chirping as they gathered up insects to feed their hatchlings, and squirrels barking playfully in the shade of the swaying pine and spruce trees blanketing the steep mountainsides, as I made my way over the Sierras with my loyal chronicler, Raul, a three-foot-tall intellectual dynamo (and former philosophy professor at the prestigious Baden Baden Academy of Scientific Anomalies) recently retired from academic life to devote his exceptional observational talents to document the incredible, and often unbelievable cases encountered by Yours Truly in my ongoing travels through the American underbelly.
I had recently resolved the strange matter that came to be known as “The Brighton Transformations,” and was looking forward to enjoying a brief holiday at my seaside Valhalla, Pallazzio de Saltier (just north of that tacky Hearst monstrosity at San Simeon), when a frantic text message from the 12-year-old daughter of a longtime friend changed my plans and sent me careering into yet another exotic encounter with the absurd.
“You must come quick, Uncle Bruce. A funny man is here with Mom. I’m scared!”
“Hmmm,” I muttered, rereading the message several times while we replenished our supply of champagne-flavored Pringles at a roadside market. “What do you make of this, Raul?”
The diminutive annalist snatched up my I Pad, pushed his glasses over his nose and studied the missive carefully. “It looks serious, Sahib,” he cautioned. (He loves addressing me as Sahib and I saw no reason to discourage the practice.) “I think we’d better check this out.”
“My thoughts precisely, Raul,” I smiled, taking back the I Pod and sending a consoling reply to the distraught child. “Bust open the Pringles, Raul, we’re heading for Sacramento!”
“Your will be done, Sahib,” Raul nodded, stepping on the long accelerator extensions I had had installed for him and plunging down the mountain into the smog-shrouded valley below.
We arrived just before nightfall. The modest two-story house stood in a nondescript suburban court in the eastern recesses of the California capital. The profusion of non-operative vehicles littering the neighboring driveways spoke volumes about the sad decline in the fortunes of Sacramento piteous inhabitants.
“I don’t like this place, Sahib,” Raul whispered, as he killed the headlights and silently eased the car into the shadows of a spreading Maple. A scrawny pit bull, the victim of too many fights and too few meals, immediately approached to urinate on our front passenger tire, marking us as one of his own.
“Look!” I gasped, grabbing Raul’s shoulder and pointing to the behemoth parked in front of my friend’s garage. “We didn’t arrive a moment too soon!”
“But I see only a truck, Sahib. There’s nothing unusual in that.”
“Ah, Raul, my tiny friend, you have much to learn about the real world. That is not simply a truck. Observe its size, the massive tires, the extended bed, the extra-wide cab with back jump seat and gun rack. Why, look at those chrome rims glistening in the moonlight and those customized mud guards, each flourishing a naked woman in silvery profile, behind each wheel. Don’t you see it, man? The signs are unmistakable. There is a Redneck here!”
“A Redneck!” Raul gasped, crossing himself and bowing silently toward Mecca. “No, Sahib, it can’t be! We must leave at once!” His tiny fingers clenched the steering wheel like mini-vices and the terror in his eyes was palpable.
“Get a grip on yourself, Raul,” I hissed, ready to slap the panic from his cheeks if necessary. “Rednecks are not so dangerous, especially in isolation. It’s when they herd together in groups that they can be a problem. This looks like a lone wolf trying to infiltrate the respectable world, slinking his way into a nice family like a damned tapeworm, feeding off of it and getting fat as long as it can before moving on and, God help us all, maybe producing more little Rednecks in the process. We must stay and fight, Raul. Are you game?”
“Yes, Sahib,” he replied, taking a deep breath and mopping the perspiration from his troubled brow. “I won’t let you down. Just tell me what we must do.”
“The first thing is to gain its confidence. While Rednecks are undoubtedly the most imbecilic things on two legs, they actually believe they’re smart, and that is their weakness. This one likely thinks it’s not recognized for what it is; that it can maintain a pretense of intelligence and sophistication—and that is where we can strike. Once we expose it for what it is, reveal its true unshaven face, we can drive it out. But the unmasking is dangerous; that’s when they can turn on you if you’re not prepared. Now, do you remember that book I gave you last winter, the one about inflated egos and the limited self-awareness of those who possess them?”
“Yes, Sahib! I’m Stupid: Therefore I Am! I studied it thoroughly and remember it well.”
“Good. Just apply those principles to this situation and follow my lead. If we’re lucky we can wrap this up tonight.”
On guard against any rogue Rednecks lurking amidst the rusting shells of the surrounding cinder blocked autos, we cautiously made our way to the front door and rang the bell.
“Why, what a surprise!” Brandy cried, throwing the door wide and giving me a great bear hug. “You didn’t tell me you were coming, you naughty boy! What brings you here?”
“Oh, we were just passing through and I thought I’d stop to say Hi,” I smiled, scanning the living room behind her for signs of Hillbilly spore.
“Well, I’m sure glad you did! And who is this little cutie?” she laughed, dropping to her knees to give my embarrassed biographer a pinch on both cheeks.
“This is Raul, a physicist, philosopher and current unofficial recorder of my exploits. He also likes to drive my car.”
“Glad to meet you, Raul. I guess size doesn’t matter if you have a brain, does it? Ha Ha Ha Ha!”
“The pleasure is mine, Madame,” Raul hissed, bowing slightly and stepping behind my leg to escape Brandy’s motherly caresses.
“Well, come on in, you two. I can’t have you standing out here in the dark.”
We followed her into her well-lit family room and seated ourselves on an overstuffed orange ottoman (after first removing several layers of soiled laundry and a pair of lethargic grey hounds). The telltale signs of Redneck presence were everywhere: the “Rambo” collector’s series of DVD’s spread across the coffee table; the half-eaten plate of chili rotting beneath the replica Disneyworld floor lamp in the corner; the pressed velvet Elvis painting framed above the 72” projection TV; and the commemorative set of George W. Bush coffee mugs, half-filled with tepid light beer. All were sad testimonials that a pestilence of the worst kind had entered this house. And Brandy, herself, her eyes glazed and her uneven smile permanently fixed, bore witness to the damage already done.
“Let me get you boys a drink,” she hiccupped, dashing into the kitchen. “I know you must be thirsty!”
A movement from the corner caught my eye and I gasped as I recognized Kelly, the little girl who had summoned me, crouching behind a recliner, her lips twitching and her eyes sunk in ennui. They say that children are more sensitive, and thus more vulnerable to malicious forces around them, and never was this more clearly illustrated than in Kelly’s disquieting reaction to the Redneck scourge.
I exchanged glances with Raul and was heartened to see his resolve had strengthened. He recognized the horror we were dealing with and the urgent need to expel it. “Courage,” I whispered, clenching my jaw and smelling the air. The faint aroma of gin-drenched perspiration, Old Spice and K.C. Barbecue Sauce began to fill the room: I knew it wouldn’t be long.
A loud thumping could be heard descending the staircase from the bedroom above and, almost before I could catch my breath, a large, ungainly, Australopithecine-like man swaggered into the room. About 50, with a pinched cloying face, close-set vacant brown eyes, receding hairline and compensating goatee, an array of poorly drawn tattoos sprinkled over his mostly naked body and a large faux-silver ring dangling from his left nipple, he tightened the bath towel sliding down from his ample waist and blushed (full-body) at the sight of his unexpected guests.
Taking the initiative (for aggressive action is crucial in dealing with infestations of this sort), I leapt from my seat, extended my hand and said, “Howdy, Pardner! I’m an old friend of Brandy’s come for a visit. How’s it hangin’?”
He paused a moment, looked around nervously, and replied, “How do you do. I am Trey. It is very nice to meet you. Please make yourself at home while I change. Thank you.”
He exited, and I whispered to Raul, “This guy is good! He knows if he’s revealed it will mean banishment, so he’s really on his guard now, choosing every word carefully.”
“I can see that, Sahib. This one will be a tough nut to crack, I’m afraid.”
“No question about that, but you may be the key. He’s wary of me but you might be able to catch him by surprise. I’ll keep him distracted and you jump in when the moment’s right.”
“It will be done, Sahib!”
Here you are, boys!” Brandy chirped, gliding into the room with several long-necked Buds in her arms. “Drink up!”
We sipped at the beers and made small talk until Trey finally reappeared, dressed in a long velvet smoking jacket with an Ermine collar and puffing abstractedly on an ivory pipe.
“Sugar Plum!” Brandy cried, rushing to his side, throwing her arm over his shoulder and presenting him to us like a prized Hereford bull. “This is my boyfriend, Trey! Isn’t he just too wonderful?!”
“We’ve already had the privilege,” I said, standing again and approaching him with caution. “How’s it goin’, man? I love your jacket! Here, want a swig of this beer?”
I am so sorry,” he said, trying to make a disdainful face and failing miserably. “I do not care for, um, spirits, thank you.”
“Ah, that’s too bad, man. These suds do taste mighty damn good!”
His eyes began to tear up but he maintained his composure remarkably well.
“Where did you say you were from, Bro?” I asked, gulping down half the bottle and unleashing an echoing burp.
“Why, I am from Tex- . . . er, I mean, I am from Connecticut.”
“He was a professor of music and even conducted the Hartford Symphony,” Brandy gushed.
“Is that so?” I smiled, finishing my beer and opening a second bottle with my teeth. “I know a little about music myself. Who’s your favorite composer” I’m partial to Merle Haggard and good ol’ Lynyrd Skynyrd, myself.”
“I . . . I like Ramsey Korsokaff,” he replied, licking his lips as the sour smell of beer filled his nostrils.
“Never heard of the dude,” I shrugged, grabbing a fistful of bacon rinds and stuffing them into my mouth. “Damn, this stuff tastes good. Sure you don’t want some, Trey?”
“No, thank you,” he replied, his rigid body trembling with temptation.
As Kelly watched from the corner, a silent prayer on her lips, Raul slid down from the ottoman and circled around the loutish imposter, who was now sweating like an Arkansas hog and swaying back and forth like a reed in a hurricane.
“Ya do much huntin’ up there in Connecticut, Trey?” I asked, waving a foaming bottle beneath his nose.
“No, I . . . I do not believe in that kind of thing,” he yammered, biting his lips until they bled.
“Too bad,” I smiled, taking another gulp while belching and farting to beat the band. “I love that stuff! Deer, moose, rabbits, quail . . . you name it, I’ve shot it. And huntin’ with beer! Damn, there’s nothing’ better, I tell ya!”
Trey was practically in convulsions now, trying desperately to maintain his poise, when Raul made his move. “Damn it!” he cried, dropping his long-necked bottle of Budweiser at Trey’s feet. “The whole damn thing’s going to waste!”
Trey looked down, saw the precious ambrosia gurgling out into the rug, let out a heart-wrenching scream and dropped to the floor to lick the carpet dry.
“Aha!” I crowed, pointing down at the pathetic figure groveling beneath me. He had thrown off his velvet smoking jacket and was rolling about like a spastic eel trying to absorb every molecule of beer through his badly-tattooed skin. “You /are/ a Redneck! Admit it now!”
“I am!” he cried, leaping to his feet and strutting proudly around the room. “I was born one and I’ll die one, by Jiminy, and all you damn Yankees can just kiss my sweet Texas butt!”
“A Redneck?” Brandy screamed, the color draining from her face. “A Redneck? You told me you were from Connecticut!”
“Well, I ain’t from Connecticut, Little Lady! I lied! Hell, I don’t even know where Connecticut is!”
“Get out of my house, Trey! Get out of here, now! I never want to see you again!”
“Fine by me,” he sneered, grabbing up what was left of the beer and striding toward the door. “I’m gonna do me some coon huntin’! Sure is better than lookin’ at yer sorry face, I can tell ya!”
And with a howl at the moon and a slam of the door, he was gone.
Brandy and her daughter, Kelly, thanked me profusely for saving them from almost certain indigence, and eventually entered the local chapter of RA, Rednecks Anonymous, to help them overcome the emotional and physical scars inherent in such encounters with Redneckism. Fortunately, I was able to thwart the danger before any Redneck progeny ensued but, as most Rednecks are either physically incapable of performing acts of intimacy with anyone other than close relatives, or are intellectually maladroit at executing such acts, this was not my prime concern in the case just related.
It should be remembered, however, that Rednecks are increasing in number at an alarming rate and vigilance must always be maintained if one is to avoid their defilement.
As for me, I set out once more for my beloved Pallazzo de Saltier, and some well-earned R&R. While Raul had yet another chapter to add to his chronicle, I would have preferred avoiding this most unpleasant incident and enjoying the breakers of the grand Pacific in peace. I fear it will take a lot of sun, sand, and salt water to cleanse my spirit of this most noxious taint, but that is a small price to pay for saving two fine ladies from the prospect of a life filled with Tea Party rallies, Miley Cyrus, and endless reruns of “Cops” on Cable TV.
