Redneck Without a Plan

CONTENT WARNING: violence, gore, naughty words, substance abuse

     “Not me, Chuck, no way. I ain’t never gon need a plan. Nope. I’m a ‘fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of guy.”  I flick ice chunks off my beer and close the cooler. Me and my buddy, Chuck, spent the day muddin’. Now we’s pontificatin’— otherwise known as, “shootin-the-shit”, whilst guzzlin cold ones and chill-axing in a lawn chair perched on the bed of my ’85 Ford Pickup. Chuck’s eyes glaze over as he draggs long and hard from a bong, big as my head. He leans back, shirtless, showin off his shiny white, bird chest and all its glory. I groan when I sees him braid his beard, knowin he’s about to get philosophical on me. 

     “Naw, man, you gotta have a plan and you know why, too.” He bolts upright, shifting his eyes side to side and flarin his nostrils. 

     “Yeah, yeah, cause ‘they’re always watchin’. I know you think that, Chuck, but I ain’t so inclined to believe it.”  I guzzle another beer and watch a crow wrestle a cicada in the grass next to the truck. Chuck all but ignores my disbelief and continues to spout off conspiracy theories.

     “It don’t gotta be nothin big. A simple plan’s all ya need to keep the government out of your brain. See, if you ain’t got a clue where you’re headed, Big Brother’s gon steer you right where he want you.” Chuck holds in another puff of the magic dragon,  turning his eyes into glassy black discs. His lips stretch acrossed his face with a silly-putty smile. He looks like the rejected spawn of a redneck and Kawaii toy waiting for Santa to notice him on the Island of Misfit Toys. 

      It’s not that I got anything against slurpin the old ganja every now and then, but I shore do hate it when Chuck smokes so much he turns paranoid.

     “Chuck, you been my best friend since kiddy-garden and you know I ain’t never gon plan nothin. I was born a redneck without a care and I’m gon keep on wingin it till the day I die. Living wild and free is all I care about. Ain’t no government or nothin nowhere gon change me.” I crush my last beer can on my forehead and toss it into the weeds next to my truck. 

     “Hey, man, no need to get testy. I’m just trying to help. Don’t want you turnin into one of those government-controlled robots, drivin hybrid cars and wearing loafers.” Chuck’s face pinched up like he ate something sour.

     We both go quiet for a minute or two till Chuck’s phone dings. He shoots up outta the chair, puts his shirt on and stands in front of me lookin like he’s never been more sober in his whole life. 

     “Dude, I gotta go. Big test tomorrow.” He swings out of the truck bed and tossed the bong in the trunk of his Mustang. Before he drives off, Chuck leans out the window and hollers, “get yerself a plan, Errol, before they take over and make you their bitch.”    

     Takes a couple of cranks to get the engine purrin, but soon as it turns over, I mash on the radio. The sweet sound of Alabama’s love for high cotton licks my ears.  I cut the wheel and floor it, skidding and bumping outta the muddy wooded area where me and Chuck met. The fall breeze whips through the open window, fluffing my eyebrows and mustache. It ruffles me up inside, like Im chock full o righteous freedom. 

     “YEEEHAAAA!” I whoop and holler the call of the wild redneck—no plans or obligations to nobody. 

     Now, the easiest route back to my house is down I75, but I’m feeling so spontaneous and plan-free,  I jerk the wheel and veer off the beaten path. It just so happens, that this particular impromptu path goes past the last-standing Shoney’s in the good ole south. There, right off the exit ramp, is my tastebud-tantalizing award for living life off the cuff: crispy fried chicken and a hot fudge cake. 

     As I’m getting back in my truck, chewin on a toothpick, I notice a gas station right next door. Seein as how I been running on fumes, I roll on over to the closest pump and commence to fillin her up. I’m standing there, kinda zoning out, enjoying the head rush from a nasal cavity full of unleaded fumes, when my eye catches a gleam. I do a double take with my eyes squinted, but I still ain’t sure what I’m looking at. It’s a bumper sticker, or at least I think it’s a bumper sticker. But it looks like a softball-sized, real-live, human eyeball. It’s on the back of one of them fancy newfangled plug-in cars they call, “Tesla” parked at the quickie mart by the gas pumps. 

     I ain’t gone lie, my pickup is a gas guzzler, and it’s purdy obvious I ain’t no uppity tree hugger. So maybe, I jest don’t get the message or understand the jargon or whatnot, but something about that bumper sticker don’t sit right with me.  It gives me the heebie-jeebies. This is gon sound crazy, but I am all but convinced that bumper sticker is lookin at me. A funny tightening in my throat dries up all my spit and my belly lurches sideways. All of a sudden I feel sure something bad is gonna happen.

     Dang it! Gas overflows and douses my boots. My favorite boots. I shake most of it off and soak up the rest with one of them gas station paper towels. I catch a glimpse of the bumper sticker as the Tesla drives off. It catches a glimpse of me, too. 

     I try to shake off a bad case of the willies by settin my mind on things I enjoy like huntin and kickin back doin nothin but sippin a cold one. Weird thing is, ain’t none of that makin me feel no better. Shoot, here I am, wigging-out, over a stupid sticker and I didn’t even smoke weed! Ole Chuck’s paranoia’s rubbed off on me, that’s all it is. 

     I chuckle as I crank her up and head down a road I ain’t never been on before. With the interstate and city life in my review mirror, I’m living in the, “now”. A man without a plan, cruisin into the unknown. Nothin but trees whizzing past on both sides of the road, lit up orange and pink by the setting sun. All we need now is some country music.

     Son of a gun, ain’t nothin on but commercials.

     “…locally grown, non-GMO…”

     “…men’s loafers, BOGO…”

     “…Tesla. We’ve got our eye on your future. Yes, Errol, we’re talking to you.”

     Huh? 

     A chill creeping down my neck warms at the sweet sound of music. Awe, yeah, this is my jam. Clearing my throat, I get ready to bellow my heart out, but that ain’t what happens. I barely get passed the first twang of Reba’s one chance for Fancy when horrendous nauseation infects my innards. Oh my Lord Almighty, I’m gonna die! The music whips invisible jagged spikes through my inner ears and directly pierces my stomach. I can’t help but scream whilst clenching my ears. The truck veers off road, but I’m too sick to do anything about it.

     A tree’s comin in fast, so I stomp the brake with nothin but reflex.  My hands are in no hurry to disengage themselves from my ears, so my knee mashes off the radio. Breathing heavy, my hand wipes sweat off my forehead. Country music’s always been my friend. Except that didn’t feel friendly. It was like the country music pierced my brain with a rusty ice pick through both ears. 

     My thoughts turn to the song lyrics but it triggers the whole damn thing again. Like that time I ate scrambled eggs when I had the flu and can’t never eat scrambled eggs since then. I fling the door aside and upchuck a stringy-mucous mound of fudge-cake-flavored-chicken-vomit. Now I ain’t got no taste for southern cookin or country music. 

     I’m shaking a little bit, but I ain’t gone let it get me down. Back on the road, I try something I ain’t never tried before:  a pop radio station. Hey, it ain’t so bad, neither! I’m kinda digging this chic, Lady Gaga. Ain’t hearing any commercials on this station, neither.

     My tongue slicks over my teeth and I realize I got a real bad taste in my mouth, like turds but sweeter. It’s been a good few hours since my last nicotine fix. I lean forward, resting my left elbow on the wheel whilst I reach in my back pocket. It’s no easy feat whilst driving, but I hold the round container tight around the seam with my birdie finger and my thumb. Snapping my wrist, my pointer finger thumps the canister.  Holding the wheel with both elbows,  I pinch a wad and cram it between my bottom lip and gums. 

     Expectantly, eagerly, I anticipate the tingle, the blissful euphoria from the sudden upload of nicotine. Any minute …any second…waiting…then…SLAM! Pain explodes from my jaw through my skull. A burning sensation begins in my mouth and Holy God Almighty help me! Flames shoot up from my bottom lip! I’m on fire!

     Again, I stomp the brake, throw open the door and spew my guts out—this time spitting fire like some sort of dragon with a stomach virus. A glance in the mirror shows me bubbled skin and charred flesh that used to be my bottom jaw. 

     Smoke billows up from the floorboard and I remember I’d poured gasoline all over my favorite cowboy boots. I shuck em off, fast as I can, fore my feet spontaneously combust. I feel a hot spot on my right buttock. Quick as a flash, I toss out the rest of the snuff fore it burns my right cheek like a roasted Boston Butt. 

     “Dagnabbit!” I cuss to myself, cause there ain’t  nobody else around. “It’s like a man can’t be a redneck anymore. Tossed my Shoney’s, changed my music, threw out my boots and now I can’t enjoy a nice nicotine buzz from my snuff! What is the world comin to?” 

     Ain’t no street lights out here, so I turn my headlights on. I ain’t got the best nighttime eyes, but I swear I seen that Tesla again. Dang thing’s off the road in a thicket. My headlights ricochet off that creepy eye stuck to the bumper. It’s watching me. I feel dirty. 

     That sounds crazy, don’t it? See, me and Chuck took the Ford muddin’ earlier off road near the Chattahoochee River. Red Georgia clay glopped and caked near bout every speck of my pick up. Course that means it’s also all over me. Got mud in my mullet. Even my whitey-tightys turnt a glorious shade of red-orange. Now that I think about it, don’t know when I last changed my underwear.

      I run my fingers through the party side of my hair and draw back clods of red clay oozing with unwashed hair oil. My own funky body odor wafts up from my crotch. It’s itching, too, from the dirty feeling—right in my butthole.

          I twitch and wiggle, trying to scratch till my eyes water. It ain’t working. My skin’s crawlin so bad. Are bugs on me? Spiders. Ticks. Chiggers. No-see-ums. Gnats in my mouth. Biting, pinching, feasting on my skin. Layin eggs in my hair. Worms. I can’t stand it no more!

No time to stop; I peel off my jeans and filthy underpants. I slough off my wife-beater tee and chuck it all out the window. 

   A sliver of relief soothes my itchy skin, but I’m still feeling all kinds of wrong. 

   My mouth feels full of rocks and my tongue’s thick with grime from puking twice. It’s a familiar feeling that I usually enjoy— a nice surprise. Like when I’m hungry and I find a chunk of last night’s chicken in my teeth. Some folks visit the dentist, but that ain’t for me. It’d be a waste of money seein as how I ain’t got all my teeth. 

     I’m feeling stumped, though. My usual backwoods, redneck reasoning’s failing me—gone right out the window with my pants. All I want to do is fill my mouth with minty Colgate and brush till the cows come home.

     My headlights shine on a dip in the road, letting me know things is changing. The asphalt disappears into orange as I bump onto a dirt road. It’s too dark to see anything cept trees. Not that I mind trees. In fact, I spend most of my time hiding in trees, hunting deer. My mind wanders back to last week, when I scored myself a 10 point buck…

     I remember my legs going to sleep from sitting on em for so long up in my deer stand. Maybe I’d dozed off a couple times, but I heard the buck rustling through the bushes, probably looking for berries. Startled me awake and I almost tumbled outta the tree. I seen it step into a strand of dewy sunlight. What a glorious creature it was!  Biggest rack I ever seen. Taut muscles rippling under tawny fur, broad-chested with tufts of white, curling at the edges. Flaring nostrils with frosty puffs of chilled autumn air. Around one eye, a ring of chocolate brown like an eye patch.

     Only took one shot to put it down, make it mine. I climbed down and watched it take its last breath, that ringed eye trained on me. Thing is, it didn’t look scared like all the other deer I’d killed. It looked pissed off. Didn’t bother me none, though, I was too busy feeling the rush of the kill. 

     I chopped off its head and sent it to Chuck to be mounted. He brought it to me fore we went muddin earlier.

     A brown swish flicks through my headlights, triggering my foot to slam on brakes. They lock up on me and the tires skid over the dirt road. The thing in the road is not spooked. It stands its ground, facing me, the biggest rack I ever seen, lowered like a bull— aimed at me. 

     The world moves in slow motion as I raise my arms over my face in a feeble attempt to stop the impending collision. Antlers tear through the hood, ripping apart the engine on their way up to the windshield. Exploding through the driver’s side, shards of glass spew in all directions like a deadly sprinkler. The rack impales the cushion on either side of me and traps me in my seat. 

     The truck spins out of control and stops only by colliding with a pine tree. Pine needles and cones rain over the deer that is now protruding from my truck’s windshield. Contact with the tree jars my shotgun off its post behind my head, causing it to discharge. My ears ring wah wah wah. Blood drips off my lobes. 

     I come to, realizing I blacked out. Am I seeing things? The deer I hit weren’t no deer at all, but the mounted head of the buck I’d killed last month. There it is…not in the bed of my truck where I’d put it earlier. It’s stuck through my windshield and holding me hostage in my own truck. 

     Holy smokes! It’s opening its eye—the one with the circle round it. Reflecting back at me in that eye…no. It can’t be. But it is! It’s that bumper sticker. It sees me! Oh my God it sees me! It feels me and I feel it! The pain, sharp, stifling, penetrates my chest and stops my heart. Darkness. I can’t see! Terror and utter, empty, aloneness. I hate this. I hate myself. Please, make it stop! Here I am, pinned to my seat by massive dear antlers. I’m naked, filthy and crying my eyes out. 

———————

     “Well, now look who’s decided to wake up and join the land of the living! Welcome back, Errol!” A nurse with a big, hairy mole on her lip greets me heartily. I smile, running my tongue over my mouthful of teeth that taste minty fresh. 

     Chuck’s in a chair by my bed. 

     “You shore nuff gave us a scare, buddy! A forest ranger happened upon you and brought you to the hospital. Ain’t so good for your old truck, though. Turns out there was some kind of lawsuit, so you get a couple hunnard-thousand dollars for all this. You better get yourself a plan to spend it before the government spends it for you.”

     “Well, my dear friend, Charles. I do believe you have a valid point. I shall be conducting myself in an entirely different manner from now on. Thank you for all that you’ve done for me. Now, please summon the nurse on your way out.” Before he leaves, I clasp his hand in mine and gaze deeply into his eyes. “You truly are a dear friend, Charles. Let us plan for brunch on Wednesday, shall we?”

     Examining myself in the mirror, I smile at my clean-shaven upper lip. I’m feeling ever so much healthier as I don my crisply ironed khakis and argyle polo. A bit of hair gel combed through my smartly trimmed hair keeps me looking neat and tidy. The nurse returns as I slip into a pair of shiny new loafers.

     “I’d like to thank you for helping me recover from my recent terrifying, but life-altering experience. I’d like to request a vegan entrée and a ride to somewhere special, please.”

     “Where would you like to go?”

     “To the nearest Tesla dealership.” 

     The nurse nods, jiggling the hairs protruding from her mole. She turns to walk away.

There, embroidered into the back of her uniform, is the glaring eye from the bumper sticker, winking at me. Watching me. Changing me.

THE END