Memorial Weekend
Sorry for the hiatus, it’s been a busy couple of weeks. I would like to interrupt the New York series for a look at the Memorial Weekend, and how I went from having a car shot up with a shotgun to playing my best game of golf in seven years.
Thursday started off at the regular pace, slow and languid throughout the workday. That night I was going to Nashville airport to pick up John who was coming into town from Detroit to check on his house and play a little golf. Of course, John’s plane was delayed and instead of landing at 9:30 it came in at about midnight-ish. On the way back to Paris we hit a huge spot of rain and eventually rolled back into town at 3 in the morning. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t have to get up in three hours to drive to Clarksville for work.
Friday morning started off with a flourish and a shudder as I woke up early (heah…shut up. Stranger things have happened) and left for Clarksville with my boss driving at approximately 6:30. When we arrived at the Clarksville location the first call I get is from Justin back at the Paris office. Apparently, sometime in the night one of our rental cars had been savagely attacked while the renter was away and now it lay broken and demoralized in the guy’s driveway.
To better explain the circumstances surrounding the nighttime attack, let me paint a portrait so that you can see the kind of people we deal with on a daily basis. When we get the assignment for this guy the first thing I notice is that it is going to Big Sandy. That is usually not a big deal, but then I notice the actual address and realize that we about to see God’s country. Big Sandy is a small town that borders on the Tennessee River, and if you leave the confines of the actual town and head toward the outlying residences near the water you can bet on one of two things. Either the house will be a nice summer cottage on the lake, or it will be redneckiest shack you have ever seen with eight cars up on blocks, roughly eighty-five coon dogs baying in the back, and a genuine hand-made noose hanging from one of the trees. Unfortunately we were about to visit the later.
When I pulled up the guy’s address on MapQuest to get directions the screen actually started laughing and showed me an image of Ned Beatty in Deliverance before clicking over to the map. The town of Big Sandy is only thirty minutes from Paris, but it took us another twenty minutes of back-roads to get to the guy’s house. As soon as I turned onto his “road” (a dirt track with just enough room to fall off the embankment should another vehicle decided to come from the other direction) I swear I heard banjos, a white man squealing like a pig, and a black man screaming. I turned off the radio, and cut short Michael Jackson’s revised version of Thriller, and listened to the quiet of the country. Even the crickets were too scared to sing out here. The guy’s trailer was lavishly decorated with a variety of broken washers and dryers, and seemed to follow the early style of Fuck (as represented by the harsh tilt to port, the miss-matched siding, and the roof that was more rust than aluminum). We rented to him on Thursday morning.
On Friday morning…the car had been shot with a shotgun while sitting in his driveway/patio/swimming pool deck. Apparently he had either fucked the wrong wife or the wrong pig because someone was mad enough at him to stand at the driver side windows and pump a shotgun blast into the car, peppering the opposite side buck-shot and blowing out those windows as well. This meant that I had to do a lot of paperwork in-between all the traveling I had to do, and the rest of the day was a blur of forms, white-out, yellow lines, and gas stations. The oblivion of sleep came early at the brisk hour of midnight.
Saturday was a pretty good day. Woke up late at 9:00, and spent most of the day driving John around so that he could take care of money and house business while he was here. The rest of the day was spent just relaxing and discussing what had been happening since New York. I had the line on two dates for us that night, but got stiffed late in the day by the women. So I caught word of a local band, The John Sutton Band, that was playing at the Elk Lodge and we headed over for some beers. The band was excellent, the eight beers and six shots of Jägermeister were excellent, and the women were out in abundance. John and I closed the bar down at 3:oo am playing shuffleboard with Whitey and Charlie, and all in all it was a good night.
The next morning I was singing a different tune as we drug our asses out of bed at eight o’clock. I was still slightly drunk when John and I met Justin at the links, and the first drive was an exercise in patience and concentration. Basically I planted the tee, stepped back, and took my swing all in one motion. No practice, no sissy lining up. Unfortunately I whiffed and, after suffering the laughter of John and Justin, I actually lined up and took my shot. It was the best drive I have hit in the last seven outings, and by that I mean it entered the trees only 75 yards from the green instead of 75 yards from the tee box. Pure magic.
I ended the day with a 60…on nine holes. Hey, get off my back. I mean it…stop laughing at my score. That’s the best game I’ve played in, like, seven years. I suppose the secret is being drunk when you play. Millions of amateur golfers can’t be wrong, right? After golf, my parents’ had a BBQ at their house, where I had to do all of the grilling, and the rest of the day was spent in steak heaven.
Monday was a driving day. On the way to take John back to the airport we stopped at Cuba Landing on the Tennessee River to see our friend Chuck and his wife, Eva. We stayed there too long and when I finally got John to the airport he was just barely in time to be told that his plane was delayed. That was a close call. After getting back to Paris I had to go into the office to (gasp in mock amazement) do paperwork. Tuesday…it was back to the craziness.
Thursday started off at the regular pace, slow and languid throughout the workday. That night I was going to Nashville airport to pick up John who was coming into town from Detroit to check on his house and play a little golf. Of course, John’s plane was delayed and instead of landing at 9:30 it came in at about midnight-ish. On the way back to Paris we hit a huge spot of rain and eventually rolled back into town at 3 in the morning. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t have to get up in three hours to drive to Clarksville for work.
Friday morning started off with a flourish and a shudder as I woke up early (heah…shut up. Stranger things have happened) and left for Clarksville with my boss driving at approximately 6:30. When we arrived at the Clarksville location the first call I get is from Justin back at the Paris office. Apparently, sometime in the night one of our rental cars had been savagely attacked while the renter was away and now it lay broken and demoralized in the guy’s driveway.
To better explain the circumstances surrounding the nighttime attack, let me paint a portrait so that you can see the kind of people we deal with on a daily basis. When we get the assignment for this guy the first thing I notice is that it is going to Big Sandy. That is usually not a big deal, but then I notice the actual address and realize that we about to see God’s country. Big Sandy is a small town that borders on the Tennessee River, and if you leave the confines of the actual town and head toward the outlying residences near the water you can bet on one of two things. Either the house will be a nice summer cottage on the lake, or it will be redneckiest shack you have ever seen with eight cars up on blocks, roughly eighty-five coon dogs baying in the back, and a genuine hand-made noose hanging from one of the trees. Unfortunately we were about to visit the later.
When I pulled up the guy’s address on MapQuest to get directions the screen actually started laughing and showed me an image of Ned Beatty in Deliverance before clicking over to the map. The town of Big Sandy is only thirty minutes from Paris, but it took us another twenty minutes of back-roads to get to the guy’s house. As soon as I turned onto his “road” (a dirt track with just enough room to fall off the embankment should another vehicle decided to come from the other direction) I swear I heard banjos, a white man squealing like a pig, and a black man screaming. I turned off the radio, and cut short Michael Jackson’s revised version of Thriller, and listened to the quiet of the country. Even the crickets were too scared to sing out here. The guy’s trailer was lavishly decorated with a variety of broken washers and dryers, and seemed to follow the early style of Fuck (as represented by the harsh tilt to port, the miss-matched siding, and the roof that was more rust than aluminum). We rented to him on Thursday morning.
On Friday morning…the car had been shot with a shotgun while sitting in his driveway/patio/swimming pool deck. Apparently he had either fucked the wrong wife or the wrong pig because someone was mad enough at him to stand at the driver side windows and pump a shotgun blast into the car, peppering the opposite side buck-shot and blowing out those windows as well. This meant that I had to do a lot of paperwork in-between all the traveling I had to do, and the rest of the day was a blur of forms, white-out, yellow lines, and gas stations. The oblivion of sleep came early at the brisk hour of midnight.
Saturday was a pretty good day. Woke up late at 9:00, and spent most of the day driving John around so that he could take care of money and house business while he was here. The rest of the day was spent just relaxing and discussing what had been happening since New York. I had the line on two dates for us that night, but got stiffed late in the day by the women. So I caught word of a local band, The John Sutton Band, that was playing at the Elk Lodge and we headed over for some beers. The band was excellent, the eight beers and six shots of Jägermeister were excellent, and the women were out in abundance. John and I closed the bar down at 3:oo am playing shuffleboard with Whitey and Charlie, and all in all it was a good night.
The next morning I was singing a different tune as we drug our asses out of bed at eight o’clock. I was still slightly drunk when John and I met Justin at the links, and the first drive was an exercise in patience and concentration. Basically I planted the tee, stepped back, and took my swing all in one motion. No practice, no sissy lining up. Unfortunately I whiffed and, after suffering the laughter of John and Justin, I actually lined up and took my shot. It was the best drive I have hit in the last seven outings, and by that I mean it entered the trees only 75 yards from the green instead of 75 yards from the tee box. Pure magic.
I ended the day with a 60…on nine holes. Hey, get off my back. I mean it…stop laughing at my score. That’s the best game I’ve played in, like, seven years. I suppose the secret is being drunk when you play. Millions of amateur golfers can’t be wrong, right? After golf, my parents’ had a BBQ at their house, where I had to do all of the grilling, and the rest of the day was spent in steak heaven.
Monday was a driving day. On the way to take John back to the airport we stopped at Cuba Landing on the Tennessee River to see our friend Chuck and his wife, Eva. We stayed there too long and when I finally got John to the airport he was just barely in time to be told that his plane was delayed. That was a close call. After getting back to Paris I had to go into the office to (gasp in mock amazement) do paperwork. Tuesday…it was back to the craziness.
posted by Burning Stickman at 9:47 AM
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