Several
years ago, my husband was transferred to the vast wasteland we call Southwest
Kansas. I know, I know; you are
more than likely thinking “Isn’t all of Kansas a barely uninhabitable wasteland?" The answer is yes and no, leaning heavier on the latter. It is a rather unusual
state, like many, lopsided in culture, geography and arguably the first notch
in the Bible Belt—so much so that if you listen closely the wind gently
whistles the Sermon on the Mount over the wheat fields. On the East side we
have trees, lakes, hills, symphonies, malls, running water, cell phone
reception, Starbucks, and of course Kansas City with it’s famous jazz and
barbeque. Once you hit the middle of the
state, heading west, it rapidly turns into dirt, tumbleweeds, cows, pigs,
sporadic cell phone service and the occasional tree. It’s ugly, barren, flat, colorless and
depressing—with each passing mile that direction, your serotonin levels plummet
until you are left with nothing but a vague memory of what happiness once felt
like.
Honestly, it was like living in a redneck time warp. If
you have ever wondered where retired American culture goes to die; this area
was a melting pot for mullets, starter jackets, Barbra Mandrell, the Miami Vice
look (yay, Sonny Crockett?) and all things Larry the Cable Guy. I’m pretty
sure the morning prayer at schools was the
Second Amendment.
Let’s just say it
wasn’t my kind of place. The culture and environment was so foreign to me, my brain was whirling in a chronic spin cycle trying to grasp the insanity of small town, hick-ish life. It became evident the following event was to become part of daily life out there in the boonies. I was deeply offended by the stench that loomed in that area. This was cattle and pig country, which made me gag every time I
went outside. It was a strange compilation that could only be described as
rotten pumpkin, cattle with irritable bowel syndrome and burnt hair. You could cut
the air and slice it like a week old bundt cake—it was utterly repugnant.
The first night I was there, I had gone to a local gas station for a Diet Coke where
a couple caught my eye.
I don’t know why, but I assumed they were passing through
town by the items they were purchasing; lottery tickets, beer, ice, two cartons
of cigarettes. They were trying to make
a decision on which creepy collector doll to purchase—the kind of doll whose
only purpose is to harvest the souls of children.
The man was tall, unkept and just plain homely. His wife bared a striking resemblance to Janis
Joplin—with long brown stringy hair down to the middle of her waist.
She was about three meth hits away from having
dreadlocks. Her decayed teeth had a foreboding death grip on her swollen gums
and spit chased every word she uttered.
There was nothing gentle nor feminine about her voice; sounding as if she
had just slammed back a keg of asphalt. Her Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt had cigarette
burns everywhere as if she had used it as a make shift ashtray. She wore a pair
of faded cut off jeans, which appeared to be quite uncomfortable judging by the
way she was waddling around as if she had a corn cob shoved up her ass.
The couple actually made me smile as I watched them
interact. They playfully teased and bantered with each other as they paid for
their items. I immediately thought to myself; Shame on you, for being so judgmental. Look at them; they are enjoying
each other’s company.
I got my Diet Coke and got in line behind Janis who had
finally made a decision on which doll to purchase. As I stood behind this dapper
couple, I noticed something disturbing.
After paying, Janis blurted out at the decibel level of a
stealth bomber; “Where’s ya bathroom? I just crapped ma pants”.
The store clerk, with a look of disbelief on her face and her jaw almost on the counter, slowly put her hand up and pointed towards the restroom. I stood there embracing the moment, struggling desperately not to burst into laughter.
She sauntered off, casually, heading to the bathroom
yelling “I’ma gunna be a bit. Gotta rinse ma shorts off.”
