O Brother, Thou Art Here

Now, looky here.  I ain't much of one to make a fuss about that 14-year old boy whose children's doctor father couldn't keep under control.  But me and the missus, we watch ourselves in public all the same.  We listen to them fancy words them others use like Sanskrit, Arabic and such just as much as we listen to them mountain boys and inner city boys with their warrin' words.  Boys'll be boys.

Well, now, see, me and the missus, we like to take trips ever now and then.  See what this fair country of ours has to offer, it bein' the home of the free and the Braves.

Wasn't too long ago we was drivin' through the countryside, taking that big ol' interstate highway just to see what all the fuss is about.

What fuss, you ask?

The boys over at the co-op, most of 'em is purty good people.  Our families, if they ain't kin, have known each other long afore the Civil War, and a few of us have land connections goin' back to the War of 1812 and one or two back as far as the American Revolution.  Some of the families has been cavortin' with each other a bit too much so we get a fair share of folks who ain't all there in one way or t'other.

Bill is one of those I's referrin' to specific like.  Bill's a good boy.  He pulls his load.  Always has, always will.  But Bill's not always sure about the way things is.  He gets confused about who's runnin' the show.

At least that's what me and the boys had figured out.  Until this last trip me and the missus took.

See, Bill's been tellin' us for many a year that there's a secret ain't nobody 'round here's been told about.  Bill said he was out one night chasin' lightnin' bugs when he seen a bunch of commotion out by the highway.  He walked across the Carters' property and the Gilberts' property until he got up by the interstate guardrails.  There, to his amazement, he seen these funny lookin' men wearin' light blue uniforms and they was makin' funny marks on the back o' highway signs.

I tell you I've heard this story of Bill's more times than a dog licks his hindquarters.  And it smells just as funny every time.

Bill sometimes'd mention he saw one of them fellers drop a pair o' special glasses on the ground.  Bill never would say what happened to the glasses.

Just before me and the missus took our trip, I stopped by the co-op to refreshen my supply of chewin' tobaccy and snuff.  The missus has a thing for that mentholated snuff so I makes sure I keep her an extra can in case we caint find none on the road.  Just as I was puttin' the goods on my IOU card at the checkout counter, I  noticed a pair o' sunglasses I ain't never seen before.  I put them on the IOU, too, and walked out.

In the sunshine, them glasses was useless even though they had shiny tinted lenses so I threw the glasses on the bench seat in the truck and drove me and the ol' lady onto the two-lane that takes you from the co-op on down to our one city traffic light.

The light was red so I sat and waited for the light to change.  It's got a little hitch to it 'cause it won't change unlessin' someone comes up to both sides of the light so we sat a good spell.

The missus asked me why I bought the sunglasses when I already had three or four pair sittin' on the dashboard.  I told her you caint never have enough of 'em 'cause you need one for mornin' light, one for noontime light, one for afternoon light and one for lookin' good at the burger bar on Saturdays.  I love my ol' lady but she don't understand nothin' about men.

Well, since I weren't wearin' them new glasses, the missus put 'em on.  She looked real good in 'em, too.  The tint made her eyes all purty and blue, even though she's normally got hazel-green eyes.

Just afore the light changed, the missus asked me what that writin' was inside the green light.  I told there weren't no writin' in the green light.  She told me there was but couldn't prove it by me.  The light changed and Cled was in his 4x4 behind me revvin' his engine so I tore on out o' there to show him it ain't about the size of your shocks but how you use your stickshift that matters.

As we approached the noisy interstate highway that my pa still blames on what has torn this country asunder and won't never be fixed until we get rid of cell phones, CDs and MP3 players and get back to the good ol' days of CBs, 8-tracks and rotary phones, the missus asked me why there would be signs pointin' out where the tanks and ammunition dumps is located.

Ever now and then, me and the missus like to put a little hooch in our tobaccy.  It kinda juices up the taste and gives you a buzz while you're sittin' on the back porch after downin' two or three steaks with the kin and listenin' to a NASCAR race on the radio.  So, I figured the ol' lady'd snuck a pint of hooch into the truck and was playin' around with me.

"What tanks?"

"That's what I'm askin' you 'bout!"

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"Right there on that sign, darlin'!  There's a bunch o' blue words!"

I looked to where she was pointin' and all I could see was the galvanized backside of one of them interstate highway signs that usually tells you ya got more miles to go than you want to know.

A buddy of mine's got a little factory down in a holler 'bout two or three miles from our doublewide.  He does a bunch o' odd jobs to keep the bills paid, including some galvanizin' work for the state gub'ment.  He makes the signs to the gub'ment's specifications and they take the signs and slap on whatever green and white coverin' they needs for wherever they're puttin' the signs.  I've watched him work and I ain't never seen him put no blue words on the signs which means either my missus was pullin' my leg or the gub'ment was pullin' the wool over our eyes.

"Now how come you can see them words and I caint?  You hittin' the hooch without me?"

"You know I wouldn't do that."  She turned her head and the glasses slipped down on her nose.  She turned back around and let out a hoot.  "Well, looky there.  I caint see them words now."

I might've repeated fifth grade but I ain't dumb.  I just was spendin' more time on the football field, the baseball field and the tobacco fields than what Mrs. Bridges told my folks I oughta be doin' in order not to be socially promoted.  I like Mrs. Bridges.  She's a real good Sunday school teacher but she don't always know what's good for a farmer's son, so my pa told me.

Anyway, I took one look at the missus and wondered if'n it might be them glasses that was causin' her to see visions.

"Let me have those glasses, willya?"

"Sure, honey."

I put those shades on and lordy be, sure 'nough there was a bunch of words, not only on the sign in front of us but also on the reflectors runnin' up the side of the interstate.  Tanks, ammunition, the amount of each at the nearest location five miles away.

"Darlin', I think these glasses ain't shades.  I think these're them glasses that Bill saw them funny fellers wearin'."

"What're you talkin' 'bout?"

I pulled the truck off t'the side o' of the road and proceeded to tell her Bill's story, word for word.  I think the missus woulda laughed off my story, she knowin' Bill like the rest of us, but these glasses sure made a case for what Bill seen that night.  We decided then and there to follow the road signs and see just what, if any, truth there was to Bill's story or if this was some sort of gub'ment hoax meant to hide somethin' even bigger.

I pulled back on the interstate, wavin' at a feller drivin' a tractor-trailer rig like the one my uncle Jimmy rides and drove on down to the next exit where them signs said the ammo dump was located.

You ain't from 'round here so I'll tell you 'bout this exit.  It was nothin' for a long time.  Then, them Overbys, them come into some money.  Nobody's for certain how they got it but they put that money into a flea market.  At first, it were a bunch of metal sheds.  Then, after the flea market business was good in the '90s, they expanded and build a long metal storage buildin', bringin' all them outdoor flea market stands inside.  Business really took off after that so they added two or three more buildin's and afore you know it, they was practically runnin' a shoppin' mall, with kiddie rides, an ice cream shop, a gun shop, a garden shop and an oil change place.  They also built a gas station out by the exit.  We call it the one-stop shoppin' extravaganzer.

Well, wouldn't ya know the signs all pointed to the Overbys' place but it weren't the flea market but a big hill out behind back I ain't never noticed before.  The signs led me and the missus to a big gate with one of them push-button entry things you see at the fancy entrance to that gated community built for rich retirees over toward the outskirts of town.

Did I tell you I was a juvvy?  That's juvenile delinquent to you town folks.  I was good at bustin' into stores and takin' cash registers back before storeowners got smart and put their money in banks at night.  Well, them juvvy days taught me one thing.  A big lock means there's big stuff somebody's not wantin' you t'see.

I took one look at the missus and she grinned real big.  We nodded at each other, meanin' we both agreed we had to see this thing to the end or we'd just be itchin' with curiosity the rest o' our lives.  So, I parked the truck over near some other folks' vehicles and the missus and me wandered over to the fence back behind the buildin' where we figured nobody's goin' to be lookin'.

I found an old drink cup on the parkin' lot and tossed it over the fence.  The missus and me pretended that she wanted the drink cup back so we both hopped the fence.  I picked up the cup and led the ol' lady up over the hill as fast as we could, lookin' back to make sure no one was takin' a gander at what we was doin'.

Glory, glory, hallelujah, the truth is marchin' on.  There, over the top of the hill was a couple o' guards standin' in front of a big door.  It was bigger than the door at the tractor-trailer quick oil change place down at the other interstate exit.  Them guards and the doors was painted sky blue.  With the glasses on, I could read that this was Hostile Crowd Control Ammunition Storage Facility #348.  I shook my head.  The missus said the sign read State Agricultural Test Station without the glasses on.

One thing I didn't figure on was runnin' into no armed guards.  We'd left the shotgun and rifle in the truck although both me and the missus had our shoulder-harnessed firearms on us.  Well, I like a firearm showdown just as much as the next feller, as long as I'm watchin' it on TV, that is.  Unlessin' someone's tryin' to break into my place or messin' with kin.  But this weren't no backyard family quarrel.  This was official professionally trained guards up against the county turkey shoot champions.

Me and the missus backed down offa that hill as quiet as our young'ns sneakin' out at night to go skinny dippin'.  Once we got back to the parkin' lot, we drove as slow as Grandpa Jake on the way to his weekly barber appointment, he bein' bald and never havin' no real set appointment time, just a place to sit a spell and get away from his sister, Great-aunt Agatha.  We took our sweet time.  We weren't lookin' t'raise any gub'ment flags or get pulled over by no county mounties on our way back to our home and castle.

You asked me why I'm sellin' these glasses for two hundred and fifty dollars and this here story's why.  They ain't no regular glasses.  You been about the hundredth person's been askin' me why but you's the first person who seems a bit more curious and maybe just almost believin' that what I'm tellin' ya is true.  I won't give you no refunds.  You buy these glasses and you gotta keep 'em.  Not only that but you caint come back 'round here no more after you sees they works.  I'm tired o' worryin' about trouble from someone I don't know - you get into trouble with these on your own time.  I was gonna throw 'em away but the ol' lady said someone'd stop by our weekly yard sale one day and be willin' to pay big bucks for these glasses, all on account of the way I tell the story so truthfully.  Most of you city folk who stop by make fun of my backwoods 'Big Brother' conspiracies, whatever that means, but some of ya, I can tell by your eyes, you knows I'm tellin' the truth.  So you gonna buy 'em or not?  Cause if you ain't, then I want you t'look at these autographed limited edition prints of Darryl Waltrip and Rusty Wallace.  They're a real bargain, too, for authentic reproductions.