Thank God it's over. I am starting to dread each and every holiday that comes around. This one used to be my favorite. When I move back into the real world, I am starting to suspect that I will be that one guy who actually shows up in the office on the 4th or New Year's Day.
Sunday night, I was outside my house about midnight, smoking and reading a book. There was a strange truck parked outside the house next door; a house no one lives in. The truck had its interior lights on. For the next hour or so, these lights would go on and off and voices of a foul-mouthed old man, drunk off his ass and damn grumpy, and at least two little boys. They were all arguing as to who had get in the front. The creepiest part was that I had just discovered that very day that a convicted child molestor lives three doors down -- an old man.
I'm sure it was just that grandpa came into town for the fireworks with the younguns and got to drunk on whiskey and/or beer to drive his sorry white trash ass home and was trying to sleep it off on a quiet little out of the way street. Maybe. Anyhow, later that night, I couldn't sleep and the truck was gone.
For the first time in my life, I thought of calling the cops. Then I remembered all the times I slept in my car. Presumptions are strange things ... but I have learned to expect the worst from my white, rural Southern neighbors. In many respects, they are as bad as we uppity liberals paint them.
PS-- they were also shooting fireworks, and guns, well into the night at the redneck hostelry/party house across the street. Thank god we didn't all end up British, huh?
