Tales From Mudlick

Mudlick Road is a happening place.

I know, because sometimes I drive on Mudlick on my way to work. The road seems to draw the worst drivers and, seemingly, the most idiotic behavior. Take today, for example: Charlene, who takes great pride in her hair as exemplified by the combing, spraying, and teasing it while tailgating me this morning, almost rear ended me when I slow for Bobby Joe and his farm tractor. Note that the tractor has a lawn-cutting implement attached to it and that he was mowing the shoulder of the infamous avenue so that we can all get a better view of all of the Budweiser cans and Marlboro Light butts underneath. Hey, I love green too, but sometimes a feller has a hankering for something to break up the continuity. As much as I hate litter, I find it interesting for the first 1/5,000 of a second because the white can offers an aesthetically pleasing contrast to the otherwise pristine nature trying to sweep it under its rug.

While Bobby Joe is unearthing these artifacts, which seem to predate Reagan's second term, his partner Billy Ray is working the other side of the road. That's where the overhanging branches are, which he's trimming with his powered-by-a-Hemi tractor. Bear in mind that neither of these entrepreneurs was willing to waste time by placing "men working" signs around the blind curve they were working. Law? What's law? Charlene, who has now finished her magnificent coif, is now embarking on the oh-so-important task of running laps around her mouth with Revlon's finest "Run Away With Me To Madagascar" lipstick of unknown hue. At the very last microsecond, she decides to step on the brake pedal, thereby avoiding treating my Accord to a brand new paint job. Bobby Joe and Billy Ray, meanwhile, decide that the best time to hold a conference is when they're astride from each other and blocking traffic coming in both directions. The topic du jour is, ironically enough, about reminding each other to watch for "dangerous traffic". I'm sensing that I might be late to work, so I honk the Accord's horn. The cold stare issued by both men reminds me to purchase a 180 decibel train horn from the latest JC Whitney catalog on payday. "Guaranteed to get their attention", reads the advertisement.

Indeed.

I inch slowly past this potential scene from "Deliverence" while Charlene is now honking her horn at the guys, who, for all I know, are giving her pointers on how to apply lipstick while tailgating. Maybe putting on lipstick is similar to trimming branches in ways I've never encountered. Or Billy Ray might run his own salon as a sideline business: free hedge trimming with every purchase of "Gunk! By Loreal." Whatever the case, I'm late to work, so now I must move like an evading Navy SEALS Team 6 around 471 cars, 89 minivans, 212 suvs, and 23 motorcycles. While the radio blasts "We're Not Gonna Take It Anymore", I slip past these vehicles deftly -so much so, in fact, that when I got home from work this evening my answering machine held an invitation from Richard Petty to be a backup driver for one of his race teams.

I'm holding out: I want my race car to be solid green, except for small, white cylindrical shapes dotting its silhouette.

Bobby Joe would want it that way.