Here I am in Alabammy, sippin’ sweet tea with my mammy and pappy. It’s hot here. Like as soon as I step outside I’m moist. Which we all know is the essence of beauty, right? Actually, my body has evolved out of its former adaptation to this environment and my moistness is closer to soppy wetness. I’m like a cat that’s overheated, panting and staying as close to the cement (that’s pronounced “SEE-ment”) as I can, always sprinting for the shade.
My parents are doing well. Their life and home are as orderly and neat as ever. We took a walk around the block this morning with their dog, Bootsie–the same walk that I’ve taken with them since they put in the street behind the house making it possible to have a block to walk around. We first bumped into Trudi–Mrs. Simms–who lives next door. She’s married to a railroad man, who used to be this really large grumpy character but who found Jesus a few years ago and was told to take better care of his “temple,” so he lost 100 pounds and prays on the lawn in the morning. The Simms’ house is like where Hansel and Gretel’s parents would live, with a densely planted blackforest-themed front yard populated with little gnomes and mythical figures, big fake geraniums on the porch. Further up Red Hollow Road Dad pointed out where a car recently smashed into–through–Mr. Neighbor’s field stone mailbox and into his beautiful old cherry tree. The driver broke a leg, ribs, and some other bones, saying that he was blinded suddenly by a bright light. If he had been blinded by anything light, it was a 12-pack of Light beer. As we made our way around the block, I noticed that almost every other tree near the road had a big chunk taken out of it. And then we bumped into Mr. Ousely, “Otis,” who’s 80 now. He always shakes my hand and says, “You’re from San Francisco? I was there in the Navy–came in under the bridge and left over it,” just like he always does. I get fidgety whenever we chat with Mr. Ousely because my Dad, who’s this real liberal intellectual character, suddenly reverts into a racist cracker. He assumes that all white older southerners with thick accents are racist, and bonds with them by making gross generalizations about the cultural, religious, or ethnic background of the subjects of their breeze-shooting. Whenever I point out that he’s making a racist comment, he just laughs, like my lack of humor is elitist and to be pitied. The last high point on our walk was the little doggie who lives with the Vietnamese neighbors, of whom my dad, surprisingly, has never made any racist statements. The little pooch, who has this mega huge backyard to play in, is always smushed up against the fence, yearning for the world beyond his 3/4-acre enclosure. His fur is like white velvet, and looking at him elicits an involuntary “awwwwww,” like looking at one of those sappy framed studio dog portraits that every dog-loving great-aunt has in her guest room that you giggle at but really want to cuddle up with.
Tomorrow I’m going Junkin’ with James, my fabulous homosexualist friend, no longer a fugitive from justice, but still living with his mom and dad, who, incidentally, smoke like chimneys and whom I adore but can’t visit for very long because of the air-conditioned Chernobyl-like cloud of smoke in their house, and then it’s off to dinner and the drive-in with Susan!