Into each life a little redneck must fall . . .

A WISE WOMAN once told me not to feel too bad about winding up with another Redneck, consoling me with,”Listen, Honey, into each life, a little redneck must fall.”

I’m finished re-issuing Scoop (the book that won Mystery Guild Author of the Month) and am working on two projects right now, and last night, this one kept me awake. The problem I’ve had with it is, I didn’t know what my Theme was. And of course, it came thundering in on my frontal lobe last night as I lay me down to sleep.

Friendship–who knew?

So I’m back on Redneckedness with a fervor, and we’ll see how long that lasts . . .

Well, you’d think I’d ’bout found my Tolerance Level–you know that point where you’ve had about all you can take until you just keel over right where you stand. But you’d be wrong.

Sometimes you just reach that redneck Limit early.  But I only have to bang my head on a brick wall five or six times before I learn my lesson (for my first brush with Redneckedness, click here).

My life with Redneck Fluf, was chock full of adventure, and he didn’t believe in making reservations for hotels, motels or eating establishments.

Oh, I’m sure he believed that reservations could be made, he just didn’t believe he was the one who would make them.

the-kings-motel-restaurant

The King’s Motel: We got Wateh Beds . . .

And because he didn’t believe in reservations, we spent the first night of our honeymoon at The King’s Motel–in Dallas–which had a light up marquis out front announcing “WE GOT WATEH BEDS!” all in capital letters.

Wateh Beds. Not to be confused with What-a-Burger. Come to think of it, sleeping at a What-a-Burger would have been preferable. At least they’re clean and you can order a What-a-Chicken . . .

What-a-Burger--better sleeping than Wateh Beds . . .

What-a-Burger–better sleeping than Wateh Beds . . .

The motel did indeed have waterbeds, but it did not have functioning sheets.

Now, I try not to be a snob. But throughout the course of my short life, I had never before (or since) slept on ripped sheets in my travel accommodations.

Outside our “room,” Low-rider cars (you know those cars–the old model gas guzzlers de-mufflered and de-shock-absorbered) circled the parking lot like blood-baited barracudas, and while I usually try to remain open minded, I have to admit–I was spooked.

Yes. Some people prefer no mufflers. And no shock absorbers

Yes. Some people prefer no mufflers. And no shock absorbers

The place was in the dodgey end of Dallas, where people would just as soon kill you as look at you. And the inside was worse than the outside.

Not only were torn sheets on the touted watah-bed, the lock on the door was broken. Or more specifically, the doorjamb around the lock was broken–it appeared to have been kicked in. By police. I hoped . . .

“We-e-ell, I guess I better go re-park the truck and butt it up against the door,” Fluf said, jingling his keys as he prepared to lock us into the room, one way or another.

“Because the door won’t lock?” I stammered.

King's Motel water beds

Oh sure. You could sleep peacefully here, right?

“That, and those yahoo’s’ll prob’ly steal my tailgate.”

When he came back in (by climbing into the back-bed of the pickup and into the unlocked door), he seemed disappointed that I didn’t change into the sweet little nighty I bought for the occasion because I wasn’t about to get naked in that room.

I did change clothes, however. Or more precisely, added clothes onto what I was already wearing. Because the sheets were ripped right down to the patched waterbed mattress, I opted put on a second pair of pants and a second shirt hoping to ward off mites, deadly microbes and any kind of bad juju lurking in the corners. The room had a mini-bar stocked with Bud Lite, but it should’ve come with a can of Raid and a Kevlar vest . . .

Now, Fluf can sleep anywhere, at anytime, even standing up in the crows nest of an oil

Oil Derrik: Still better sleeping than The King's Motel

Oil Derrik: Still better than trying to get some shut-eye at The King’s Motel

derrik (he’s done that more than once, I’m told), and as he was about to drift off, he whispered, “Listen.”

“What am I listening for?” I whispered back, hoping it was for rats, mice or bedbugs.

Ears pricked, he said, “You hear that? There’s a guy outside our door doing a crack deal.”

I just stared at him, as he laid there with his eyes closed.

“Okay. That’s it,” I said. “I want to go home.”

We didn’t.

And there would be many, many days (and nights) when I just wanted to go home. We were together for five years, and had more adventures than you can shake a stick at–some of the adventures were hilarious–some heartbreaking, but that’s a story for another time.

In fact, on that same trip, he managed to find similar accommodations in Las Vegas. Never say something’s impossible . . .

In many ways, Fluf and I grew up together.

I experienced a lot of things I’d never before (or again) seen and done. And believe it or not, I’m glad of that . . .

 

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