The Devil And The Red Go-Go Boots

You know how sometimes when trying to go to sleep your brain decides you’re going to play “let’s reminisce” and it takes you to some event in your life you hadn’t really though of in years? Recently mine took me all the way back to elementary school and a pair of red go-go boots.

Long before the devil went down to Georgia, he attended elementary school with me and went by the name of, Harold Farquar.

Harold was wiry, pasty white boy with sharp features, devil eyes and a pointy nose. His blonde hair was thick especially on top, I suspect to hide the nubs of his horns and the numbers “666” imprinted on his skull. His look was never complete without the cockroach killer cowboy boots he wore – you know the type – so pointy they could be used to kill cockroaches in corners, and they had taps on them so whenever he walked you could hear “click-clack” “click- clack” “click-clack.” Personally I think he wore them because he got some perverse kick out of knowing his victims could hear him coming.

Harold wasn’t selective in the victims he chose, and you didnt need to give him a reason. If he chose you as his intended … you were it.

I found this out one bright sunny day while at recess. My little girlfriends and I were swinging away on the swings when I saw Harold. He locked eyes with me and I knew I had been chosen. He slowly walked up to the swings, walked behind me and proceeded to put his foot in the air, turning it so that when I swung back the points of those boots would land square in the center of my back.

It all happened so fast and the pain was tremendous, but I didn’t cry, I didn’t even acknowledge it had happened. Nope. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

I proceeded to go inside and on the way in I decided Harold had to go down. He had to go down… HARD.

That night at home, I firmed up my plans, and they included a pair of hard toed red go-go boots.

The next day when the recess bell rang, I knew it was time. Time to exact not only my revenge but the revenge for every child Harold had tormented the whole school year. I gathered myself up, went out on the playground and like a lioness, I hunted for my prey. Okay it was more like a little girl with a backache.. but still …

Then I spotted him. Standing with a group of his minions laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. I marched right up to him, he snarled, I smiled and gave him the hardest, swiftest, sharpest kick I could . . . right in his crotch . . . right up between the legs! I knew in my elementary school mind this hurt boys and men, I had seen it on television, I just didn’t know how bad it hurt them.

He fell to the ground and as he did so he let out a wail the likes I had never heard before and have never heard since. There he laid crying, wailing and holding himself.  His minions and all the kids within eye shot range were laughing and pointing.

As I walked away from him I couldn’t help but think that victory was mine!

Victory was short-lived.

Soon my mother was called to the school and she in turn took me home and when my dad got home, she sat me in front of him and told him all about my exploits at school that day.  As she told him, my dad turned colors. He suddenly got a sickish pale look to his face, then he turned completely white, and as I witnessed a sweat bead roll down his face I swear I saw him tremble ever so subtlety.

For the next few weeks as served out my sentence of being grounded and refusing to apologize I often thought about what I had done. I pictured Harold on that day as he lay on the ground in the fetal position. A crumpled sweaty, slobbering shell of his former self . . . and I smiled.

I didn’t see much of Harold around during recess after that, and he didn’t come back to our school the next school year.

I don’t know whatever happened to Harold, but I’d like to think he became a kinder, gentler Harold, and I’d like to think I played a small part in that.

So, Harold if you’re out there and by some chance you’re reading this right now, there is something I want you to know.  .  .

Still not sorry. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

 

 

My Big Fat Redneck Funeral

Even though Ive told this story many times, I always get asked to tell it again. So without further ado . . .

Many many years ago when I was married to the starter husband one of his oldest friend’s brother passed away. We of course attended the funeral, and while at this point in my life I had been to a funeral or two and growing up in the South meant I’d been around rednecks my whole life, nothing and I do mean NOTHING quite prepared me for what I would see that day…and Ive seen some shit!

As we made our way into the funeral home room where the funeral was to take we were met with Elvis music. Not the many hymns he had recorded but rather “Jailhouse Rock.”

That should have been my first clue.

Then I see the wife (who the deceased had been separated from for some time) by the casket practically throwing herself into it and whaling like Ive never heard. All the while she’s doing this the man that she’d been living with since the separation was sitting in the front (family member’s) row checking his watch like he just couldn’t wait to get out of there.

The deceased was wearing pretty much the usual redneck/good ole boy attired – Budweiser ball cap, Harley t-shirt and blue jeans. In the casket and around the back edges were unopened beer bottles, packs of Camels .. you know, the usual stuff a good ole boy would need to carry him into the afterlife.

Then IT happened. . .

The decedent’s mother entered from a side room looking every inch like Dusty Rhodes in lipstick.

She took one look around, zeroed in on the “grieving” widow and took off in a run that would shame any Kentucky Derby winner. She pounced on the widow knocking her back in the chair leaving her sprawled on her back, feet in the air and no underwear. NOT a sight anyone wants to see!

Fists were flying, hair was being pulled, words were being exchanged .. and none of them were of condolences.

Being the now redneck brawl that is was, attendees that were sitting in their chairs were on their feet. Some were screaming encouragement, some were joining in on the free for all.

The poor little funeral director man was wringing his hands, muttering and trying in vain to stop the free for all. I just knew at any minute he was gonna get sucked under all of it and get the stuffing ripped out of him for his troubles.

All the while this was happening Mom and the widow were rolling around, punching air, each other and sometimes the casket. The casket was rocking on its base threatening to topple the dead out and roll him down the aisle like the meatball on top of spaghetti. And the flowers that had been so artfully arranged around the casket were now laying in tattered heaps all over the floor.

This is when it happened – I burst into uncontrollable laughter. I just couldn’t help it; watching it all play out in front of me got the better of me.

The starter husband proceeded to try to tell me how it wasn’t appropriate to laugh at at a funeral (as if what we were seeing was appropriate?)

As I left the room to retreat to our car Elvis was singing  “You Ain’t Nothing But A Hound Dog.”

I didn’t even dare attend the graveside services or the home gathering after it all.

I’m not going to lie though – sometimes I wonder if the second and third match of the day would have been better or worse than the first.

. . .  God, how I miss the South . . .