The old Ford shook when he turned the key. It was like someone was shaking an old box of rusty nails. He fucking loved his truck. It drank gas like it had a leak somewhere–but it didn’t. It just wanted fuel. The truck was white, but the orange Georgia clay it frequently drove through tinted it, and he liked the orange tint on his white truck. It was rugged. It was worn. It could haul some shit.
His jeans were blue, but the fabric dye had worn away considerably on his knees and ass, making them appear white in those spots. A thick belt and large, oval brass buckle completed the ensemble, completing a look that screamed ‘good ole boy.’ The orange clay caked at the bottom of those jeans connected him to the truck, an association in which he reveled.
He treated women the way women deserved to be treated. He opened doors, he spit out his tobacco before he spoke to them. They were a treasure to be treated as such, and to be respected as such. Every woman was a goddess, and he was at worship during their immaculate presence. Goddammit, he was respectful.
The violins on the radio accompanied a banjo, bass and drum beat, the cornerstone of his musical desires. It evoked something in him that was raw, unspoiled by what some people might call ‘classy.’ Well, it had violins, wasn’t that classy enough? They could keep their tuxedos and fluted wine glasses, filled only halfway with a blush wine that sparkled in the moonlight. He would take beer over any of that. Out of a can. No need for pretentiousness. Impressing people by being fake was not in his wheelhouse. Simple things would do. He was not a complicated man.
He liked hunting and camo and fishing and wilderness. He didn’t want for much. He didn’t need others to survive. He was self-made. And while we all scramble for a foothold in this crazy life, he just listens, the silence of his voice and fearlessness of his actions, despite the judgement of others, is where he feels most comfortable.
We need him. We need him when the zombie apocalypse is upon us.
Yorumlar