Miscegenation on a Saturday Afternoon

No bowling today, looks like the alley opens late on the weekends. But we were able to show the kids a proper white trash adventure by sitting in the parking lot of a hardware store, eating cheap hot dogs prepared by the local 4H club during a country western radio station local broadcast (KALF 96, I believe).

For a while the kids jumped around in one of those large bouncy things, full of air, made out of canvas, painted with the bright colors of a carnival . . . or an autopsy.

My father, watching the kinds jump and somersault inside says to me “Apparently Julia decided to go smokeless this morning.”

I look, in time to see her do a backflip. He’s right. The little hussy has no panties on.

I shrug. High school will be here soon enough.

We wander around town for a while until the car is ready at the mechanic’s and then we head back to the ranch. Julia and I take a detour, making phone calls and singing along with Wilco on the SUV radio.

At one point we pass a little strip mall tricked out to look like an old west town. “Frontier Land” reads the sign out front.

I shiver. It’s a place I’ve seen before, in my dreams . . . identical in every way, every little white trash detail. Although I don’t remember the prosthetic limb clinic from my dream. If I were at home, I would dig out my past journals to doublecheck the entry.

Making a mental note to do so, we head for the ranch.

Later that night, two teenage girls walk by the table where we’re eating dinner. “You really shouldn’t marry outside of your own species…” one tells the other.

Truer words, girfriend.