Southern Legitimacy Statement: I am not from the south. I grew up in small town Iowa, surrounded by alcoholics. I spent many days growing up riding around with my grandpa in his truck, him drinking Busch light the whole time and cruising gravel or sitting in his friends’ kitchens. I grew up hunting frogs and frying their legs. My dad once told me his favorite song was “A Boy Named Sue,” without a hint of irony. I may not be southern, but I promise I’m white trash.
An Ode to Steve
He was an older man, about 70. He worked detailing cars for $9/hr. He spent most of the day wandering around talking to people, hiding from people who would tell him to work, and smoking. He smoked Marlboro menthols, about a third at a time. He put them out between his fingers and came inside, found something quick to do before going out to smoke a little more. His fingernails were long and dirty, his hair was long and grey, always in a ponytail. He said he cut it off about once a year and “hangs it in the attic.” Why do you do that Steve? “So the mice don’t get ‘em.” He says he didn’t work for 30 years, just sold pot full time. The last real job he had was a welder. Helped build the air traffic control tower at the Waterloo airport. Before that he worked in the foundry at Deere’s. Worked underneath, sweeping up the sand that fell through the floor. Back when he lived with his wife and kids. Had to quit though. The doctor told him his lungs were “as black as that car” he says, pointing at a black car. He has full denchers from a lifetime of poor dental hygiene. He’s missing his right ring finger, got it caught in a plugged snowblower back in the day. Says he used to spend days at a time on his boat on the Mississippi, and has seen every part of it from the mouth in Minnesota down into Missouri. Almost saw the Stones once, “but my boss wouldn’t let me off.” He has almost no short term memory. He does almost no work, and is upset any time he is forced to do something. He once told me “You know, when I was your age, my parents had me throwing horseshoes all day long. Just to keep me out of trouble.” He got to stick around because the supervisor liked him. Really, we all did. Except when you had to do his work. That supervisor died in a motorcycle accident. Had a stroke while driving. Shortly after, Steve was fired. That man pissed me off, but I felt bad. He always said he was gonna quit and “go sort boxes at the post office for $14/hr.” I hope he did. Or even better, I hope he won the lottery. He was still working because he couldn’t afford not to. I have no idea where he is today, or if he’s alive.
