Stunned, my eyes bulged at Deerthug’s audacity.
Deerthug defiantly locked gaze with my bulges. No der hung between us in the backseat’s air.
Deerthug first no dered me when he was nine and suffered an instinctual understanding that it was his job to humble others. We were headed for the trailer, on our way back from The Black Angus Supper Club, where I ‘d watched Deerthug gorge his manorexic body on herring, blue cheese, and banana cream pie, and during this fateful ride home, I’d polluted our air.
I had stated something (likely a meteorological observation) so obvious Deerthug had to check me.
Deign voicing a self-evident truth and Deerthug doesn’t open a can of wupass.
He opens a twangy can of no der.
“All men are created equal…”
“They are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights...”
“…among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…”
“Adequate medical care and the opportunity to achieve and enjoy good health will ensure a lasting peace.”
Deerthug is now 12 but no der remains artillery in his arsenal of sarcasm.
I will not tell Deerthug this but I quietly enjoy being no dered. Deerthug dishes no ders with nasal sweetness. He receives them with a grin.
In the trailer’s living room, curled beside me on the plaid couch, Deerthug touched my arm.
“Plannin’ on gettin’ more tattoos?”
“No der on my knuckles.”
“I’m an educator.”
No der knuckles would be handy in the classroom.
A kid might ask me, “What’s that?” and point at the following paper:
Typically, I can rely on a smart ass buzzing around my desk to answer silly questions.
Such a smart ass might say something like, “Gerbz’ diagnosis.”
At the asker, I’ll flash these knuckles:
Deerthug noderishly clung to me for several days, til his grampa told him him to leave me alone and seek more appropriate playmates.
Having read a page of Darwinian theory in the ninth grade, I understand that to avoid dying, I must adapt. Devoid of Deerthug, I spent hours studying subjects I hoped would enhance my Midwestern cred.
After Fishing, I moved on to television. I watched episodes of an educational program, When Vacations Attack.
TJ’s mom pitied me. She offered to take me browsing and sightseeing on the other side of the river, in McGregor & Marquette. It was almost too hot to go, but circumstances must be extraordinary to prevent me from rummaging through dead people’s possessions.
McGregor & Marquette is primarily antique shops.
We got in Janice’s VW and drove past corn and Cabela’s.
We pulled in towns and it was so hot, even the cigar store Indians were moody.
We hit McGregorville Mall. Its owners call it “UNIQUE, DIFFERENT, QUIRKY, Off the Wall, Fun.” I call it 6,000 square feet of hep C.
We penetrated the junk.
The most interesting items I found don’t necessarily qualify as black memorabilia.
And, since gays must go to desperate lengths to adopt white meat these days,
we’re looking towards Malawi.
Before leaving McGregorville, I got a snack.
McGregorville’s proprietor offered to give me a shirt of his personal design if I promised to advertise it.
Before driving back to the trailer, we ducked into Paper Moon. Entering Paper Moon is to enter a dream.
Paper Moon vends books galore.
When we got home, I continued studying the ways of the local people.
In the next installment of this blog, I may compare and contrast the ideal nation-states envisioned by Deerthug and my father, who has been likened to a Latino Dr. Frasier Crane.