Rodin Would Be Proud

I spent a few years in one of those Brigadoon small southern towns.  As if they spent a year or two asleep during every decade of the last century.  So, when they woke up from that cursed slumber, they hadn’t lost quite enough time to realize that their hairstyles, clothing, and technology were dangerously style-less.  And, because none of the residents dared to venture beyond the bosom of the town limits, they had no way of knowing that perms went the way of the Brady Bunch, GM was in trouble, and there was something called the internet that connected people to the rest of the world like never before.  Combine that with a collective intellect at least ten points below the national average, and you have a special kind of hell.

Because I had the unfortunate condition of living there while everyone was awake, I wandered around confused and alien.  My stylish clothes and talk of “buying things online” resulted in lots of eye squinting and southern drawl whispers as they wondered in lisps whether or not I was the time warp victim.

I was on a date with another transplant who shared my disdain when I went to use the restroom.  It was one of those places where everything seems built from plywood and withered with time.  There were two young women in the two-stall restroom puzzling over one of the stall doors.  Their cotton blonde hair poufs and tight leggings betraying their status as locals.

“Uh…” I said.

“Oh, hai!” One of them squealed in that physically painful southern twang that always seems to turn monosyllabic words into sentences.

“Are you in line, or…”

“Oh, naw.  Beh-ut that one thare’s” she gestured to one of the stalls “lawked.”

“It’s locked?”  I translated.

“Yay-us. Way thank maybe somewun’s playin’ a joke.”  They giggled, covering their mouths like little China girls.

I’m not fond of giggling.  In fact, it might be fair to say that redneck giggling is firmly implanted in my top five least favorite sounds list.  However, my peemergency was outweighing my desire to scream and flail and witness their already cotton candy hair turn into something that would impress Don King.

“Well, let’s see.”  The stall had one of those locks that looks like a giant flathead screw from the outside.  Insert a thin flat object and you’re in.  I pulled out a quarter, pushed it into the slit, and unlocked the door and stepped in, rolling my eyes when they were out of their sight.

“Oh mah gaw-ush!” the poodles squealed.  “I cayn’t be-layve you gawt ayn!  She’s a thinker!”