The hayseed country bumpkin blew into town with his pedal to the metal (or his mettle to the pedal; those of us who witnessed his entry were on the fence about which it was), and stopped on a dime. “This place looks like the end of the Earth,” he observed.
I let him have it with both barrels at that slur; hit him upside the head, I did. “In a pig’s eye!” I ejaculated. But I did ‘low that from a tall tower just a stone’s throw from here it might be possible to see the end of the Earth. It is kind of a podunk, one-horse town, when we get right down to it. (Whatever it is.)
“Well, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know,” he swaggered. “I’ve been around. Yep, over, under, around and through. I’ve earned my red wings, too,” he chortled. “But right now I’ve got the trots, and I need to find the can.”
I steered him to the nearest McDonalds, where he dropped his kids at the pool. (One of the customers came out a short while later complaining that it smelled like something had crawled inside him and died there.)
“I wouldn’t mind chewin’ the fat with you,” I told him when he showed his face again, “But I’ve got to get back to the salt mine, put my nose to the grindstone and my shoulder to the wheel. If I blow this job, there’ll be hell to pay when I get back to my crib and face that battle-axe, my ball and chain. She’ll chew my ass for sure, and she might even hand me my walking papers. I can’t afford a pink slip. Maybe I’ll see you later,” I said.
——
“See you later” would be my choice.