December 6^th, 2004

 

After my Adventures in Greenville had come to an end, I was forced to make the long journey back to Asheville, North Carolina, and what follows is about a fight I got into at a country store outside of Gordo, Mississippi.

 

The initial trip home was somewhat uneventful, yet the trip back was a living hell because it seemed to take twice as fucking long.  Maybe it was the lack of impending expectation, but the twelve hour drive was something I’d equate to giving birth to a flaming porcupine.

 

I started out early that Monday morning, (November 29^th), leaving shortly after a visit to the local bank where I cashed a check my mom had given me.  Said check was for A THOUSAND dollars, which I needed because of gambling debts I owed to the Asheville mob.

 

As such, I had a lot of cash on me, which is important to remember considering what happened.

 

I’d been on the road a mere two hours when I realized that I was about to piss my pants.  You see, I was exhausted from staying out the night before, (see, “Adventures in Greenville, Part 4”), and I’d been downing coffee since breakfast.  Because I normally don’t drink anything but bourbon, I wasn’t expecting the bladder loosening effects of cheap java, and it was either pull over, or pee into my console ashtray.

 

Unfortunately, Mississippi’s Highway 82 East isn’t exactly crammed with gas stations; in fact, it’s more like driving through a desert of rolling hills and fertile black farmland.  After 45 minutes of urinary tract purgatory, I spotted a broken down shack on the side of the road that said “Country Store” above the door, and I yanked my Green Honda Civic into the gravel parking lot. 

 

Talk about seedy!  Man, this place was right out of the movie Deliverance.  The small rectangular building was made of cracked planks with primer gray paint on them, and the lone gas pump looked as if it’d previously been used to fill up horse drawn carriages.

 

Still, I’d never had to pee so bad in all my life, and I stumbled out of my car and burst through the single glass door, (which sported advertisement fliers for tractor pulls and catfish cook offs… from 1974).

 

The interior was filthy, the concrete floor unswept, the shelves adorned with expired food cans, moldy bread, and “country” remedies for anything from headaches to Chlamydia.  The only part that looked modern was the single glass cooler, one that contained brands of soda pop I’d never heard of, (What’s “Jolt” cola?  Beats the fuck outta me!).

 

Behind the counter stood a crusty old man in a flannel shirt, his beady black eyes peering up at me over his seventeenth century spectacles.

 

“Do you have a bathroom?” I gasped, desperately holding onto my crotch with both hands.

 

“Dat depends,” he replied, “You gonna buy something?”

 

“Yeah, sure, but I need to pee first!”

 

“Can’t use the bathroom unless you buy something.”

 

“I heard you the first time, where is it?”

“Bathroom’s for customers only.”

 

“Fuck!” I cried, then hobbling over to the nearby cooler, pulling out a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, and slamming it on the counter.  “I’ll buy this, but- for the love of God- where’s the bathroom?!?”

 

The old man huffed, frowned, and then stared at me for a good thirty seconds.

 

“It’s out back, but we don’t take the Lord’s name in vain ‘round here.”

 

“Jesus Christ!” I screamed, then bolting out of the store and sprinting around the side of the building. 

 

Turns out there were two bathrooms, but the first one didn’t have a toilet.  It was just a small cubical room with a plumbing conduit sticking up from the floor.  Taking the Lord’s name in vain, again, I ran around to the second bathroom, there to find a toilet with no water in it.  I didn’t care.

 

My pants were already unzipped with my dick hanging out, and I barely managed to cross the threshold before a fire hose spray of urine came rocketing out from my crotch. 

 

Never before have I so erotically reveled in the simple act of peeing, but I’m pretty sure there was some ejaculate mixed in there somewhere. 

 

It went on for five minutes; liter after liter expunged until I’d almost filled the empty toilet bowl.  I remember groaning with pleasure, my groggy laughter echoing sharply in the small, one room lavatory.  Soon though, I began to notice just how disgusting this little outhouse was, and I couldn’t BELIEVE it was connected to a functioning place of business.

 

Every manner of profanity was scrawled upon the cinderblock walls, many of them dates and phone numbers which expressed the desire for this trucker or that to “Suck a big black one… anytime… anywhere…”

 

Ewwwww!!! 

 

There was also dried shit everywhere; a collection of fecal matter so ancient, that I couldn’t smell it anymore.  And there, in the nearest corner, was a dead rat.

 

Still, I was so deliriously relieved, that I couldn’t help but thank the Gods of Assbeating that I wasn’t born a girl.  The mere THOUGHT of sitting down in a bathroom like that gave me a rash.

 

There was no sink, so I didn’t wash my hands, instead strolling back around the side of the building to pay for my Diet Dr. Pepper.

 

A tiny bell I didn’t notice before tinkled as I re-entered the store proper, and it was then that I saw a pair of newcomers standing by the cooler.  One was a little Mexican guy in blue overalls; the other was a stocky redneck about my size, with reddish blond hair, freckles, and the status quo outfit from Rhinestone Cowboy. 

 

Teeth were scarce with the pair, but they both smelled bad enough to make up for it.

 

I ignored their hostile gazes, instead leaning on the counter and smiling up at the old man.

 

“Thank you soooo much,” I laughed, “I thought I was about to have an accident.”

 

The old man said nothing.

 

“Uh, okey dokey…” I continued, then pulling out my wallet to flip through the stack of hundred dollar bills, “How much do I owe you for the drink?”

 

“Dollar seventy five,” the old man grunted.

 

“Yeah, right.  Seriously, how much?”

 

“Dollar seventy five.”

 

“For a fucking can of soda?  No WAY I’m paying that!”

 

It was then that I noticed the other two guys standing on my right side, both of ‘em looking over my shoulder to eye the contents of my wallet.  Keep in mind, I had a thousand dollars in there, most of it in large bills.

 

Dragging out a George Washington single, I snapped my wallet shut and put it back in my pocket.  I could sense the sudden tension, but the rational part of my brain refused to acknowledge that this was happening in 2004 America.

 

“A coke is fifty cents in just about ANY vending machine,” I said, “seventy five, tops!  I’ll give you this dollar since you let me use your bathroom, but that’s it.  I reject paying a dollar seventy five on general principle, so take it or leave it.”

 

The old man frowned again, and then transferred his gaze to the Mexican in the blue overalls.

 

“Oh, you gonna pay ‘im, boy!” warned the Mexican, his thick country accent anything but Latino.  He tried to put his hand on my shoulder to make his point, but I stepped back.

 

Nevertheless, the Mexican and his stocky redneck compatriot positioned themselves in front of the door, thus making it clear that they had no intention of letting me leave.

 

“Are you SHITTING me?!?” I cried in exasperation, “You’re trying to threaten me over seventy five cents?”

 

“What it costs is what it costs,” said the old man, his hand reaching under the counter, (though he kept his eyes on me, like he wasn’t reaching for anything).

 

Fear hit me like a hammer, because I absolutely could NOT believe I was in this situation.  Sure, Hollywood always characterizes the Deep South as a trailer park wild west where local sheriffs run the town, and rural civilians fuck outlanders in the ass for fun.  But, I’d GROWN UP in the Delta, and while Greenville once boasted the highest per capita crime rate in the nation, this brand of middle-of-nowhere lunacy was totally alien to me.  

 

The surreal absurdity pissed me off, and fear turned to anger.

 

“Fuck this!” I cursed, snatching the Diet Dr. Pepper off the counter, “I’m not paying for shit, now!  This can is going back in the cooler, and then the two of you are gonna get out of my way.  I’m not kidding, don’t make me whip-”

 

I was trying to sound intimidating, but my voice cracked, and the Mexican stepped forward to cut me off.

 

“Lemme’ tell YOU something!” he snarled, reaching for the front of my shirt.

 

Without thinking, I underhand threw the Diet Dr. Pepper right at his head, the heavy can smashing his nose with a dull, sickening thud.  I was no more than three feet away, but I knocked the fuck outta him, the little Mexican doubling over while cupping his face in his hands.

 

The can itself ricocheted into the nearby cooler door, where it cracked the glass before tumbling across the concrete.

 

The old man swore and again fumbled under the counter for what I can only assume was a weapon.  Meanwhile, Rhinestone Redneck charged forward and tried to throttle me around the neck like a monster in a horror movie.

 

In hindsight, the seasoned move would’ve been to intercept the attack, perhaps with a leading straight punch, or an overhand right.  Yet, I think I went into shock for just a moment, because I didn’t react until Rhinestone Redneck got his hands on me. 

 

It was then that I grabbed one of his wrists and pivoted to slam my free forearm into the bend of his outstretched elbow.  The force of the blow, (along with my simultaneous pivot), sent him flying into a metal potato chip stand behind me.

 

What the fuck?!?

 

I have NEVER used this throw in combat, or even in grappling practice, namely because the requisite timing is extremely difficult to pull off.  Still, we’d been practicing it at [Super Asskicker’s] as part of a lock flow, and newly acquired memory apparently took over. 

 

I don’t really know what happened next, because- as soon as I’d thrown Rhinestone Redneck- I fled like a bitch.  Out the store, across the gravel, and to my car I ran, then cranking the engine with shaking fingers.  IN REVERSE, I backed out onto the highway without ever looking if another car was coming, (I was too freaked).   

 

If the old man came out after me, I didn’t see it.  I was too busy gunning the accelerator.  

 

I didn’t stop again until Birmingham, Alabama, and that was to get some aspirin for an adrenaline induced migraine.

 

The other night, I went out with my friend Dani, and I remember feeling ashamed as I told her this story.  I ran away, after all, and only one of the guys was big enough to be a real threat.  One the other hand, the old man might’ve had a gun, and I was in the middle of nowhere.

 

All things considered, I think I acted wisely- even though it was mostly out of fear.  The lesson here?  Next time someone tries to overcharge you for a soda, PAY IT!!!  Seventy five cents is not worth getting corn-holed…