Dirty Redneck
There is a woman in front of me in the grocery store line. She is surrounded by four kids all under the age of eight. She looks old and worn, but I know she is somewhere under thirty. Her hair is blonde and stringy, her face is slowly caving in. It’s a heroin face.
The kids are out of control. Her oldest grabs a Starbuck’s Vanilla Frappuccino bottle and tears it open. He begins to gulp it down as his siblings cry and try to grab it.
The woman smacks his hands hard and pulls it from him, “Goddammit Braxton, how am I supposed to pay for that?” She’s holding a EBT card, but that’s a lot of money for a stupid little drink when the leash of four kids is holding you down.
Silently, I hand her a five-dollar bill. She meets my eyes and starts to speak, but I turn away quickly. I’ve come to realize that people around here are proud and it hurts when someone helps you out.
An older lady behind me whispers to her husband, “Dirty Rednecks.” I turn and glare at her. She looks away first. “Make sure you tell your minister what you said on Sunday,” I whisper fiercely. And turn my back to her. I heard her gasp and her husband mumble “Now, wait just a second…”
I’m halfway to my car with my groceries when the woman catches up, her kids trailing behind.
“Is there any way that you spare a couple more dollars. I’m almost out of diapers. We go through so many with two of them still in them…” her voice trails off.
“Sure.” I hand her another five.
I’m late to meet my friends for happy hour. I’m always the last to arrive. By the time I finally make it, I can tell by the exuberant greetings that everyone is a couple rounds in.
“Finally, what took you so long?” asks my friend, Kate, as I slide in next to her.
“Didn’t stop at the store by any chance, did you, Em?” Michael Delgado says, alcohol putting his voice in stereo.
Damn! The jig is up. And of course it’s the one person I can’t stand who spied me. I should have known I’d never get away with it. Small towns are not made for secrets.
“Buns. We’re having pulled pork tonight, Noah’s off veganism again.”
Everyone laughs. My husband is known for his always changing eating habits. One week he’s a vegan, all animal products are poison! Next week, it’s all about the protein. White rice is the new poison. I just go along with it because our dinner menu is never boring.
Michael won’t be distracted. “So, who was your friend? The lady in the parking lot?”
I look at the big margarita glass in front of him, wanting it to work as excuse. It doesn’t. He’s always a jerk.
“My sister. She visiting this week. You should come over and meet her.” I turn to talk to Kate.
“Why the fuck were you giving money to that junkie?” His voice booms through the bar.
I hate Michael Delgado. I don’t know what I did to get someone like him in my life. I hear his wife mutter to him under her breath. I know she’s telling him to calm down. It won’t help.
“She needed diapers for her baby.” I’m going for the short and to the point approach. “I don’t want some baby sitting around in their own waste because I couldn’t spare five dollars.”
Kate jumps in. “How about a drink, Em?”
I smile at her valiant efforts. “I think a Diet Coke would be good tonight.”
Michael waves his hand, “Hey Kate, grab me another margarita while your up?” Everyone around the table is eyeing each other. Michael’s oblivious. His sight is trained on me.
“Maybe if she got a job, she wouldn’t have to ask for five dollars from a stranger. That will just go right into her veins.”
I’ve kind of had it by this point. “Oh, like you, Michael? She should get a job like you? Let’s see, a undergrad in philosophy with a minor in Spanish, that took six years. A master’s in psychology. Whoops, changed your mind. A master’s in history. And now a PhD in higher education.” I pause, hoping for a little more impact, “Basically, Michael you haven’t worked a day in your entire life.”
Ding. I hit a nerve. He’d shoot me if he had a gun. Fortunately, weapons aren’t allowed at this fine hippie establishment.
“Oh screw you, I’m working to make this world a better place. You are giving handouts to every person with a sob story.”
“Why do you care? Why’s it so important to you what I do?” My voice is getting louder too. I try to tamp it down. “It’s not your monkeys, it’s not your circus. Stay out of my business.”
Michael angrily points his finger at me. Whoops, there goes Josh’s water. At least it stays on the table. “I’ll tell you why I care. Because when you help these people out. You are contributing to the process that keeps them from getting off their asses and getting a job.”
“Whatever.”
“No, not whatever,” he’s yelling again. Stop yelling, Michael. “I don’t want my tax dollars going to feed some woman who’s got kids from a dozen different men.”
“Oh yea? Maybe I don’t want my tax dollars going to endless grants for some jerk who’s never going leave his little college nest.”
I can’t do this. Not tonight. Not with this guy. I stand up to leave.
He throws his words at me. “Why do you do it? Why defend those filthy rednecks?”
He finds it. He hits my weak spot. Only it doesn’t feel like a ding. It’s more of a bam-bam.
“Don’t. Don’t say that.” My fury makes my voice low and clear. “I know you, Michael. You think you’d never use an ethnic slur. But you just did. Because, it’s okay to make fun of poor, white people.”
I know I sound sanctimonious, but I’m past caring. “You don’t get to ridicule people because of their race. You just don’t. I’m done.”
As my friends protest, I make my way toward the door. I know I’ll call his wife in a couple day and apologize.
I won’t mean a word of it.
