Hick. Peckerwood. Redneck: All words used to insult a white man who chooses to live like a backwoods Podunk rube.
All words that I thought could not be used to categorize me.
Living in downtown Los Angeles, I figured the days of swigging piss warm Pabst and belligerently shouting “WHEWWWWW” were left behind me. The memories of those days remained in Michigan, adoringly preserved in the small town of Prescott, along with the ghosts of the 2004 Detroit basketball season and the parties that willed the Pistons to the title that year. (These parties could be subject for a blog themselves. In fact, I could probably write a fuckin’ novel about the absurdity of these shindigs.)
But sometimes the truth manifests itself over time, and is only clear when we take action and force its development.
For me to come to terms with my country roots, it took three separate occasions, all of which occurred after I moved to Los Angeles — the city known for Hollywood, music, fashion, and too many non-English speaking minorities.
The first incident was the day we filmed Jason’s narrative project for film school. (Again, a whole blog could easily be dedicated to this whole event. It entailed two people’s cars nearly getting towed, the fire department coming to our apartment, and of course, the making of a hilarious video.)
Anyhow, Jason needed a ping-pong table for his project. One small problem. We don’t have a ping-pong table, nor do we know anyone who does. This called for improvisation. With Home Depot only a short drive away, Ryan and I jumped in my car and headed toward the do-it-yourself heaven. We were on a mission for plywood a makeshift ping-pong table.
“So Tim, using your car (a 2008 Chevrolet HHR), how did you get the plywood home?”
Well that was easy. Using some twine that we also purchased (the twine was to serve as a net. This was not your average pong table), we simply secured the table top to the roof of my car. It was a short drive and no problems incurred. A few of the many Mexican day laborers waiting outside of HD, flagging down potential employers, laughed at us as we strapped the piece of plywood to the roof.
OK. So that was one instance where my “Who gives a shit?” redneck ways were on display. But it wasn’t the last. Fast forward to a couple of weeks later. (I have no idea as to the actual date). While working on the moving truck, a generous man, or woman, again, the details aren’t coming to me, offered us their old coffee table, which they no longer wanted.
Well, at that time our lone piece of living room furniture save the couch was a brown cardboard box. It served its purpose well enough, but I think all three of us agreed that having a cardboard cube serve as the centerpiece for the room where we watch TV, eat; and where I happened to sleep, was not in the cards we planned to play.
We needed to get the table home from Orange County, where the customer lived. It didn’t fit in my car.
The services of the car roof would once again be required. We padded up the roof, strapped the table to the roof upside down and went on our way.
I’m happy to say the table and my car both made it back unscathed. My car continues to run well enough to get me to Point A to Point B and I am currently typing on a computer resting on the coffee table.
Sure it may have caused passers by to snicker, probably even causing some to say things like “Oh my God. Look at those idiots,” but we got a sweet table from it. So fuck them.
HHR roof was not out of the forest yet, though. Perhaps our most rednecky caper of all happened just a few days ago. It once again started in Orange County, more specifically, in Rancho Santa Margarita.
It was a rare rainy day in Cali, and we were at Ryan’s truck, which had just been sold. However, as we are all financial whizzes, and always keep our heads on a swivel looking for a quick buck or big break, we thought of a way to squeeze a little more money out of the transaction.
See, the truck was equipped with an aluminum topper. And who in their right mind would sell the truck with the topper, when there is a perfectly good scrap yard in La Mirada right off the expressway?
As should be expected from a tri-fecta of Northern Michigan peckerwoods, we figured we would scrap the aluminum cash cow.
Whoops. Transportation would be needed again.
Yes people, we strapped the pickup topper to the top of the HHR.
This is when it dawned on me. I drive a car that says, “Look at me. I’m a high-mpg-driving urbanite.” I live in California, the last state expected to be full of country bumpkins with little regard for what others think of them.
But I couldn’t escape the truth. I have redneck tendencies.
And they are fuckin’ hilarious.
By the way, we got $13.50 for the topper.
Tell me that shit’s not funny.
