I was walking the dogs up at Bent Creek, and I was smart enough to put Theo's leash on before I got to the road. Good thing, because the forest cops, or rangers, or whoever they are, were there inspecting this guy's tackle box. I walked on past, nodded, said hey to the cops, and then the guy caught up with me and became all chatty. He even said, "Come here often?" Yeah, I'm out in the fucking woods and somebody asks if I come there often. But he wasn't too terrible; no, he was a nice guy - a nice guy in the sense that he probably wasn't a serial killer. Probably. Ah yes. I can talk to some guys - guys who are about 22, short, with blonde hair and goatees, Confederate flag T-shirts, accents you could cut bread with and a wealth of stories about coonhounds. This guy's friend had a coonhound; she wouldn't tree no coon, so they caught a coon in a live trap and threw it on the dog's head. After that she sure as hell treed some coons! And deer season opens on the 21st, he'll be out there.
Why, oh lord, why me? There is the undeniable beauty of Jackson, who I know attracts every redneck loon in a three state area, but, still, why me? And why was it possible for me to happily chat with this guy - I did manage not to give out my name, phone number, or anything of that sort, thank the gods - but we did have a conversation. If a guy who actually might be of interest to me - say, over 32, taller, no Confederate T-shirt and no stories about torturing raccoons - talks to me I become silent and confused. Of course there is the fact that guys like that never talk to me - there is that. Ah well. He was nice enough anyway. And I don't have anything against hunting, or the Confederate States of America, if it comes to that. I just don't think he was exactly date material. Although you have to love the opening line.