Last night, my dog started howling at the door in the kitchen. This is unusual because, sometimes, he barks a the deer or goes a little bit apeshit when the Raccoons set up a fort in the garbage (last time, he damn near went through the screen because one particular raccoon, we call him Brutus, basically gave Rosco the finger by peeing on his favorite tree while Rosco was watching), but rarely howls.
I went out to see what was going on, thinking maybe zombies or some other crazy, random thing but it turns out there was a cat giving birth under the porch. Now, before you wonder what is with him howling before going ape shit over a cat, you have to understand, Rosco loves cats.
When I got him, he had been raised by a cat. His mother had died and mama cat had just had kittens. He was the only one in the litter to survive and mama cat took him in as one of her own. By the time I adopted him, he had been using the litter box and purring at people when you petted him.
Rosco heard the cat go into labor, or smelled it I guess, so he was really upset about it being outside in the cold. I took a box and some warm blankets outside, with some food and water for the cat and kittens. Rosco has been hovering by the door ever since. I have to give him hourly reports on how they’re doing or he starts his howling up again.
When the litter gets a bit bigger, I’ll move them all into the barn. I’ll have to take them all in to get shots and spayed of course, because that’s all I need is 300 rabid barn cats running around the property. But, once they’re all fixed up, Rosco will have his cats and maybe we’ll get some quiet around here. I just hope to God he don’t decide that they need to be housecats. Maybe he can have one or two that come in for snuggle, but I am putting my foot down on three. No more than three cats inside.
This damn dog, I swear.
Tomorrow is Randy’s birthday. He’s turning 40 and wants a big, fancy party with a caterer and flowers, but wants us to do it for him. I have no idea what the hell he’s on about. We run a damn gas station, junkyard and mechanic shop. I think he’s been watching Modern Family too much.
Instead of a big, fancy, party, we’re going to rent out the VW dance hall in Bristow for a night. We’re inviting all 20 people that live in this town and friends and family elsewhere. Randy’s brother is from Oklahoma City and he plays in an 80’s cover band. They’ve agreed to play at the party.
Instead of catering, Jolene at the diner is going to bring in some of our favorite foods and everyone else is doing a bit of a pot luck. I talked Billie Dean into bringing her chili. I may be an atheist, but let me say THANK YOU JESUS FOR THIS WOMAN’S CHILI. I don’t give a shit about how fancy the food is in the city. Give me that chili and some fry bread and I am a happy, dumb son bitch.
She’s bringing all her kids. She’s got six. Four girls, two boys. Her oldest, Manda, is pregnant with her second. She’s 18. Her boyfriend, Hank, is from Sapulpa, so that’s where they are living now. You’d never know it to look at Billie Dean, but she’s a really good grandma. She’s always taking care of the baby and helping her kid out. Of course, she was a mother herself at 14 the first time. Most of her kids are with he same guy, but he’s been in and out of jail for so long it’s not really clear. Not that it matters. She’s a lot of fun and her chili is amazing.
Back to Randy’s party.
He wanted flowers and a whole setup, but the best we could do is Cuddles the Clown. He’s actually Billy, one of the boys working at the feed store in Bristow. He begged to do it, as he went to clown school and all, but never had a paying gig. Jim took pity on him and gave him 20 bucks off his next oil change in exchange for making balloon flower arrangements for Randy’s main table. We’re going to tie them onto sticks and put them in beer bottles. I’m sure Randy will be pleased.
Lots of talk around town today. Jon Buckman and his boys, Jody and Brody, own a little bit of land just to the north of town. They have cows and, believe or not, llamas.
Well, last night one of the boys had convinced some girl from town (I have my thoughts on which one) to go out with them to the llama farm for a bit of drinking, pot smoking and, if he was a lucky one, sex. I guess someone forgot to get lock the damn gate right and after they got down to business, all 20 llamas went flying out the gate. Apparently, whichever twin it was, ran out the gate with his pants down around his ankles and spooked the damn silly things even worse than before. I guess I’d be a bit spooked, too, if I seen some fat redneck runnin at me in the moonlight with his pants down.
We’ve been rounding up llamas all morning. Found a big black one with wonky teeth munching out of a trashcan near the liquor store around 6 a.m. I had no idea the son bitches would kick you if they didn’t want to be caught. Buckman and his boys showed up after we called them. Once Jon showed up with some feed and a halter, it acted nice enough, only trying to kick Randy once.
We’re still missing two of them. A female named Missy and a young buck named Stallone. Apparently, he’s a bit ill tempered, but with a name like that I imagine he’s a bit of an alpha type.
I got to admit, watching llamas bounce down main street while I was sitting at the diner having coffee and meat pies with my uncle was probably the best thing I seen since the day a big windstorm kicked up and a box of new plus sized panties flew out the back of a delivery truck and scattered all over town, flapping in the wind. Must have been 30 panties of all colors hanging from the trees and stuck to brick walls. I don’t know, though. The llamas were a bit better I think. Once you see a wild pack of llamas prancing at dawn down a small Oklahoma town main street, I don’t think you can really serious again.
Me, Randy & Jim got together a while back and bought Ma a storm shelter. It’s not fancy. Just an underground storm shelter that’ll go in the back yard. Ma would’ve never let us buy her a shelter on account that they cost so much so we told her she won it. The guys over Storm Shelters OKC were nice enough to play along with us. Came out and told her someone had entered her in a competition online and her name had been drawn. I think she knew that it was a pile, but she never said nothing. Just smiled and insisted on giving the man a big glass of sweet tea.
They’re coming out this week to put it in. Ma’s already planning on how she’s going to plant some veggies around it so it don’t look so stark and weird sitting in her backyard. She’s really funny about that yard, you know? Always keeps it nice. Full of flowers and a little vegetable garden. She had me put in an apple tree a few years ago, so she could bake apple pie but didn’t take into account that it’ll take up to ten years for it to give fruit. Meanwhile, I am still waiting on that apple pie. Hoping she gets to make me one from that tree before she goes on.
Once we get the shelter in Randy and Jim are going to do some extra work and put in a rail for her to hold on to as she goes in. They’re also going to put in a dog kennel down there for all the dogs. Boy, I can’t wait for some townie to come along and find out we have cages in an undergound bunker in our back yard. They’ll probably think it is some hills have eyes shit and that we kidnap women from our mechanic shop and hold them underground.
Listen folks, not all country people are jacked up country bumpkins hell bent on hurting people. Some of us just want to eat apple pie and not die in a damn twister. Trust me. There’s literally, bout ten of us in this town and ain’t none of us would touch a woman, except if she asked us to. And even then, we’d do it all nice and respectful or not at all.
Today Billie Dean and her daughter brought in their old rambler for some repairs. Not sure how much longer I can keep that son bitch running. It’s throwing up white smoke like it’s fighting the plague. Damn thing takes 18 gallons of gas just to cross over from one side of town to the other, I swear.
Billie Dean is about 30 years old. Maybe a bit younger, but I don’t like asking too much. We date sometimes. She makes some amazing chili and homemade beer. Her daddy used to run moonshine in the ’20’s. He passed all his knowledge down to her after her brother died in Nam. She makes some hella good moonshine, too. I don’t care for her dandelion wine, but Ma swears by it. Just not a wine drinker, I guess.
Her daughter, Jeannee, is almost 16 and has started to hit on me a bit. I don’t know what to say because Billie Dean and I aren’t really a thing, (she ain’t a thing with anyone, if you know what I mean) but I don’t want to date no 16 year old kid, either. Plus, I’m not so excited about dating the daughter of a woman I had relations with a couple of times.
Ma doesn’t know about me and Billie Dean. She don’t like her much. I guess there’s a story there, but Ma just gets tight lipped and angry every time I say something so I know I ain’t getting nothing out of that.
Anyway, we got plans to go down to Bristow this weekend for a bit of dancing and whatnot. Just me and Billie Dean. Jeanee don’t need to come along for that business although I have no doubt she’ll be running along after some boy saturday nigh after we’re gone. She’ll be pregnant by summer and married by fall, I bet. Sad. Too many girls like that around here. No other choice but to get married and have babies.
My name is Ben. Or, at least that is what I call myself. I come from a little town called Milfay, way in deep in Oklahoma countryside. You won’t find it on any map. The town died during the Dustbowl and now there’s only a handful of us left. A gas station. A diner. A liquor store. A few dogs. About a million flies and a nest of rattlesnakes that can’t seem to ever stop trying to live up under the porch. Ain’t nothing much here, except… us. We’re still here.
I started this blog thingie because I needed to get out and around the world, you know? I been on twitter a bit and realized that even if I couldn’t leave Milfay (on account of my mom being real sick and taking a shine now and then) I could at least be part of the world. Twitter people seem to think my stories are interesting. I guess that’s a good thing. I never thought I would be interesting to anyone, at all.
I want to start trying to document my daily life here, in Backwoods Oklahoma. People need to know we’re just people. Not all of us are bible thumping, gay hating bigots, neither. I’m atheist and my uncle is a poofer. We love him, and his husband. My mom don’t like Randy so much, but that’s because he is an OSU fan. We don’t take to that kind much around here. OU is the family team.
Anyway, it’s just me and my mom. Uncle Jim and Randy live next door. We run a junkyard and auto repair. There’s maybe 20 of us living in this town now. Most the time, we have to go somewhere else to get food or go to school. Lucky we have a gas station. That’s us, to. Randy owns that one. Sometimes I work there.
Well. I guess that’s all I got for right now. Have to go make some food for Ma. Her arthritis is acting up again. Making cornbread and grilled chicken. What, y’all didn’t think I was making squirrel chitlins, did you? Come on, now. Don’t stereotype me too much. It ain’t even squirrel season.