He pulled up directly in front of the doors at about three in the morning in a souped-up piece of crap that was vibrating and smoking badly.  The stereo sounded like a clock radio hooked up to a 500 watt amplifier, and it was completely maxed out.  The windows in the store were literally rattling and I could feel the music of Rush in my teeth.  "Sounds good, huh?" he slurred as he made his way to the beer cooler.  "Sounds like shit," my coworker blurted, "And if you don't get it out of our front door, I'm gonna call the police."  Then he added, "And it's too late to buy beer.  Besides, you're drunk already."  The guy's face passed right through red and went directly to a rich maroon color.  Then he started yelling all sorts of belligerence that we couldn't make out, and left.  We were laughing our asses off as he fish-tailed across the parking lot and onto the street.  But we weren't laughing when he returned ten minutes later.

"You don't fucking respect me?!" he screamed as he busted through the doors waving a silver handgun.  "You both fucking tell me my stereo kicks ass...Right now, motherfuckers!!"  I couldn't believe what was happening before me.  The guy was shaking and wild-eyed and EXTREMELY pissed-off.  I actually thought I was going to die on the floor of some shitty convenience store in West Virginia, because of a tossed-off remark about a man's stereo.  We both immediately began heaping on the praise of the amazingly rich and vibrant sounds that were emanating from his vehicle.  We assured him that it was quite obviously the best car stereo we had ever encountered, and could not foresee any car stereos of the future surpassing its superior quality.  "You better believe it's a kick-ass system, motherfuckers," he said, a little less agitated.  Then he was gone.

And so was I.  A couple of days later I was in North Carolina, and a short time after that my girlfriend finally did what I didn't have the guts to do:  put our dying relationship out of its misery.  I had officially entered a new phase of my life.  And while it would be easy to dismiss those final six months as a waste of time, I certainly don't feel that way now.  I have moved farther and farther away from that world during the last dozen or so years, both figuratively and geographically, but I look back with a certain amount of respect.  Those guys were more creative than most of the people I deal with every day in my adult-style office job, and they were a hell of a lot more fun.  My friends and I spent a big part of our teenage years making fun of the many hicks and rednecks that inhabit our hometown (behind their backs, of course), but it wasn't until my final days there that I realized that I was not too far removed from the targets of our ridicule.  My filling station colleagues weren't known for their tolerance, and yet they tolerated me easily -- which was quite a psychological blow when I started thinking about it.  And it's something I'm still working out, day by day.

I think I've grown as a result of the experience.  I've come to many painful realizations along the way.  And now, when I go home, and get together with friends, I don't make fun of the hicks and rednecks anymore.  I think of it now as more of a tribute, a celebration if you will.  Behind their backs, of course.

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