Chronicles of an Educated Hillbilly by "Buck" number six NO TRESPASSING There are some firm, hard rules that you learn growing up in the country. One of the principles of living in rural America is the basic tenet that a man’s property is sacred. We didn’t dare trespass on another man’s land without asking permission. Generally that permission was granted just as long as you asked. It’s a courtesy thing. I grew up hunting and fishing on a lot of property that didn’t belong to my dad or granddad. I’d always ask the landowner, even if they didn’t know me, and it was usually okay. Occasionally they would deny access, but not because I was a prospective degenerate — rather because a dangerous bull was there or they’d just treated a field with some cancer causing substance. Rarely was access denied to locals who were trustworthy. Townies were an entirely different story. Winky Wallen learned that the hard way. Winky was one of the asshole rich kids from Big Stone. Our town had more than its share of these dickheads who obviously thought they were better than anyone. Winky’s dad was an insurance guru who had everybody in town by the balls since he was one of only two agents in the town. Winky drove a shiny brand new 1984 Jeep CJ-5. It was wigged out with all of the bells and whistles. He was able to afford shiny chrome bumpers, brush guards, KC Highlighter off-road lights, bad ass Kenwood Stereo with a thousand watt amp and subwoofers, and a Warn winch. His Jeep was the envy of everybody and it was a chick magnet. Winky hung out with a group of fellow shit bags who also had rich daddies to provide their every whim. Jerry Holcomb had a brand new 1984 F-150 with all the shiny chrome. His dad was a mine boss for Westmoreland. Snake Lane had a new Mustang. Ricky Potter had a brand new Z-28, a car he was bought as consolation for wrecking his new Nissan 300ZX. But it was Winky that was the head asshole of this assemblage of the new money. Sure I was jealous. I ached with every fiber of my being for Winky’s Jeep. It didn’t bother me that Winky was fortunate enough to have been born into money. What angered me most about this group was that they shit on those of us who were not so lucky. Big Stone was in Wise County. I lived in Lee County. Lee County was considered white trash by most of the people seven miles up the road and they didn’t hesitate to let us know it. Winky and his posse went four-wheeling somewhere every weekend. Usually they hooked up with girls in town, impressed them with a Jeep ride to the middle of nowhere, and then nailed them on a blanket in the woods. They would make a triumphant return into town around midnight with the satisfied bitch riding shotgun in a mud covered vehicle. One Saturday night Winky came to our neck of the woods. He proceeded to ignore any of the aforementioned property rights and drove his big jeep into the middle of my dad’s hayfield. He had some blonde chick from Rye Cove with him and they were doing doughnuts in the middle of the field. It had rained heavily all week so he was churning up mud and leaving huge ruts all over the place. Dad wasn’t home, but I knew he would be pissed. Sometimes though, life takes unusual turns and the sun shines on every dog’s ass at least once. When that Jeep got stuck it was my day in the sun. Winky had no idea whose land he was trashing — and didn’t care. He and the evening whore got out of the Jeep and sloshed through the mud in search of a tow. The nearest house to where we lived was a mile away and for some reason he didn’t bother to come to ours seeking help. It wasn’t quite dark yet so when I saw them disappear over the hill, I drove to the edge of the field with my deer rifle, bolt action 30-06 and two boxes of shells. I knew Winky would be detained for at least an hour before he came back. Carefully I used the hood of my truck as a rest and proceeded to fire 40-shots into that jeep. The first shot blew out the windshield and ripped through the seat. The second hit the hood, the third took out two of the off-road lights. I was demonstrating amazing marksmanship when I put a shot through both subwoofers on either side of the back seat. I fired until the ammo ran out. Then I went home. The next day, Winky showed up with his dad to retrieve the vehicle. My dad was home by then and was furious. They had the sheriff with them. We all met at the end of the field. Winky and his old man were pissed off, but also a little frightened to find their vehicle shot full of holes. They wanted the sheriff to conduct a full investigation into the destruction of property. The sheriff and my dad were longtime friends and my dad had a few questions on the same subject. The sheriff looked at us and asked if we’d seen or heard anything -- we told him we weren’t home last night. Investigation closed crime into the cold case file for good. Winky was in deep shit when he had to fess up to trespassing and destroying the hayfield. Winky had to pay my dad a thousand bucks for damages to the field. Ah sweet justice. |
