White Trash Etiquette

by Dr. Verne Edstrom, Esq.

  Skippy’s looking good tonight. He got the Beverly Hills 90210 sideburns and so much hairspray it could repel a Tomahawk cruise missile. There ain’t no mustard stains on his navy blue blazer. It don’t smell like smoke or beer either. You can tell he never wore it to a wedding.

  Most guys wouldn’t have the balls to wear that tie, all bright yellow and orange and green. But Skippy’s going somewheres in this world. The bright colors is his way of saying, “Hey, I got bad taste in ties.”

  Brittany’s his biggest score since Christy Gordter back at Georgetown. Skippy was gonna be a lawyer. Christy was gonna be a trophy wife. She never put out. He still got a complex.

  Which is why he flunked the lawyer exam five times. Which is why he’s now selling real estate.

  These days he’s gone to signing his name Emerson “Skippy” Thorwell, EWA, the initials being real estate speak for “I slept through this two-hour seminar and now I got impressive initials after my name.” He got a red Chrysler convertible. Cranks the public radio, figuring chicks will think he’s deep.

  Brittany wears enough makeup that most folks think she oughtta get a hazardous waste permit from the EPA. She went to Yale, majored in English. That’s why she’s a secretary at a downtown law firm.

  They’re sitting at the overpriced restaurant, the kind with the cloth napkins and so many goddamned forks you figure the manager’s taking kickbacks from a silverware salesman.

  Skippy’s making small talk about how busy it is at the office. How he’s gonna close on twenty-three—or was that three?—houses this month. How his clients is always trying to hire him, seeing how professional he is. How he thinks the boss is looking to promote him, let him run his own office. Maybe even get more initials after his name.

  Brittany don’t make eye contact. Once in a while she nods, throws a smile his way. But mostly she’s scoping the room.

  She dates three, four, five nights a week. She already slept with all the single guys at the law firm—half the married ones, too. All Brittany wants is to settle down, have some babies, and shop. But now she’s twenty-nine. If push come to shove, she’d be willing to skip the first two and just shop.

  She ain’t impressed by the flowers Skippy got her. Carnations, $9.99 a dozen on sale. She knows the prices of ’em all. And she wasn’t impressed by no public radio music either. Her head gets to hurting every time she hears them goddamned violins.

  Skippy orders the $29 dinner with the name you can’t pronounce. Brittany orders the $43 steak. Why be stupid about it? she figures. He’s picking up the tab.

  Skippy does the talking over dinner. He tells her how he pumped in 28 points in a pickup basketball game at the Y the other night. How his dad made it rich in the welcome mat business. How the old man wants him to take over the company, seeing as how smart Skippy is.

  But he don’t want no handouts—except for the red Chrysler and the monthly allowance and the free condo, which don’t really count.

  Later they go dancing at one of them clubs where the music’s so loud you scream at each other like deaf guys. Skippy yells into her ear about how he’s thinking on settling down. Just as soon as he gets the big promotion with more money and initials. Probably buy one of them big houses in them golf course subdivisions with the grass that never gets no weeds.

  Brittany smiles, one of them smiles that look like they’re held up by reinforced steel cable, and goes back to scoping the room. Skippy goes to the can.

  A guy named Ted slides up to the bar. He tells Brittany about how he’s gonna make partner at the accounting firm he works at. Just as soon as he gets promoted outta the mailroom. She gives him her number.

  It’s two in the morning. Skippy walks Brittany to her apartment door, then stands there, doing his best impression of a basset who wants out of the rain. She feels obliged to ask him in, seeing as how that steak was forty-three bucks and all.

  Skippy makes his move. Brittany don’t resist. Might as well, she figures. None of them lawyers call much anymore.

  Skippy pumps away on top of her. She thinks of Ted. Could he really go from the mailroom to partner? He must be good at delivering mail. What kind of salaries do partners get? She figures it’s gotta be somewhere around the six digits, which’s enough to crank some serious firepower into her Marshall Fields card.

  She starts shopping in her mind for new blouses, new wallpaper for the kitchen in that gated golf course subdivision that they damn well better get to buying before Skippy snatches it up.

  She hears Skippy groan. She starts to squeal, trying to fake an orgasm, but ends up sounding more like one of them squishy bathtub toys. Skippy don’t notice. Her squealing is making him feel like Antonio Banderas, or maybe a guy who just got outta prison.

  He finally rolls to the side of the bed, trying to catch his breath. Brittany asks him to leave; she’s gotta work in the morning. She takes a shower. Skippy lets hisself out.

  Brittany meets Ted for lunch the next day. They do the bone dance in the Chili King men’s room.

  By 10:00 a.m., Skippy’s told his ma he’s found The One. He’ll be bringing her out for Sunday dinner. You’re gonna love her, Ma.

  He does imitations of Brittany’s squeal for the guys at the office. They ain’t impressed. It sounds like one of them squishy bathtub toys, they tell him. Skippy don’t care. He calls Brittany all afternoon, leaving love poems on her answering machine.

  Brittany got sixteen messages when she gets home. She listens to the first few, then erases ’em all. The phone keeps ringing. She lets the machine get it. She’s busy, watching Harry Hamlin in a made-for-TV movie.

  She wonders if Harry’s married, how much he gets paid, if he ever dates secretaries, or just big stars like Meredith Baxter.

  She pulls her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on her sweatpants. She dreams of wallpaper in the gated golf course subdivision where she and Harry’s gonna live.

  Ronny’s White Trash Guide to Courting Proper

  In that last section, we learned if you’re gonna be a yuppie, chances are you gotta eat food with names you can’t pronounce, and your woman’s gonna be boning guys named Ted in the Chili King bathroom.

  This here section is gonna clue you in on how White Trash is way better at courting, and you get to eat chicken-fried steak.

  Ronny’s Got a Woman

  Ronny’s mauling his face with a napkin, trying to get the Thousand Island outta his beard. Eating proper ain’t his specialty.

  See, Ronny’s a big man, going somewheres around six-three, 270. From a distance, he looks like that Abominable Snowman, or maybe just a guy who’s got too much liking for pork chops. His is the kinda hands made for pulling engine blocks and laying Sheetrock, not for trying to stuff no bird food in his mouth.

  Siss don’t seem to mind. It’s her first night out in three months.

  They’re sitting at the Bonanza, wolfing hard on the all-you-can-eat salad bar. Ronny been telling her it’s the best in town, on account of it got pickled herring and that chicken-fried steak which looks better than the naked ladies over at B.J.’s Lounge.

  Hell, it’s kinda romantic too. From where they’re sitting, they got a good view of the Radisson, which so happens to be the fanciest hotel in St. Paul. Ronny knows on account of his boss got married there. Had an open bar. He barfed on damn near every inch of that hotel.

  Which is why most right-thinking White Trash knows better than to have a open bar.

  Ronny, he been married before. Two times. The first one was Linda. She was his high school sweetheart, a dispatcher for Yellow Cab with one of the biggest damn butts you ever seen. Her friends called her Little Canada Butt, on account of she was from Little Canada and had that big butt. Linda, she didn’t care. “At least it’s paid for,” she’d say.

  They got married in September. They got separated by October. Divorced before Christmas. Ronny says it’s because he came home sick one day and found The Butt in bed with a cabdriver from Pakistan, or maybe Latvia. He couldn’t
tell which on account of all the blood.

  Carla, Ronny’s second wife, they was married four years, till she fell asleep in her rig and drove it through a Perkins somewheres in Indiana.

  Ronny been thinking about Siss for months. If you was asking him, Siss was the babe to end all babes. But he was ascared to pull the trigger.

  Was about six months ago that she dumped her old man. Got herself a job doing invoices at Able’s Construction, trying to keep away from the creep. Ronny, he noticed her right away. She had auburn hair that wasn’t fake, curled at the ends every day, even when it was raining.

  Sure, guys might say she was a bit on the heavy side. But what the hell, Ronny figured. The woman had three kids. If she didn’t get to porking out a bit after that, she’d have to be one of them anorexics.

  Besides, Siss was the only lady in the office who didn’t use the F-word. Always smiled when he dropped by to get his checks. Made a damn fine cup of coffee.

  But Ronny never talked to her till the day Phil, her ex, came to the office. Seems Phil was the kind who liked to beat on women, which is why Siss dumped him. But Phil was also on the stupid side. He started yelling about Siss being a bitch right there in the Able office.

  Rule number one about cussing your ex-wife: Do it at an insurance agency. Do it at a department store. Do it anywheres they got sissy guys in ties working. But don’t go cussing no lady at a construction company.

  Ronny was the first to grab Phil. Before you knew, there were six or seven guys on him. They took him outside.

  The guys, they still talk about the beating they gave Phil. He looked like the Elephant Man after open-face surgery, all puffy and mangled. These days, he makes sure to pay the child support on time.

  Siss appreciated the gesture. Brought Ronny one of them Hostess pies for breakfast the next day to show her thanks. Ronny asked her to dinner. Bonanza. Best eating in town.

  Siss makes a third trip to the salad bar. She wolfs down the chicken-fried steak like a guy who just dug 100 yards of postholes. Ronny smiles. Few things is prettier than a woman with a good appetite.

  Ronny’s telling her how they been Sheetrocking this job over in Highland Park, where a rich man’s rehabbing this old railroad mansion. You should see the place, he’s telling her. Oak archways. A kitchen practically the size of New Mexico. And a porch that—once they get the rot out and sand down the railings—would be perfect for sipping a little Jim Beam and watching the summertime rain.

  Ronny tells her how his goal in life is to buy a place like that. Figures he could pick one up off Seventh Street, in the shade of the old Schmidt plant, for less than 50 grand. Sure, she’ll need some work. Maybe take a year or more before it’s presentable.

  Be nice to settle down in a place like that with a good woman, he tells her, checking to see if she gets the hint. But Siss ain’t paying much attention. Damn, that’s some good chicken-fried steak.

  After dinner, Ronny invites her out to Lou’s Viaduct Inn. It’s a classy place, he tells her. Got computer darts and 50-cent pool and drinks for a buck-fifty. Damn if that bartender Jerry don’t make the best fuzzy navel in town. The ladies sure go for that.

  But Siss says she gotta go. Things is still tight at home. Got to get rid of the babysitter before the bill gets too high. Besides, she’s probably got her clothes half off with her boyfriend right now.

  Ronny says he understands, tries to smile, but he knows he’s getting the high hat. He wonders what he did wrong. Was it the cole slaw that kept getting in his beard? The time he accidentally cut the cheese while they was waiting at the biscuit tray?

  He knows the guys at the bar’ll ride him hard if he comes back alone. Hell, it’s only eight o’clock. They drive home without talking.

  At the door, Ronny tells her how much he enjoyed hisself. How it was a pleasure to have the company of such a fine lady. He asks if she wouldn’t mind him paying the babysitter, seeing as how times was tight.

  Siss pecks him on the cheek. Asks if he wouldn’t mind coming in. Her sister borrowed her a couple of Chuck Norris videos to watch. Did Ronny like Chuck Norris?

  Ronny follows her in, even though he thinks Chuck Norris is a fruity. The guy’s always wearing turtlenecks, for chrissakes. Now he’s got a TV show about Texas Rangers. Pussy. If he was a real cop, he’d be working in a place that got better crime, like Detroit or Pittsburgh, not busting some cattle rustlers who’s dressed up like tour guides from South Dakota.

  But Ronny ain’t letting on. “Yeah, I love that guy,” he tells her.

  The kids is all in their pajamas, running around the living room like drunk Teamsters at the end of a strike. The babysitter’s on the phone, fighting with her boyfriend, who just so happens to be her cousin too.

  It’s a nice-looking place, Ronny thinks to hisself. Decent panel job, whoever did it. Good couch too. Still got the plastic on so it don’t get no baby drool. Siss got her wedding pictures on the wall, only Phil’s been crossed out with a marker.

  Siss sends the babysitter home, puts the two littlest to bed. Her oldest girl sits between ’em on the couch as Chuck pretends he’s a Chicago cop on TV. He’s wearing that goddamned turtleneck again. Chuck would get his ass kicked if he ever showed up at Lou’s, Ronny thinks to hisself.

  Siss’ oldest is a good kid. She got big ears and her teeth kinda look like the mangled grill of an old Dodge, but she’s cute in her own way. Ronny wouldn’t mind calling her his own, on account of he never had none for hisself. The Butt was too busy boning cabdrivers from Pakistan or Latvia to get to reproducing. Carla always said she’d have some, but that ended when she left her Mack in the no smoking section of that Indiana Perkins.

  One of the little ones is crying in the bedroom. Siss goes to lay with him, says she’ll be right back. Hour later, she still ain’t there. Ronny puts in another Chuck and lets the oldest lay on his lap.

  The next morning, Siss finds him sleeping on the couch. The TV’s still running, and Ronny’s snoring louder than the grinder at the packing plant she used to work at. Her oldest is snuggled under one of his arms.

  She makes him bacon and eggs. He shovels her driveway and rehangs her gutters on account of the roof is rotting.

  Siss’ sister comes over late in the morning. Siss blabs to her like a schoolgirl about the nice man she found. How much her kids like him. How he made Phil look like the Elephant Man. How he’s outside right now fixing the gutters, which she’d been on Phil about for more than a year. That prick.

  There’s still decent men out there, Siss says. You just gotta look.

  Ronny comes in to let Siss know the gutters is done. He sees her blabbing, figures it’s time to go. Got some work to do, he says.

  But Ronny don’t feel like working. It’s Sunday afternoon. The Vikings is on. He heads over to Lou’s, where the guys’ll be.

  Ronny orders up a Schmidt. The guys want to know how it went. Did he get any? Was her boobs really as big as they looked?

  Ronny tells ’em to shut up. Tells ’em that gentlemens don’t talk about a lady like that, and if you creeps was gentlemens you’d know that. But he can’t be pissed at ’em. He can’t be pissed at the Vikings either, who’s down by ten to Jacksonville.

  He sits at the bar, staring at the big screen. All he can think about is a place off Seventh Street, Siss’ kids playing in the house, and him sitting on the porch, sipping on some Jim Beam and watching that summertime rain.

  The Token Section About Deep and Cultural Stuff

  “Verne, you gone fruity?”

  That’s probably what you’re thinking right now on account of I got this part about deep and cultural stuff. But here’s the thing:

  In the last section, we done learned from Ronny how to get to sparking proper. Problem is, even if you got a top-shelf woman like Siss, sooner or later watching Chuck Norris and rehanging the gutters ain’t gonna get you to your third round of wedded bliss.

  See, women is prone to thinking about them fineries on occasion. Which means tha
t one day she’s gonna up and announce that she wants you to take her someplace classy. And that means the two most dreaded words in the White Trash language is gonna come outta her lips: “art museum.”

  Now don’t call no doctor. There ain’t no cure for this disease. It’s called epilepsy, which is medical talk for “Christ, I got a bad idea.”

  It’s just like the flu, but instead of giving you an excuse to sleep on the porch all day, it makes you suddenly go weird and wanna do dumb-assed things, like go to the art museum.

  Now them epilepsies usually show up about Sunday afternoon, after you spent all weekend laying on the couch watching the Orioles–Toronto series. Your woman’s gonna get the notion to haul your ass outta the house, so’s you can have some deep quality time together.

  Of course you’re gonna protest. “Sit your ass down,” you say in your most lovey voice. “Ain’t no better art than watching Miguel Tejada play the deep short on Astroturf.”

  Which, of course, means she’s gonna slap you harder than a truckstop waitress.

  Which means you best get your ass moving, unless you wanna be eating White Castle for the next month.

  Now you gotta spend the afternoon surrounded by pointy-heads with berets, who’s gonna stare like you’re some kind of moron for wearing your Titans Zubaz and the Loren’s Mobile Home Retirement Community T-shirt your ma sent up from Orlando.

  But don’t go aworrying. Faking like you’re clued in on deep stuff is easier than hijacking a truckload of laundry softener. Just listen to your ol’ pal Verne.

  How to Be Held in Rapture

  The first thing you notice at museums is that everybody wears black. It’s like they’re in mourning cuz their ma’s all died at once.