Most Dogs Dont Leave Their Yards

May 18, 2010

So yesterday, I get off at exit 20 and drive past my new client’s house because I have time to kill and cruise right into a police check point. They are asking for licenses. I havent had my license or my tags switched over. I have been in this this state since January. The officer asks me these questions and I am honest. He tells me that he is not going to do anything because of my pretty  eyes. I say, I know. Just with a big smile.

I have to detour the GPS twice to get a route back to my client’s house that will not take me past the check point again. I end up on a dirt road, off of a dirt road. Which is then off of another dirt road. (I am still two dirt roads from the client’s house.) I am driving through what feels like the front yards of two trailers, waving at the assembled neighbors, before I come to a ditch cut into the road and reinforced with 2′ x 4’s. I, um, park.

A man walks over to my car. He has an eyebrow ring which means he is counter-cultural like me. I tell him my computer told me to come here and says, “We had to dig that ditch because the police were chasing the crackheads all through here, but we got rid of the crackheads.” He is super nice, as my dad would say. He asks me whose house I am going to and I sheepishly say as evasively as possible . . . Jennifer’s house? He says he doesnt know Jennifer. He says I can leave my car here, since, you know, I’ve decided to walk the .2 miles to my client’s house.

Halfway down the dirt road, I call the client again and get no answer. My phone is almost dead. It’s been almost dead since I took it from the charger this morning, it’ s that kind of phone. Two huge German Shepards start running towards me from a house about 100 yards away, but I figure most dogs dont leave their yards. I call Wifebian and tell her what a series of dumb decisions I am making. I narrowly miss stepping on a dead toad the size of my foot. I am wearing sandals. I see that the dogs are on a chains. I am getting high off of my increasingly poor decision-making, but my call is launching Wifebian into a panic attack. I can’t stop laughing and talking very loudly in the middle of this dirt road. The phone drops the call. I look up and it is about to rain. Enough is finally enough? I walk back the way I came.

I go get my new friend and tell him that I’ve changed my mind since it’s about to rain. He says, “Are you a census worker?” I say, Well, I’m not allowed to tell you who I am, I mean, I want to because you’re being so nice and I am nice, and I’m sure the person I’m going to meet is nice, but you know where being nice gets you sometimes. He smiles and tells me how to get back on the highway without running into the police.

My point is that working with white people in the country has sent my boundaries all to shit.


5 Responses to “Most Dogs Dont Leave Their Yards”

  1. Angie said

    Saw this movie recently and for some reason your post totally reminded me of it. Oh, and a little Rob Zombie.

  2. Nicole said

    Man, this reminds me of my days as a union organizer, driving through the back woods of Michigan looking for the houses of employees of a super market chain we were organizing. Crazy shit. Glad the ditch didn’t swallow you up.

  3. Dina said

    …and thus my totally rational fear of small towns. I’ve had this fear forever, perhaps started by bad 80s horror films and perpetuated by driving too fast on dirt roads in the south.

  4. reas said

    THIS is the reason I don’t do child welfare anymore. (knock on wood) That is what you’re doing, right? I swear that wasn’t me you talked to out there. Know why? I would never, EVER live off a dirt road. Loved the bit about the dead toad.

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