It was 2002, The Year of the Palindrome, and I was enjoying a comfortable life in Bogue Chitto, where I owned a sorghum processing plant, coached the Division 8 Lady Weevils basketball team at Ole Chitto, and was married to my high school sweetheart and second cousin, Barbarella Jane Donquette.
But even though my life seemed perfect to our fellow parishioners at Seventh Circle Baptist, I had credit down at the car wash, and the barber told me jokes, Barbarella didn’t give up the A.
“Pappy didn’t raise no Anal Gaping Sluts,” she would say, referring to my father in-law, Shep “Stonewall” Donquette, whose grandfather dug Bogue Chitto’s first gravy mine.
“Well Jesus Christ, I’m glad,” I said. “What father would lay claim to raising an anal gaping slut?” I said.
“You know what I mean, Grams,” she said. “You sink that well in me and I’m gonna go Deepwater Horizon.”
I didn’t know what she meant, and assumed she was speaking in tongues again.
But the thought didn’t leave me: what about my needs? Thumbing through the early pages of a AAA road atlas, I happened on the State of California and saw the red, throbbing megalopolis anchoring its southern half.
“Los Anus,” I said, forgetting to allow for my partial corn-whiskey blindness. “Surely there’ll be people who understand me there.”
Two days later, Barbarella wept as she said goodbye at the bus depot.
“What if I wore my pants backwards?” she said, heartbroken.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” I said, telling her the terrible, God’s-honest truth.
Well, I soon learned that the name of the town was really Los Angeles, but I decided to stay anyway. What was left for me back in Bogue Chitto but 60 years of television? At least here there would be danger, intrigue, and easy access; after all, if you look at a map of the United States and imagine Maine as the head and Florida and Texas as the feet, Los Angeles has to be the anus.
Still, it looks like Trinity St. Clair isn’t going to give it up, either.
- Buy “Angel Face 2″ here