Asking for directions in a southern town is—well, what is the word for it—interesting.

Case in point: I needed some extra material for a quilt. No big deal, right? Think again. I went to the local gas station where I decided to ask the attendant for directions. I walked in to prepay when I discovered two older gentlemen. Though the men were unrelated-one was an overweight, fair-skinned redhead and the other was a lanky, tanned brunette—they both had on Dickies’ coveralls with dingy, threadbare t-shirts, which was the dress code of the south. This was a warm day, but if it had been cold, the shirts would have been long-sleeved flannel shirts or long john shirts.

I stepped to the register and submitted my cost of gas to Red. “Excuse me, could you help me, please?”

Red's skin around his eyes wrinkled as his jovial voice boomed throughout the store. “Wyy shore! Wut kin Ah do fer ya?”

“Could you tell me if there is a fabric shop in town?”

Red’s eyebrows furrowed, creating new wrinkles on his forehead. “Hmmm. Uh faa-brick shahp?”

“Yes, please.”

“Whudder ya tryin tah buy?”

As usual, when asking directions in a southern town, the person giving them wants to be sure you are going to the right place. Well, not actually. They are just being inquisitive—an apt euphemism for being nosey. “Well, I’d like to buy some fabric.”

Unlike in a city—where one would give directions from where they are standing—Red gave directions starting from the middle. “Dyo yyou knoa whare duh ohld wharehaws iss?”

“No, I didn’t know there was a warehouse around here.”

Red’s face scrunched inward—eyebrows, lips, and cheeks. After a moment, they blossomed happily like a flower receiving the sunlight. “Dyo yyou knoa whare Mistah Braown’s cleanuhs is?” He said that in hopes that I would be able to connect with him; to meet him half way.

Unfortunately, I had to disappoint him. My eyebrows raised along with my hands in self-deprecation. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are talking about. Who is Mr. Brown?”

Red gasped then his eyes bulged. His voice nearly yelped as if someone poked him in the ribs. “Yyou dohnno Mistah Braown?” He would have been floored by my statement, but he was already sitting.

I felt as if I had taken a blow. My body turned inward, my face flushed as I looked down. I lowered my voice in shame. “No.”

Red was unconvinced. His voice dropped in tone, but remained loud. Red repeated the question, somewhat in denial for my ignorance. “Yyou don knoa Mistah Braown? Bawby Lee Braown?”

I wanted to know Bobby Lee Brown just because Red wanted me to know him. I mean Bobby Lee must be an upstanding kind of guy if Red knows him! Yet, I only hid my shame for not being in-the-know. I barely heard my imperceptible whisper. “I really don’t. Honest.”

I saw it in Red’s face. His eyes became narrow, scrutinizing. Here it comes. He was about to ask about me. I could feel it. I thought to myself, Oh, just go ahead and ask, for crying out loud.

Red did not disappoint me. “Haw lohn yyou bin livin’ raoun heah?”

That question always feels like I’m about to be accused of something. I get the third degree. I always amaze people with my answer, just like I amazed Red. “I’ve been living around here a couple of years.”

“Whare yyou frum?”

Another question that I often get due to my mid-western accent. The second surprise dropped just like the other shoe. “I graduated here, actually.”

I saw the wheels smoking behind Red's squinting eyes. He didn't believe me. He shouldn't. I lived in Nebraska for about ten years, something I don't tell people. “N yyou dohn knoa ol’ Bawby Lee Braown?”

“No, I’m not familiar with that name.” That’s it. I was going to have to leave. I figured that I had to drive up and down each street until I found a fabric store.

Yet, my feet failed me as I stood stock still like I had stepped into some Gorilla Glue. Red gawked with incredulity. “We-ell, he gawt fo chillrin. Wunna dem’s ‘bout yoh age.” He turned to the lanky guy. “Skeeder, whuh dat gurl naym iss?”

Oh boy, Red brought in his partner to round out the act. I’ve nearly been dismissed by family ties. This could go on for hours. Skeeter's voice was scratchy and deep. I could almost see the layers of tar and nicotine on his vocal chords. “Hoo, Jesseh?”

Jesse’s voice brimmed with anticipation. “Bawby Lee dawda. Wuts hur naym?” Skeeter had to know Bobby Lee's daughter! I was rooting for Skeeter. I hoped against hope that Skeeter would satisfy the pent up angst in Jesse’s voice. I felt guilty for what I put Jesse through. I wondered if I really need that fabric this much. Why didn't I check the phone book before I left?

“Cain remembah, Jesseh.” Oh no, Skeeter! You had to know! You just had to! I was beginning to feel like I was watching a soap opera. Will Skeeter know Bobby Lee’s daughter? Will Jesse be able to tell Skeeter? Will Jesse be able to live with himself if Skeeter can’t remember? Will I ever be told how to get to the nearest fabric store? These, and other questions, will be answered on the next episode of--

“Buh yyou knoa whoo Ah’m talkn ‘bout, riyaht?” Jesse leaned forward as his eyes widened and pierced. I thought he was surging the picture of the daughter into Skeeter’s head. I started looking for smoke from Jesse’s head in this long moment of silence.

Skeeter’s eyes nearly popped out and his face spread wide with confirmation. “Ah knoa, Jesseh! Kay-rin! Das hur naym!”

Jesse smiled. He stared at some unknown space in the ceiling. “Wundah whayre she iss nah.”

“Lanhtah, ain she?” By now, I could have gone to Atlanta to get some fabric. I'd only have to drive six hours to get there.

“Gessso.” Jesse’s mind went back to the good old days. “She wus ah purdy lil thang, wuhdn she?”

“Yeh. Uh lil bean-pole doh.” Skeeter’s head moved slowly up and down as if he was swaying to a song in the back of his mind.

“Yeh, buh she hadah mouf on hur. Jus liyahk hur mommah.”

“Yeh. Shore dihd.” Jesse and Skeeter took a mental trip back to the days of yore.

I really hated to interrupt their voyage, but I don’t know Bobby Lee, I don’t know Karen, and I really would like to get the fabric within the next month. Today would be good.

I simulated a hypnotist who was trying to slowly bring out their stooges. Five… four… three… two…“Pardon me…”

They turned to my direction, refreshed from their session. “Oh yeh. Sawry baw dat. Uh faa-brick stoah, riyaht?”

I smiled. They came back to reality with all of their faculties. Great! “No need to apologize, but yes, please. The nearest fabric store?”

“You knoa haow tah git daown yonder to da skwahr?”

“Yes, I think so. Can’t I go down Mason Avenue to get to the square?”

“Yeh!” His ecstatic response was filled with approval. I did good! “Yah go liyahk yyou gowuhn tah da skwahr, cept cha mayk a riyaht daown at dah liyaht.”

I nodded a confirmation of understanding, albeit somewhat tentatively. “Okay. A right at the light before the square.” Jesse smiled gleamed with joy that said, “By Jove, I think she’s got it!” But, I wasn’t trying to remove my cockney accent. I was trying to get some fabric and I was almost there.

“Dehn yah mayka nudder riyaht two blahks daohn yahnda. Look ohn yah lef siyahd uhdah skreet. Yyou shul see id riyah oer dayehr.” The suspenseful climatic ending was over and now we all have to pick up the pieces of the dénouement.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Down south, it’s not enough to thank a person. One must be humbly grateful for the assistance.

“Nah yawl cuhm bayahck nah, yah heah?”

Labels: Humor, My Writing, Prose