Barry was headed to Georgia for a Low Country Boil. He always enjoyed these. The good food, the good company and the ambience. The ambience was like eating dinner in a junk yard with a pack of rotwielers. It was an adventure. Getting there was an adventure. After leaving the good roads of the big city, small city actually, Barry hit the main road. It was pretty decent. Then he caught the Interstate. That was good. Crossing over into Georgia he got off onto another main road. So far, so good. Fifty miles up that road, he’d make a left onto an asphalt-paved road. The heat had buckled the road to the point that Barry worried that he’d break his caps. He reached down, grabbed a map, and bit it. This protected his caps but looked a little odd. He was in redneck country but not too deeply. He’d get stares and finger pointing but that was all. A ways down he’d turn right onto a dirt road. Here he’d take the map out of his mouth. He’ didn’t need it any longer and here he would be shot at if the men were home. The women just threw rocks. Then he’d turn onto Small Hill Drive. This was a sand road

He got out of his car and took a look around to see what changes had been made. The old metal shed, full of auto parts, was rusting away a bit more. The roof was probably being held up by the parts. It was leaning a little bit more and rusted a good bit more. The door was gone. Tod probably needed the metal for something or another and the shed didn’t need a door. Tod had rotwielers. Gentle as a baby King Kong. Still, rotwielers are not the most stable dogs in the world. They could be licking your hand and decide to bite it off for no particular reason and then lick your face as you lay screaming.

Way in the back, along the property line, was the huge pile of trees that Tod had cut down with the idea of selling them to a sawmill for some extra cash. Nobody wanted them so they’d been laying there rotting away for ten years. Wilma had said that if they were lucky, a lightning bolt would set them on fire. Tod had said the lightning bolt would likely be attracted to something metallic, like the house. Wilma stopped talking about lightning. Otherwise, the place looked the same in the sense that a cancerous lung looks the same after a few months. It was the same, only more pronounced.

Wilma’s mom and dad were here with their camper. They’d taken an old school bus, ripped all the seats out, put some junky furniture in it and called it a camper. Tod’s dad had cut an opening in the side to put a door. He’d asked Tod to weld the hinges for him. Tod had welded the whole door figuring that it would secure it better. Couldn’t use the door but it looked okay. There was a small partition in the back for the toilet. Everything went into a ten-gallon tank. When it was full, or the smell got to be too much, Tod’s dad would pull over to the side of the road and dump it. "Et jus’ be furtalizah."

Everyone was sitting on the deck, drinking beer and talking up a storm. Barry came up and everyone greeted him and went back to whatever they were saying. Barry could jump in any place he chose. Wilma’s mom was telling Tod that she was disappointed that her daughter had not only married low-class white trash but had become one of them.

Tod looked up at Barry and asked him, "Hey, Barry, am Ah rolly low-class what trash?"

No. Barry didn’t want into this at all. "Tod, no one has offered me a beer", was his reply.

As people started bringing beers to him, Barry was trying to think of a way out of this. He was in a place that shooting your neighbor’s tires out was okay if you had a grievance. Shooting your neighbor was okay if the grievance a considered a "big’un" and you only nicked him a little. Shooting his wife was not okay, unless she shot first or threatened to have a "sitdown with yur waf". The thinking being that it was better to shoot your neighbor’s wife than get shot by your own with your own gun.

Still, Barry didn't want to tell Tod he was low class white trash. Tod was pretty sensitive to slights, real or imaginary. Tod was also well armed. A whistle would get the dogs coming. He was fast with a knife. He was impulsive and not the brightest light in the neon sign. Barry wanted to step vet lightly on this one. Usually he just used a bunch of words Tod didn't know and slid by. However, Wilma's mom was a little too slick for Barry to slide one past her. Somehow, Barry was the one on the hot seat and he'd only been here five minutes. He always despised his sister for this stunt. She'd get into trouble and Barry would have to get her out of it. Barry took a swig of his beers and looked around the place. God, where to start? Cars, boats, motorcycles and parts of them and parts of who knows what. A dog run next to the house. These rotwielers, called gentle by Tod and Wilma, once ate a rock someone threw at them. Barry learned a valuable lesson when he did that. Maybe throwing a hand grenade would do it but not a rock. The odor from the run was overpowering the smell from the cesspool.

"Okay, Tod, since you asked here it is. If you took all your cars and lined them up facing the same way and lined all the boats up facing the same way and tarped the piles of parts and closed the cesspool and moved the dog run and did something with those sheds I'd have to say you wouldn't be low class white trash. You'd be high class white trash."