Freddy's Confession

“He’s a fag.”

Digger’s clear declaration was meant to set his father’s head spinning.  Instead Reggie just shrugged and started attacking Digger.  No, hell no!  This was not supposed to be how it went down. 

Reggie did not appreciate the interruption, as he sat in his rocking chair, trying to relax on the porch of his home, overlooking his pond and the most beautiful part of Dixon County, Spitchaw Ridge, all of it Crowley land as far as the eye could see.  Now, on top of all the other problems he was trying to get a few minutes of peace and quiet from, he had to be disrupted by the dumbest of his two sons and his blind jealous ravings.

“Why you talking such stupid stuff,  Digger?  Is it cuz’ you ain’t done a split pea’s worth of stuff I askt you to?  You think you can distract me with such nonsense?  I want you go to your buddies on the police force and find out what you can about why that pussy sheriff we got let that killer Yankee go free.  We need all this frivola-ta-rol wrapped up toot sweet!  I can smell those big machines starting to dig-a-digging, Digger!  And you trying to waste my time with this brother rivalry crap is pissing me off.”

“But…but he is, Daddy! I know he is.  It’s the truth, I swear it!”

“You are one warped stupid redneck, you know that?  Is this cuz’ he treats people and women with more respect than you do?  That’s what makes him a smart businessman compared to your bull china ways!  And if anybody’s a homo, hell, you’re the one who’s practically butt-clipped to Sandy Harley.  You two set a date yet?”

Digger was getting upset.  His magic moment was slipping away.  But he had planned better than that.  Sooner or later, he would make his Daddy respect and understand that he was the one to depend on.  And he had one more ace in the hole to play.

“Look, here, Daddy.”  Digger brought his phone up to Reggie, inches from his face.  “Do you see what’s going on in that picture?”

“Phone pictures,” Reggie disgustedly said.  “What the hell are things coming to?  Any jackass taking a picture of everything a person does, no privacy anymore! Now, what the hell am I looking at?”

“Put your glasses on, Daddy, and take a closer look.’

Reggie slipped his glasses on and squinted at the picture.  “Is it that…Freddy?  That’s his Silverado pickup, but what’s he doing with that weenie lookin’ fella?”  He squinted some more.  “Oh, for the love of God, is he kissing that guy?”

“Yes, Daddy, I told you.  He’s a fag.  Now will you believe me?” Digger asked, triumphantly. 

Reggie still could not believe it, even with Digger’s proof staring at him.  “How do I know this ain’t one of them photos that have been shopped?  One of your smart friends help you set this up?  Well, presuming you got smart friends, which might be a pretty far-fetched assumption, I admit.”

“It ain’t fake, Daddy.  It’s for real.”

“Well, how sure that’s a fella?  Maybe it’s just a really ugly woman wearing man’s clothes.”

“You reaching, Daddy, and you know it.  That’s Stephen Fairley.  He’s a theatre actor in one of them plays in Waycross.  That’s where they met – in back of the theatre.”

Reggie was silent for several minutes.  Digger had no idea what was going on.  He was scared to interrupt his Daddy’s processing of what Digger had shown him.

Finally, Reggie spoke.  “You get him here.  I want to hear him answer this.”

Digger lit up, and then lit out to find Freddy.  Maybe, at long last, Digger would finally be first in line to inherit the keys to the kingdom.  And for what he had done for his Daddy, for the good of the Crowley family, who deserved it more?

          **********

“Are you a fag?”

Freddy was completely taken aback.  He knew something peculiar was up when Digger came and got him, rousting him from his office at the Mill, brought all the way out to Spitchaw Ridge, and then to be confronted with his father, alone, even Digger being sent away.  “A-a what?  W-what are you talking about?”

Reggie had kept Digger’s phone and held it up for Freddy.  “I’m talking about this.”  Freddy turned pale as he got a close look as to what the picture was, he and his boyfriend, Stephen, kissing.  Digger must have taken it before he confronted him and beat the crap out of him.  Stephen ran away during that brutal madness, and would no longer answer his calls.  He had loved Stephen deeply, but was disappointed that he failed to stand by him.  Nevertheless, he felt if they could just talk.  Love must be like that sometimes.

But this was not the time for reverie.  His father’s repeated question snapped him out of it.  “Are you a homo?”

“What?” Freddy asked, still not quite believing that he had been outed.

“You want me to be more dainty?  You want me to be more politically correct?”  Reggie then pronounced his next question slowly, five second gaps between each word, his face steaming with barely contained anger.  “Is…. you…. GAY, ... boy?”

Freddy wanted to lie.  Freddy wanted to run.  But Freddy was also tired.  Tired of living a lie.  Tired of denying something that was as much as part of him as hair or nose, the way he walked, and the way he breathed.  No one was going to understand, no one was going to put up with it, no one would reach out to him, except Gariton, who might be a killer, or that Episcopal priest lady, whom he met briefly but could not bring himself to go to her church or even meet with her second time.  With all this swirling through his head, he answered, “Yes.”

There it was.  He was out.  Let the chips fall where they….

“Get out,” Reggie snarled.  “Get out of my house and never show yourself to me again.”

“But, Daddy, I promise you.  Being gay is just a part of who I am.  It don’t mean nothing evil.  I’m still the same devoted son you always have been able to depend on.  I love you and Mama.  I can’t help who I am,” Freddy pleaded.

“You think I’m going to debate with you where faggots come from?  Nature?  Nurture?  You think I give a shit?  Some weak kneed pansy fairy son of a pussy bitch ain’t no son of mine.  Go see some therapist. Have some Jesus freaks knock some religious sense into you.  But do it on your own time and dime.  You’re dead to me.  You’re gone.  My businesses, the Crowley legacy, is reserved for real men, even ones as stupid as Digger, because even in my book, stupid beats fag.  Now get the hell out of my house.”

Weeping, crying and lamenting, Freddy left the house.  Everything he worked for was gone.  He felt alone, hurt and abandoned.  And Digger, his idiot brother, would be left in charge of the Crowley fortune.  God help Daddy.  God help all of Crowley.

But one thing he was sure of, though all the tears, torment, and separation.  He was gay, and he would always be gay.  And he would never deny it again, whatever it cost him.

The New and Future Robot King

Week one of Robot Camp is now complete!

Benjamin, not content just to compete the same way as the rest of his fellow campers, broke away to be the only camp attendee to do "soft coding" rather than "hard coding".  What does this mean?  He built a robot that didn't just operate to set commands.  He developed a robot that could "think" for itself and make judgments during the test.

They had a contest on the last day to see how well the robots they designed could compete on an obstacle course with set tasks.  The team that Benjamin was with originally, for the first two days or so, won the competition.  The soft-coded robot that Benjamin worked on,  with only about half the  camp left, did not win, but did very well, considering he was the only one to attempt a "thinking" robot.

The highlight of the whole contest came from his robot.  There was a "lake" on the obstacle map, designated by an outline of orange tape.  Benjamin's robot approached the lake, but it stopped just as it was about to go in.  It paused for a second, and then backed up.  Because Benjamin had programmed it to recognize a certain color, and not to cross the threshold of that color.  It was an awesome sight to behold.

Benjamin was competing mostly against students from metro Atlanta schools, many who have had much greater exposure to robotics than Benjamin had.  He still more than held his own.

Part of the reasoning behind sending him to the camp was to find out if he was genuinely interested in robotics, or if it might be a passing phase.  Was he still excited by it?  Was he willing to put in the hard work?  So far, the answer has been a resounding yes!

But wait!  There's more!  This week robot camp continues with the "advanced" class!  I am filled with pride, and, I must admit, a little bit of fear, of what he might accomplish!  Hopefully not the beginnings of Skynet!

Benjamin!  What are you going to do in Robot Camp this week?

Why, the same thing I do every week, Dad  ---   Try to build a robot that can take over the world!

Mall of the Swamps Part 4

4

Swamptown Vapes

Honestly, management was not quite sure what "vapes" were, but with over a third of their storefronts closed, they felt more like beggars than choosers.  Besides, what they could find out assured them they weren't illegal.  Some kind of electrical cigarettes, and they were supposed to be safer than regular cigarettes.  Well, the jury may still be out on that, but their achingly empty mall footage argued that it was worth a chance.

Bobby Ray was there today, a special guest at the Grand Opening.  It's true that his football injury may have cost Dixon High their hoped-for state championship, but he was healed now, both his leg and his heart (the heavy hits he took from his breakup with Racine Steel).

He stood at the entrance, shaking hands and high fiving.  Bobby Ray didn't smoke vapes, but he knew the store owner, Hilton Smith, and felt like it was the courteous thing to do.  Besides, Hilton was paying him $250.

Hilton was an alum from Dixon County football, circa 1995, the last time Dixon County won the State championship.  Bobby Ray played football with Hilton's son, Radisson (called Raddy) Smith, and had spent time at their pool.  Racine was over one time, and it was they way a bikinied Race came out of the pool after a spectacular dive, that was one of the first moments that he knew that he had fallen big time for her.

It was great to be out, let people know that he was recovered form the injury.  He indeed made enough of impression on Georgia Southern that they took him on scholarship.  They were a Division I-A FBS school, true, not the big leagues.  But they were one of the very best of that group, having won six national championships.  It was not impossible for an accomplished quarterback from that school to catch the attention of the NFL.

Besides, unless he had things horribly wrong, that was the school Racine was going to.  Maybe they weren't together now.  Maybe they never would be.  But it couldn't hurt to be where she couldn't help but she him and hear about him.

He was shocked to hear that Racine had miscarried.  He didn't believe for a minute those New Life fools who were calling it an abortion.  It made him sad that he had offered her help, and she had turned him down. 

Did he want to be tied down with a kid?  Not really, no.  But underneath his cocky exterior, he really did care for Racine, and was determined to do the right thing.

His buddy, Skipper Reese, had come there to keep him company.  He also was a potential customer for Swamptown Vapes.  Skipper didn't really know if he wanted to trade out completely - he was kind of attached to smoking, and how cool he thought it made him look.  But this might let him smoke in places where they don't allow cigarettes.  The restrictions were not as extensive yet, and the thought was that it was less harmful to you and to others.  Fine.  He just cared if he could get way with it.  At least that's the vibe Skipper gave off.

Also there was Susi Kapok.  Bobby Ray had made the mistake of letting her in, especially with Racine now out of reach.  She was nearby, occasionally grabbing his arm, even though he made no moves to encourage or discourage her.  She wore tight bluejean capris, flipflops, and a red blouse, buttoned so that her major feature was exposed almost to the nipple.  At first he thought that manner of dress was kinda sexy, but now he was tired of it.  What he wouldn't give to be staring at Racine.  Even dressed from head to toe in baggy clothing, she was sexier than Susi Kapok could ever be.

And smarter too.  He never thought that he would find smart girls sexy, but he missed it now.  It wasn't the help she offered in homework, either.  She got him to think about things, in ways he'd never thought of them before.  The deepest conversations Susi Kapok had was as to whether to change toenail polish, the virtues of wine versus beer, or rank the relative sexiness of different beards on Duck Dynasty.

Hang in there, Bobby Ray!  Thant's what echoed through his head.  The future was bright, and Racine was the light.

People may think ol' Bobby Ray was empty and shallow, but they were wrong.  You couldn't succeed as a quarterback if you were.  There was so much practice, so much drill.  And if this season didn't work out right?

There was always next season!

Ruby Tuesday

The pressure to play basketball was tremendous.  After all, he was 6’8”, by far the tallest one in his high school class.  But he didn’t really like basketball.  He liked sports, but didn’t like all the physical knocking about.  But tennis?  Ah, now there was a great, graceful game that he really loved.  And Houston Graves, Jr., was quite good at it.  Not pro good, but good enough to help his college win a regional championship.

Houston loved tennis, and he loved his place in Crowley society.  He was third generation Crowley, his grandfather (known affectionately as PeePop), having come here from Illinois, arriving in the 1930s as one of the area’s first insurance agents.  The Graves agency made a killing, particularly in life insurance.  Maybe the name offered a start reminder to people that, without good life insurance, you couldn’t be assured of your family’s protection and position once you were in the grave.

Houston’s father, Houston, Sr., did not quite follow in his PeePop’s footsteps.  He left the insurance to his older brother, Dallas, Jr., and became an accountant.  Houston, Sr. worked hard and earned his CPA license, and helped start up Crowley’s go-to CPA firm.  Houston, Jr., more interested in tennis than a career, kind of floated into his father’s small firm, Graves & Robinson. 

Like his father, though, he had decided that he did not want to follow into his old man’s career.  Being a CPA gave him a flavor of what it was like to be a real entrepreneur, and he loved it, was intoxicated by it.  He wanted to be a part of men taking a chance, of creating something that would leave a legacy and a mark on the town.  That is why he was so excited about the Compton Park Development project.  He was helping manage something that was getting on the ground floor of creating a bridge between Crowley and other communities, a destination that could really put them on the map.  Something that would bring people in from miles around.

“Damn good salad bar they got here, House!  Almost don’t really need to order an actual meal, don’t cha know?”  House was the nickname some of his friends called him, and Eddie Moore, even though they were only recent business acquaintances, was very quick to pick it up.  Eddie was a lawyer from Atlanta that they had begun consulting with.  The Compton Park group had been using Cooper & Strickland, but that had gotten all messed up what with Rondy’s horrible murder, and Thomas Cooper not acting very cooperative.  It was even suspected that Thomas Cooper was secretly helping the number one murder suspect, Gariton Hollander, with legal advice.  Houston, Jr., knew Gariton from a good number of lunches from the Honey Dew, and found it hard to believe that Gariton did it, but he didn’t understand why Thomas Cooper would bend so far over as to actually assist the man the evidence was suggesting was the killer.

“I love the Parmesan Shrimp Pasta.  Hard to pass that up no matter how big the salad is,”  said Houston, Jr.,  who was only eating a modest amount of salad.  Eddie was a big man, but fit and muscular, like he lifted weights to define his shape.  He had a huge mound of salad, lettuce and tomatoes and mushrooms and croutons and bacon and dressing, all piled high.  He made dents in it here and there, and the way he carved it suggested he was like the character in Close Encounters, creating Devil’s Tower out of a mound of mashed potatoes.

“I’m a salad ‘n’ cheeseburger kinda guy,” said Eddie.  “So I hope this new pretzel burger is gonna be worth it.” 

“Sounds like it’s worth a try,” answered Houston, Jr.  “So how we doing, Eddie?  Have we cleared all the legal hurdles?”

Eddie wiped some dressing off that had dribbled down his chin.  His mouth was full, but that did not stop him from talking as he masticated.  “We come a long way, House.  The Sheriff hasn’t quite cleared that sight where they found that hippie teacher fella, but I think that’ll be cleared out in a week or so.  And all that stuff that was brought out about that damn blue plant has kinda fizzled out.”

Yes.  That looked like a real complication, with Christie Delco Hollander of all people, going to Sheriff Steel with all that crazy stuff bout a blue drupe that could cure cancer.  Fortunately, the University of Florida researcher that the drupe was taken to, said that the original conclusions were brought in by a staff assistant who was not very accurate, credible or well trained, and that no one had been able to duplicate what she did, nor was anyone able to locate whatever records she had.  It had all evaporated in smoke and mirrors.  Now how much of that was due to reality, and how much to pressures from the Compton people or Eddie’s law firm, Houston, Jr. refused to speculate.

“Yes, it looks all the environmental issues are a thing of the past.  Thank god for Republican controlled legislatures and judiciary!  I mean, we got the means, really, to grease our way to where we want to go, but it do make things a little more straightforward,” said Eddie, as he munched his way to salad victory.

Houston, Jr. was relieved.  He had worked hard to get them in place, and worked with a lot of contractors, ready to give them the green light.  Once that was given, he thought he could show his true value by keeping things moving quickly and efficiently, at a minimal cost.

It was a joy to do, but the last few weeks had been a real strain.  He felt like the Godfather sometimes, with the line, “Every time I try to get out, they pull me back in!”  First his father has a heart attack, and then Gariton gets arrested, it was like one thing after another pulling back to the accounting firm.  Davis Robinson, the co-founding partner with Houston, Sr. was partner in name only, only coming in once a week or so, and not really capable of doing more, as his Alzheimer’s set in more and more each year.  His Dad was determined to come back, but his doctor ordered to say away for at least six weeks, of which he was only halfway through.  Houston, Sr. was chomping at the bit to come back, but Houston, Jr., tried to meet him at home and keep him updated.

Even with Gariton being out on bail (surprise!) and the new girl, Janet  Roper, helping, things were still getting behind.  And it didn’t help that Daddy Delco and Reggie Crowley, two of the Compton Park big wheels, had ordered him to personally do the accounting and bookkeeping for Crowley’s Mill, and even for Archie’s brother, the slumlord.  So Houston, Jr. just buckled down and worked there most nights and weekends the last few weeks.  The lack of sleep was catching up to him, but meetings like this, where the Compton Park Development was making progress, fueled him with new adrenalin.

“Glad to hear that, Eddie,” Houston, Jr. replied.  “I feel better hearing it from you.  I’ll feel even really better when we start to break ground.”

Eddie looked up at him, Houston, Jr. even sitting tall in his booth setting.  “I’ll bet you right here and now, that you’ll be breaking ground by Easter, mark my words!”

Easter.  What a wonderful time for a resurrection!  A resurrection of the business vitality of this area, a resurrection of this area as a must see destination, and a resurrection of his career and dreams.

Game, set, and match!

Bible Verses that Are Important to Me 11

38 Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. 39 She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. 40 But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” 41 But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; 42 there is need of only one thing.l Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

Women are not servants of men, they are children of God, listening and learning right beside the men, equal and blessed.

Fitting Into the Antique World

Alison loves to go antique stores.  I love her, so I often gladly go with her.  It's not all bad.  Although I don't share much interest in furniture, or most household goods and accessories, I do enjoy seeing older books, records, toys, unusual knickknacks or other items with an interesting history.

Recently, Alison went to a new store with her mother.  I asked her how it was (i.e., was it going to be worth me visiting), and she said it was okay but there weren't many antiques.  Really, I ask.  Well, what was in there?  She answered that most of the items weren't very old, that they were vintage at best.  Vintage?  What was that?  Wasn't that just another word for antique?

So that started me on a quest - what was the difference between antique and vintage, and also a third word I'd heard a lot in the antique world, collectible.  I asked Alison,  I googled. I checked online dictionaries.  I read discussion threads where people were debating the meanings of the three. I posted my query on Facebook.

Needless to say, the results were not uniform.  They seemed to be words whose meanings varied and were used differently by different people.  The following are my own impressions of antique world word war -

Antique is definitely the word for the oldest stuff.  How old varied quite a bit.  I often heard at least fifty years old, but other time frames were used, up to one hundred years.  It's kind of vague.  I think of it as, if you're middle aged, it has to be at least as old as your Grandma when she was a young adult.  Now what's also true is that much of the stuff found in many antique stores, aren't really antiques. Much of what I see in the stores is only from the 80s, 70s or 60s, and that does make the shortest time frame I heard to qualify as an antique - fifty years old.

Wait.  Let me do some quick math here.  It's 2015, so that means fifty years ago was...1965!  Hole Moley!  I was a wee kid back then!  That means some of the stuff I had, some of the stuff I played with as a kid, those would be antiques!  Oh, no!  It might mean more than that!  It might mean that...I'm an antique!

Oh, well.  Given Alison's hobby, that might help explain why she likes me.  One of the most popular pictures of me is one Benjamin took of Alison and I by the side of the American Pickers van, with the word antique on the van , and an arrow from the word pointed straight at my head.

Vintage was defined as something less than fifty years old, but it was also connected to things that improve with age, or become more notable or unique.  It's most frequently used with wine.  I see it in some of the antique stores connected with clothing, particularly for clothes that have come back into vogue again (also sometimes called retro, which sounds like a word Scooby Doo would say).  To me, vintage suggests a certain level of preservation that may or may not be required in an antique.  I like to think of myself as vintage, well preserved and just getting slap better with time.  That's harder to do on mornings where you wake up with aches and pains, and it takes you ten minutes to remember if you made the coffee, and another fifteen minutes to try to remember how you do make coffee.

Collectibles could be antiques or vintage.  They could also be something that came out just last week, like the Minion figures at McDonald's (who may be cursing if you believe some stories - of course, that just enhances their collectability). They are usually a series of related items, and the goal is to collect as many of a set as possible.  My favorite, comic books, are considered collectibles, and one of my main goals is to get complete runs of Superman and Action Comics.  Some are way too expensive, because in addition to being collectibles, some of them are well over fifty years old, and are also antiques.  And then some are in "vintage" or near mint condition.  Which means these three terms can actually be inter-related.  Am I collectible?  Probably not, unless you're trying to start a collection of aging community theater actors.

Finally, just to add to the confusion, someone brought up the term relic.  That is something rare, that represents another time or era, an artifact more suitable for Indiana Jones or a museum than an antique store. Although opinions vary, I don't think I've hit relic status yet.

But, who knows?  Give me some more time, and we'll see.  That collectible, vintage antique, slowly careening to relic status, may be just around the corner!

We Interrupt This Blog for an Important Announcement

July is likely to be a slightly down month for The Strait Line.

Instead of the usual five to six posts per week, three may be three or fewer per week, at least for the next few weeks.

This week my morning writing time is severely limited, as I am gong in early to try to finish as much work as possible, because I am going to be out of the office either all or most of all of the next two weeks.  I am going to help Benjamin in getting back and forth to Robot Camp at Georgia Tech.

This should take me through most of July.

My writing will mostly be concentrated on finishing the Crowley Stories.  This will mark my second complete novel, both of which I will apparently be too afraid to publish.  But if I'm ever going to have a chance to retire from accounting before I'm 70, I'm going to have to find the time and get up the nerve to publish, either by getting a publishing company to do it, or by doing it myself.

Meanwhile, please enjoy the over 1,100 posts I already have.  You may want to take this opportunity to bookmark The Strait Line on your computer or tablet or mobile device.  You don't have to be depend on Facebook or Twitter (I have like maybe one Twitter follower who MAY connect to the blog).  Just check each day.  If there's nothing new that day, there is six years of blog entries you can check out.  Quantity over quality is my motto, or so some have told me.

Thanks for your understanding and support,

T. M. Strait

Mall of the Swamps Part 3

3

Dixie Outfitters

Before each retail day began, minutes before the mall would open to the public, Riley Kenyon would set out three flags at the front of the store. 

The first flag, the one in the middle on the highest pole, was the flag of the United States of America.  Riley loved this flag, as he felt he loved his country, at least the best elements of his country.  He had fought for his country in the first Gulf War, a short but brutal conflict.  He wasn't injured, as some of his buddies were, and he didn't suffer from PTSD (Post Trauma Suffering Disease was the best name Riley could recall for it), but it still left a deep impression on him.  He wished Poppy Bush had not stopped them from invading Baghdad.  Maybe the Iraq War would not have been such a FUBARic mess.  Maybe it would not have been necessary for the son to come in and finish up what his Daddy didn't.

The second flag that Riley put up, the one to the left of the US flag, was the Georgia flag.  Not the current one, of course, the one brought about by weak-kneed legislators caving into liberal pansies and whiny minorities.  No, it was the pre-2001 version that he proudly displayed.  It had the state seal of Georgia to one side, and then it prominently displayed the Confederate flag on the other.  This flag was boldly adopted by the state of Georgia in 1956, to show the damn Yankees that they would not be pushed around, that Southern states had a god given right to be SOUTHERN States, and that they would not be forced to become pale copies of their namby-pamby Northern brethren.

The third flag that Riley put up, to the right of the US flag, was the purest and most glorious flag of them all.  It was the confederate flag, and yes, he was aware that at the time of the War Against Northern Aggression, that it was not the flag adopted by the Confederacy, but the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia.  Still, over time it had come to symbolize that great revolt, and it was a flag that Riley deeply revered.

Inside Riley's store were many varied symbols of Southern history, heritage and pride.  The flag was just the tip of the iceberg, and what a beautiful iceberg it was.  They had t-shirts celebrating Dixie Girls, with flowers, birds, motorcycles, pictures of gorgeous Southern women dressed in t-shirts and cutoffs.  They had items celebrating hunting, guns, pickups, and of course, items celebrating the gory of God.  They had t-shirts glorifying the Confederate heroes and leaders who had struggled so valiantly to preserve Southern heritage, and items honoring the individual states of the Confederacy.  There were t-shirts for young boys reveling in 4 wheelin', fishin', frog huntin' and even Yankee crushin'.  They even had stuff for Dixie Babies!  Who wouldn't want to have a Little Princess t-shirt, with a Dixie toddler dressed up with a Confederate symbol hair bow?

Currently, his store was occupied by a few customers, including two of his regulars, Digger Crowley and Sandy Harley.  Like him, they were two rather large gentleman, but in a muscular, strong way.  If there was a bar fight between the three of them, it's hard to say who would come out the winner.  They had youth and brute strength on their side, but he'd like to think he was bit wilier and more experienced.

They were there with Cissy Reese (Sandy's step-sister) and her little three old girl, Debbie.  Cissy was trying to pick out a cute Dixie Girl t-shirt for Debbie, something that would replace her outgrown Dixie Baby one.  The active, chubby little girl was pulling down t-shirts off their rack, and Cissy was trying to chase her down and put back the merchandise that Debbie was gleefully dislodging.

"Why don't you make this a real Dixie store, and sell some guns, too, Riley?"  asked Digger, a sarcastic smirk on his face.

"It's a clothing and accessory store, Digger," answered Riley, exhausted even listening to the question. "There's plenty of places to find guns."

"What's the matter, Riley?  You don't like guns," said Sandy, reaching around and pulling out the gun he had tucked into the back of his pants.

Riley's left eye tick twitched.  "Look, you boys know I got nothing against guns.  Heck, I own a couple dozen myself.  I run a franchise, and that's just not the marketing strategy that my franchisor wants us to go into."  Riley didn't mind guns, and he knew that Sandy had a legal right to carry, but he wasn't comfortable with them flashing it around in the store.  You never knew who would be in the store and how they would take to it.  Some of his customers were hardcore, true confederate sympathizers and gun lovers.  Others were more casual, upper middle class professionals who just liked to toe dip into Southern heritage culture every now and then.  For the store to succeed, it had to be open and welcoming to both kinds of customers. "Sandy, I'm going to ask you to put the gun back up.  I don't want to spook my customers."

Sandy shrugged his shoulders, and then put the gun back.  "Whatever you want, Riley.  I'm just happy to know that it's there if I need it.  You never know when you're going to run into trouble. I mean, I'd know what I'd do if Obama were to show up."

Digger guffawed, and then swatted Sandy upside the head.  "You redneck moron!  What good would that do?  You'd turn him into a hero, and the Muslim loving sacks of crap running things would still be in charge!"

Yeah, boys!  You got to watch what you say," agreed Riley.  "That Patriot Act stuff, you never know when they're listening."

Just then Riley saw a black woman walk by the front of the store.  She looked at the Confederate flag for a second, shook her head, and continued walking.  Riley recognized who she was, maybe one of the few blacks he knew by sight.  She was Ramona Adams, the legal secretary at Cooper & Strickland (or maybe it was just Cooper now, since Strickland had been murdered, most likely by that little Yankee guy), and had helped him with some of the incorporation and franchise papers.  She wasn't overly-friendly, but she sure had been competent and helpful.

Sandy was livid.  "Did you see that?  Did you see the way she stuck her nose up at our flag?  How dare she?  Things were a lot better for them before the Yankees came and messed things up!"

Sandy was so loud that other customers, including Cissy, turned their heads.  This was not the kind of loud discussion Riley wanted to have at his store.  These boys had no gift for speaking in the carefully cultivated code that you had to learn to express your true feelings.  All that political correctness crap made him choke in disgust, but sometimes you just had to swallow your pride and do it.  Besides, everyone who mattered knew what you really meant.

"Maybe we need to plant a Confederate flag in her yard!" suggested a giddy Sandy. "And a brick painted with the flag thrown the window!"

"You are too much.  Why don't we just go by there with flags on our pick up and honk the horn loud.  That should make out point," Digger said.  Then he pulled Sandy close.  "Do we really need to call attention to ourselves right now?  Let's not lose sight of the bigger picture," he whispered.

Sandy reluctantly agreed.  "You're right. It's just I hate it so much when people disrespect the flag.  Damn nig...."

Riley quickly interrupted.  "Yes, boys!  I think we need to take a look at this new belt buckle I got in.  Look at that beautiful rendition of the flag with the words on it, The Confederacy Rises!  Ain't that magnificent?"

Cissy came up to the counter, and laid a  t-shirt on the counter  (Dixie Girls, with the word BRAT written large and decorated with Confederate flag colors and designs).  Little Debbie was with her, and grabbed Digger's hand as if he were his Daddy.  Riley was pretty sure he wasn't, but he suspected Eddie Reese wasn't either (the marriage of Cissy and Eddie was just too short and convenient). Little girl actually had the close set hazel eyes and sharp chin of a Harley.  But it wasn't Riley's place to know anything for sure.

"If you boys are done blathering, would you take the time to check me out?" said Cissy, with a coy wink.

Riley blushed.  "Darling, I always got the time to check you out!"

Digger was still musing.  "I know what we should do.  I think we need to rename the Compton Park project and call it Dixie Land.  Line the son of a bitch with Confederate flags, and feature pro-southern businesses and restaurants.  Why, Riley, we could have your business right at the center of things!"

Sandy added, "Especially if you sell guns, Riley!"

"Well, maybe we can get on with it, at long last.  Now that we got that environmental and legal stuff over with," said Digger.

"Isn't it a murder site now?' asked Cissy.

"Not for long," growled Digger.  "Sheriff just has to get off his ass and string up that little Yankee feller."  Digger shook his head.  "Can't believe that gorgeous chunk of Southern womanhood, Christie Delco, was actually married to that hobbity dweeb."

"Well, now," Cissy said.  "There ain't no accounting for taste sometimes, is there?"

Riley Kenyon was not gonna argue with that.