The Thin Red Line
When theater queens merge with NASCAR
fiends at 65 mph, there’s danger ahead. Here’s to the truck stops and
E-Z Go’s of rural Delmarva, between which lie fresh fruit and vegetable
stands. Speaking for the fruits, I’m scared.
Looking at a map of the mid-Atlantic, one
must wonder how so many of us leave our true blue progressive and
sophisticated environs of Washington, Philly, and Baltimore and make it
out to Rehoboth and back every weekend unscathed.
I view the 100+ miles of homo hurdles as
the Thin Red Line that connects the safe blue havens of our city
apartments and our beloved “blue beach getaway”—lower case Camp
Rehoboth. Movie buffs will remember the Thin Red Line as the movie that
depicted the marines at Guadalcanal maneuvering behind enemy lines during
WWII. Getting through Denton, Maryland can be as daunting for a fellow
like me who’s scandalously light in the loafers. Enemy lines, indeed.
“Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong”…even though
this rainbow flag on the bumper is akin to waving a big red flag in front
of a bull.
Why do I leap with such wild abandon? Why
paint the route through the country side crimson Republican red with such
a broad brush? Let’s start with the bass boat cruising next to me and my
sisters at 65 mph, being pulled by a pickup with a gun rack and the
Ehrlich for Governor bumper sticker. We’re listening to Cole Porter and
they’re no doubt listening to Porter Wagner. I’m guessing that once
they reach the fishin’ hole, there ain’t no New Yorker or Vanity Fair
in the tackle box. I’m sure it’s Rifles R Us and Fishing Daily. We
say, “You go, girl!” (to men) as often as they say, “Get ‘er
done!” (to burly men).
Then, making the turn on the back country
roads, we count the fake windmills, faux wishing wells, the wagon wheels
framing the driveways, the plastic deer, a plywood Uncle Sam—and nestled
up next to one modest little house, a cement Virgin Mary. Then I count my
three dear friends in the car. They’re Mary’s too. Not one a
virgin—but every single one a Madonna maniac. One wonders if the local
Cineplex is featuring the new blockbuster Sex in the Country—written
by…SATAN!
I doubt our buddies with the bass boat are
doing what we’re doing on our road trip: while they’re casting bait,
we’re casting all of our friends in their various appropriate roles in
Gone with the Wind—Kevin is Rhett Butler and Patrick is Ashley Wilkes
and Richard is Aunt Pittypat and whilst we’re lost at Tara, we’re
pretty certain that they’re having a breaking wind contest out on the
bass boat.
And here’s the dead giveaway it’s a red
line. Every four years since 2000, those Bush-Cheney yard signs popped up
like stinkweed (an intentional metaphor) But, if John McCain can go on the
Ellen DeGeneres show, why can’t we assume that some degree of common
ground could be found with the country folk? I’ve tried.
About five years ago, I was headed out on a
Saturday morning and got to Greenwood just in time for the legendary
weekend bar-b-que, so I thought I’d stop and buy a mess of $5 chickens
for the gang awaiting me in the Rehoboth compound. Hungry, I decide to eat
a ¼ of one at one of the picnic tables and—sure enough—the old coot
from the VFW who runs the operation comes over to chat. I butch it up. (My
friends have all now dropped their Letters in their laps and thrown their
heads back to let out the loudest guffaws known to mankind. Rat bastards.)
OK, so I tried to butch it up. So Grandpa
Bar-b-que and I spoke for about 15 minutes about his business model for
the VFW charity. Since I raise money for a living, I gave him pointers on
how to maximize his sponsorships. The next thing I know he follows me to
my car. It was a new little Mazda hatchback and he’s admiring it and
asks if he can see the trunk. Well, no sooner do I click it open than I
realize the entire back is filled with drag for the upcoming Halloween
festivities. Too late. He’s standing next to me staring at a wall to
wall trunk full of chiffon and big “church hats,” lending a whole new
meaning to “off road accessories.”
No, we are definitely not cut from the same
cloth.
Back to the present, the Mary’s and I
pull up to the compound in time to mix cocktails and catch up with the
neighbors. On Saturday morning we make gazpacho with the vegetables we
purchased along the countryside. We sit down to dinner, with the breeze
blowing through the house—fabulous china, sumptuous wine. Looking down
at all those freshly minced vegetables grown by farmers with love in their
hearts—now masterfully morphed into gay gazpacho, I think to myself,
“Can’t we all just get along?” We could learn so much from one
another. They could teach us how to ride a tractor and we could teach them
multiple ways to use cucumbers.
Then
I remember the Bush-Cheney signs along both sides of the Thin Red Line,
and recall with a smile why food processors have a pulverize button.
Brent Mundt makes a living in Washington and a life in Rehoboth
Beach.
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