Late on a Sunday at the Do Dah Trailer Park in Foster County

7 May

Carolynn Frear thought she died and went to trailer park heaven. Even though it took awhile, she could not believe what she was reading. Her hands shook wildly as she read the lawyer’s letter for a twelfth time in her halting third grade level of comprehension. When she got to last line of the one page document, twelve minutes after she started reading it, the whooping and a hollerin’ took over again. Another twenty-six minutes ticked by as she burned off renewed euphoria and settled back into a cognitive state of relative normalcy. In Carolynn’s case normalcy would forever be checked off as relative, or relatively and, in certain files, not really.

“Can you fucking believe it, Luther?” Luther, a partially deaf, three-legged Persian cat with severe incontinence and attention deficient disorder, fell off the arm of the couch into a Wal-Mart shopping bag filled with empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Over the last few weeks, he had also suffered from an inner ear issue, intestinal parasites and a psychosis that caused him to run in circles whenever the TV tuned to Oprah. Carolynn gently helped the cat back to its perch. “You can knock me down and piss on me twice. I ain’t a never been so lucky, have I Luther.” The cat yawned, licked his paw and belched up a fur ball.

Grant Frear died a week back when his riding lawnmower suddenly exploded; reconfiguring Frear from a single human form to various chunks and bit. Forensic scientists discovered Grant Frear failed to replace the gas cap properly. What the investigators didn’t know may or may not have surprised them as interviews with neighbors and friends showed Grant Frear to be somewhat below the average intelligence. Frear lost the gas cap the day he purchasing the riding mowing from Pick ‘Em and Go Second Hand Farm Supply in Delbert. As a stop gap measure Grant stuffed a shop rag in the opening. The gas vapors caused him headaches. When Grant took out the riding mower the day he blew himself to hell he misplaced the rag and made the executive decision to leave opening without cover.

“Nice breezy day. Reckon won’t git no headaches t’all.” Grant Frear mounted the machine, road it six feet onto the back lawn, lit a lit a Marlborough Red Cigarette and promptly dropped it through the opening of the gas tank, swatting at a swarm of Georgia Field Gnats that circled his head. The explosion tore Grant Frear into twenty-three distinct large parts and numerous smaller pieces and blobs. It took three days to mark, photograph and package the remains. The forensics team had hoped to recover the entire body but they never found his left hand or his right ear. A Doberman named Barney did that for them.

Over the years, Carolynn Frear had been Grant’s favorite relative. The old man lived under the impression that being a great-grandfather was far enough down the tree so grabbing a breast from time to time didn’t constitute anything more than joshing around. In addition, Carolynn, never the shiniest stone in the creek, accepted the behavior as normal, not realizing that great grandfathers shouldn’t cup breasts and shake them. He claimed: “This is how folk do it ‘round here,” to make a bra fit. At 16, Carolynn’s best friend, Constance Elizabeth Beauregard, nearly fainted when Grant Frear offered to assist her in the proper fitting of her own undergarment. Within a couple of days, the family put Grant Frear into the Sunny River Rest and Retirement facility. Several months passed before he escaped for the first time. Old Grant had craft and skill evading supervision. Every night Grant sat up in bed, worrying that his lawn would not get proper attention. His thirteenth escape would prove to be his last.

Despite his unceremonious banishment to Home, Grant Frear’s fondness for Carolynn never abated. His will left all his valuables only to her and no one else in his family. Everyone assumed that only Carolynn would want his valuables. Unfortunately, no one in the immediate family kept track of Grant Frear’s valuables, to their misfortunate and Carolynn’s surprising gain. In a Grand Cayman bank, Grant Frear held several significant assets: several million dollars, stock certificates for a dozen or so Fortune Fifty Companies, deeds for several sizable properties, and documentation of clear ownership for one vintage Toomer Brothers American Standard Special doublewide trailer at the Do Dah Trailer Park of Foster County, South Carolina. Grant Frear had a trailer in the same park Carolynn kept her vintage 32’ Silver Stream Trailer home, a fact no one knew about and, in her eyes, the big prize from the will.

“I’m getting’ my shit right over there and settle ‘fore some law man says it’s all a big misunderstanding. Them cocksuckers ain’t a gonna take shit from this girl.” Carolynn learned to swear from the men she worked with 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, at Big Earl’s Radiator Shack. From the day she started, right after dropping out of seventh grade, Carolynn developed an affinity for expletives. She had a gift, her momma said from time to time. Before her fifteenth birthday rolled around, Carolynn could out curse any woman and most men. The town paper wrote a story covering an expletive laden outburst during first service at the Reunion Heart Seventh Avenue Baptist Church. According to Hattie Colcott, a principled blue hair that considered herself the vestige of decency and moral living, Carolynn took offense to a passage Reverend Anderson B. Tucker read from the book of John.

“She just stood up and shouted: Dirty bastard! In Christ’s fucking name I can’t believe you said that.” The paper printed Hattie’s quote without censorship and received a $12,000 fine.


Actually a carpetbagger out of New York City, one Augustine St. Jerome, a noted archeologist and collector bovine fossils, put his hand up Carolynn’s skirt as she sat down from Hymn Number 143. This she did not immediately react to, however, when he recoiled quickly, after his index finger discovered Carolynn’s disdain of grooming and underwear in church, he whispered in her ear something about buying a couple of razors or a sharp lawn shear.

Carolyn held up a red bra Grant Frear had been particularly fond, touching it softly, placing her hands on the cups as Grant would. A tear welled in her left eye. She wiped it quickly away, continuing to change her clothes.

“You shore did like this one, din’t ya, Great Grand Pappy Frear? Took special time to make sure them big titties fit just so.” Carolyn pealed off her Jeff Gordon Car 24 NASCAR tee shirt and tossed it into a mountain of dirty clothes stacked on her hid-a-way bed. She sniffed at her armpits and winced, but still pulled on the red bra. From a dwindling pile of relatively clean clothes, she selected a gray Jack’s Links Sasquatch Beef Jerky tee shirt purchased late night from a television address with 6 proof-of-purchase labels and 4.95 in nickels. Nine weeks later, she received a package and for another nine weeks wore the shirt daily.

Carolyn hesitated in front of a full-length mirror that hung from the back of the bedroom door.

“Dear Christ! Would you look at my muff? Would you? God in heaven and all the saints above, what the fuck is going on down in coochland?” She bent over dramatically; her eyesight declining significantly since the day a mule at Jimmy Earl’s Mud Hut kicked her in the head. Her eyes pinched into a squint as she focused. Pubic hair exploded from between her legs like a Chia pet over watered with Miracle grow.

“Jes like tha goddamned Chia pet I got for Aunt Lucinda two Christmases back. I’ll be fucked in the ass with a bowling pin.”

Carolynn spent several minutes attempting to tuck the hair into her Sear’s brand pink cotton panties. While panties were an option in a Church Sunday cotton dress, momma demanded them with jeans. She quickly lost the battle to hide the dense tumbleweed like mass of hair, so she pulled scissors from a sewing bag and hacked it back into shape. “I need a boyfriend that actually likes fuckin’ so I can keep that beast in control.” Currently Carolynn maintained relations with Elton C. Coolidge, son to Gray and Ester Coolidge, owners of the Press n’ Go Pick Em Dry Cleaners in biggest town in Foster County, Jefferson City, formerly Jefferson Davis City until 1965 and the Civil Rights Rebellion.

Carolynn Frear knew she could have any man in a ten county area and before meeting Elton, had most the single men and high percentage of the married men in a three county area. Even though Elton often appeared confused and frightened during the act of sexual congress, he had enthusiasm and a certain charm, and a trust fund. When Elton lost half his penis and one testicle in a freak bass fishing accident during the 56th Annual Foster County Bass-off, she stayed. After a reattachment surgery failed, the doctor’s suggested other options in rebuilding Elton’s genital. Carolynn whispered into her beloved’s ear all the reasons he should take this path, including several intimate, highly detailed reasons Nurse Butterfield had the displeasure of overhearing. Elton elected against reconstruction, proclaiming he could not go against the will of God. “If Jesus lost his penis in an accident during a fishin’ contest, God would leave it that way. How’s things are. Done and done.” When Carolyn saw Elton’s deformed appendage the day the bandages came, she recoiled so fast she knocked her head against a shelf bracket mounted to the wall, tearing it away, allowing all 26 Volumes of the 1983 edition of Encyclopedia Britannica to bounce across her skull. After her own stay in County Hospital for a broken finger and severe concussion, Carolynn decided Elton’s oddly shaped three-inch penis no longer interested her. It just looked too much like her Uncle Morley’s nose. The thought of Wilton Morley’s decrepit, gnarled, misshapen, bulbous nose pushing in and out of her vagina during the act of pre-marital congress sickened her. During a second attempt, Carolynn developed flatulence so severe a neighbor called the Gas Company to come by and check for leaks.



After a twenty minute battle, Carolynn regained control over her pubic hair and pulled on a pair of Wrangler jeans, white cotton athletic socks and Nike tennis shoes bought from Goodwill. She admired her figure in the mirror, turning several times and checking every angle.

“I have a good fuckin’ ass. Look at it, would you just fuckin’ look at it. Now if I only had a man with a semi-descent cock that knew how to fuck…” Carolynn quickly whipped her head around, scanning for signs of eavesdropping, a recognized sport at the Do Dah. Confident that no one heard, recorded and filmed what she said, Carolynn pulled the front of her pants up tight and smiled. “Ever girl needs a little camel toe to attract a man, thas what momma always said. Ain’t tha right, Luther. Luther? Where is you honey kitty? Luther?”

Luther had wandered into the kitchen, squatted over spilt Rice Krispies and defecated the entire time Carolynn stood in front of the mirror lost in her revelry. The cat scratched at the floor, attempting to maintain the cat code and cover his poop, but flung an odd mix of Rice Krispies and runny feces against cabinets and the refrigerator door. Unaware but satisfied, Luther hobbled to the carpet and shuffled across it on his ass, leaving skid marks as he went. Once free of dingleberries and cling-ons, Luther slowly walked out of the Silver Stream, down a short ramp Elton had built and into a neighboring meadow. Thirty yards in, as Luther licked a postulating wound on his right paw, a Red Fox jumped from its hiding, grabbed the old cat by the throat and snapped the neck. Luther died instantly, painlessly and thankfully. It would take nearly seven months for Carolynn to realize the cat had disappeared permanently and went to Trailer Kitty Heaven.

As the fox sneaked back to its hole, a bloodied, limp and blissfully dead three-legged cat clamped in its jaws, Carolynn burst through the doorway of the trailer. She ran to her 1972 Dodge pick-up, jumped in, turned the key, threw it in gear and sped off, kicking gravel into Old Lady Merryweather’s bird feeder like buckshot from a hunting gun. Merryweather jumped quickly from her perch next to the window, a tall stool purchased just to surveillance Carolynn and catch her in the act of wanton gravel spraying, clambered through a fly speckled screen door, Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun clutched tight in hand, face flushed, free fist clenched.

“Stupid goddamned no account whore. Learn to fuckin’ drive.” Pointlessly, she flipped the dust of Carolynn’s departure the finger.

A former circus freak, side show act, Old Lady Merryweather stood less than four feet tall and required a special box to stand on in order to open her front door. In the excitement, she had kicked it over and across the lawn.

“Goddamnit to fuck.”

Her lover, Charles Thomas Smith, a man 20 years younger and two and a half feet taller, stooped over and picked her up much like a momma cat might pick up a kitten, except with hands not mouth. Smith, born deaf and dumb, carried her into the doublewide, set her on the kitchen counter and waited. Thoughts of Carolynn quickly left as Old Lady Merryweather eyed Smith with lusty, libidinous intent.

“Get yer pants off Baby boy. Momma ain’t done working that tool.” Old Lady Merryweather signed the words with her diminutive hands. Charles Thomas Smith suddenly smiled and did as he was told.

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