There are the poor white hicks with their drawn accents colorfully chewing out insightful statements - hardly worth the breath vanquished in the effort to speak. They are the worst groomed and worst dressed among the busy crowd. It would be no surprise to find several high school drop-outs among their ranks. Still they are humble and intriguing, and I ponder frequently how any grown person could enjoy "Monday Night Nitro" so much.
The occasional drunk stumbles in from the bar next door; tonight yielded a short American Indian man with grey hair handedly hidden by a yellow baseball hat. His speech so slurred even the white trash had trouble understanding his muttering. "Peace," he stammered, trailing off into a string of grunts and groans so mangled as not to be English at all, but a language of his own design. What high praises he must have uttered! To high for us to be sure. Perhaps a diatribe, through slovenly lips he sowed? Only God knows. Three times he spoke, moving from the front to the rear, and three times he spoke again coming from the rear again to the front before wheeling around the corner and reentering the bar. The small crowd, stunned, paused momentarily from the monotony of their chores; and shaking their heads, they gawked in awe and amazement. My jaw also dropped before a smirk creept over my countenance, pulling it back into an awkward and cockeyed smile. Holding a second, the smile relaxed, fading back into my normal unconcerned expression. My momentary interest adrift quickly - I returned to my book.
