A Nurse With Attitude

Where Dark Cynical Humor, Nursing Issues, and Politics Seem to Merge

Cousin Lea

 

station wagon

I was heading in to the store and my cousin Lea called out, “Hey, how bout givin me a ride?  I gotta get to Foley.”  Since I haven’t seen him in about ten years, I figured we had some catching up to do.  “Sure, get in… where ya goin?”  I asked.  “I’m going out to the Ford place.  My car’s motor’s blow and I still have to get to work on occasion.  I’m looking over the used car selection to see if they’ve gotten in anything pretty good and still not too expensive. You know what I mean?”  I nodded.  “Well, whatcha lookin for if you had the ideal car or enough money?”  Of course we had to stop on the way,  “Hey, pull in here a minute.”  as we almost passed “The Galley”  a local tavern just under the bridge of the Bon Secour river, separating the community of Bon Secour from the metropolis of Gulf Shores.  After we pass the bridge, we knew that we had better drive with caution as the Gulf Shores PD would be patrolling.  It was an old irritant as some of these officers were guys we went to school with and they knew us, and we knew them.  We would purposely burn out at the stop sign and race back across the bridge at top speed, and down a long dirt farm road.  They would be out looking for us.  That was way back then.  Surely things have changed.  We turned and pulled into the Galley to pound down a few beers and talk about cars, shrimping and the  good old days of  running from  the city police.  After a few beers we decided to  continue on to  the dealership.  Because there’s nothing that enhances your ability to manage money, and negotiate  the best deal with oily used car salesmen like five or six beers.   “Whatcha looking for?”  I  asked,  “I mean what would  you like to get in used cars?”  He thought a while and decided to explain the best and worst cars of his list.

Obviously pickup trucks offer the manliest in driving experience. I prefer Dodge.  I mean it has a hood the size of a bowling alley, and it’s named after an animal that head-butts stuff, which would make him a good partner  for bar-fighting.

Station wagons are not the best  but they are OK.  They are the  most underrated. They can haul  plywood and they also score you sympathy points with the ladies.  Most people figure a guy who drives a station wagon collects ceramic cats.  Either way, that makes you pratically invisible, leaving you free to drunk drive and haul oversized scrap iron without any fear of the cops.

When a cop sees an SUV, he says, “that rich guy is probably high on coke, lets pull him over.”  When a cop sees a station wagon swerving, he says “Poor schmuck. His wife probably jacked him in the divorce and all  he can afford is a crappy station wagon.  How about we just let that one go.”

I once had a wagon with a rusted-out floorboard so I could dump my beer can empties along the highway for the bums to pick up.  “That’s why station wagons are also good for community service,”  he said.

It was good to get back in touch with my ole cousin Lea

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