Congratulations Self-Hating Country Boy!

“Oh, fancy city people,” you’ll moan as they ask you for directions.  “Ain’t got many of your kind round here.  Reckon there ain’t much for you, what with it bein’ so far from the city and all.”

“Sorry,” the woman will say.  She’ll look around the gas station, scanning for someone else to ask for directions.  Her husband will be less perturbed.  He’ll just shrug.

“You’ve got the stars out here.  That’s pretty nice.”

You’ll roll your eyes.  “Oh, the stars, huh?”  A snort will kick from your nose.  “City folk!”

The husband will shrug again and, with his map unfurled across the hood of his car, implore your aid.

“So, if we wanted to get to Hartford?”

“Well, I reckon there ain’t as much to do in Hartford as there is in that big city,” you’ll moan.  “City folk.”

“Isn’t it kind of a big city compared to this place?” the wife will ask.

“CITY!” you’ll shout at the sky, daring rain to come and destroy the map, trapping that couple here as surely as the cosmos has pinned you here, slowly dying while the world passes you by.

“We’re gonna go,” the wife will say.  The husband will nod emphatically.

“GO ON THEN!” you’ll scream at them.  “BACK TO YOUR CITY!”

As they get in the car you’ll step back underneath the shade of the gas station overhang.  You’ll stare madly at their car and whisper under your breath, “Take me with you.”

The husband will roll down his window and ask:

“Sorry, did you just say something?”

“COUNTRY STRONG!” you’ll shout at him, spittle flying, catching on the side mirror next to him.  He’ll roll up his window hastily and his wife will speed off down the road.  You’ll just stand there under the gray sky, wishing that something, anything, might come along and interrupt the sad pattern of your life and let you leave this drab country you hate so much for a city, where you might finally be able to be yourself.  A city where you might begin life anew, perhaps as a dancer.

Congratulations Self-Hating Country Boy!