I stared up the beaten path through the lawn nervous and listless. The hinge screamed in agony as I opened the gate of the flaking white-painted fence. It slammed behind me as I procured from my pack the sample of the leather-bound tomes I was here to sell. My black leather shoes crunched in the soil as I arrived at the door of what I believe was a 1950-something Airstream trailer. Hesitantly I knocked, the metal clanging out my arrival to those inside. The door soon opened with a click. Rather, the door opened at the same time the man of the house cocked his shotgun. The emerging door swung open, revealing the barrel pointed squarely at my toes.

“Lissen ‘ere ya sum-bitch, ya got to the count’a three ta git the ‘ell offa my prop’ty neow. One!” It would seem the gentleman wasn’t interested in hearing about the niceties of owning my finely crafted product. I turned to walk away. “Two!” I quickened my step. I’d heard stories about people down here. Better safe than sorry, you know. The gate creaked its way open mere seconds before the explosion in my ears.

I apparently missed the third count as it was suffocated by the buckshot that demolished the rough circle in the fence I saw about a foot to my left when I opened my eyes. I ran up the road towards town scared for my life, adrenaline coursing through my body, getting me as far away from that previously unassuming mobile home as quickly as possible. After a small eternity, I slowed to a more leisurely trot to catch my breath. This might not end up being nearly as enjoyable as I’d hoped.

My employment with the Reference Branch of the Goosen Publishing Company has taken me many places over the country, but this was my first time in Alabama. As a door-to-door dictionary salesman, I’d faced many uninterested patrons, but never had I been yelled at quite so ineloquently. Through the years, I’d picked up quite a vocabulary and considered myself quite the connoisseur of the English language. A Duke of Dialects, a Prince of Prose, a Baron of Babble, if you will, but never had I faced a Count of Cacophony such as this gentleman.

Twenty minutes passed away under the baking sun as I trudged toward town defeated. It was only my first day, but already I’d been shot at. Who knew what else might be in store for me? I arrived in town and entered the local diner for a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I sat down at the counter, several stools away from the locals who were intently watching the NASCAR race on the television behind the counter. The waitress spotted me and tore herself away from the riveting action to take my order.

“Just a cup of coffee please, and an ashtray too if you have one,” I asked, drawing some attention from the other patrons with my Yankee accent. Her nametag caught my eye, if for no other reason than the irregular name. Bubble. They sure are different here in the South.

“Shore thang,” she replied perkily, reaching under the counter for a mug. At least her name fit her character. My eyes were drawn to her as she pattered off to get the coffee. A few years younger than myself I’d say, about 5’ 8”, with at least half of it in her largely exposed legs extending out from a miniskirt. I was set to woo her with northern charisma when she caught my eyes and grinned. The few teeth she had were set irregularly about her jaw, leaving large portions of bare gums. I’m sure it made many men happy, but it was enough to deter me. No Bubble-Gummers for me, thanks. She poured my cup as I pretended to pore over some of my papers.

“If ya need anythin’ else, jus’ gimme a shout,” she said setting down the ashtray. I mustered an unconvincing smile and thanked her, and she returned to watching the race. I lit my smoke and leafed through a newspaper left on the counter. The coffee wasn’t particularly good, nor was the ambience. The few locals whose attention I had drawn when I ordered cast the occasional suspicious look my way, making me feel uncomfortable and, with exception of the waitress, unwelcome. I choked down my beverage, scalding my throat, hurriedly threw two dollars down, and left, my cigarette barely halfway finished.

I hastened out into the sweltering heat of the midday sun once again, determined to not be dissuaded by the events of the day thus far. Perhaps the townies would be a little more understanding than the rural folk. The closest side street looked as promising as anywhere else so I strode toward the first house. A sign hung on the gate by a piece of tin wiring. “T’HELL WITH THE DOG. BEWARE OF OWNER,” it read, complete with an illustration looking down the barrel of a gun. Having already done that once today, I tossed the butt and endeavored further up the street.

I walked halfway up the street before finally settling on a small, white house. The Confederate flag said no, but the lack of a dog said yes. I decided to take my chances. I sauntered up to the door, steeling my mind and preparing my pitch. I rapped the knocker three times and was shortly thereafter greeted by a very portly gentleman, who was pleasantly without a sidearm.

“Good afternoon sir, my name is Dan Jennings and I’m coming to you today as a representative from Goosen Publishing from New York. I have with me these fine, leather-bound dictionaries for sale, which I’ve been authorized to let go for only $19.95. It comes with all the latest additions and edits, with a total of over 40,000 entries from Aardvark to Zygote.” Flawless performance, I surely enticed this good man to make a purchase. He glared at me.

“Lookie ‘ere neow, I dun’t need no new-fangled book’a words. Ya daggum city-slickers with yer fancy shoes and concrete pillars all higher-uppity may’n be needin’ such fancities but ya shore as ‘ell ain’t gonna be sellin’ me nona this ‘ere nonsense neow!” The door slamming in my face terminated our business. I limped off the porch dejected, but determined.

After a series of equally fruitless attempts, I set back up the road towards the diner, looking for a reprieve from the suffocating humidity. Bubble smiled in her special way as I pushed open the door and resumed my perch on the stool. “Just another coffee, please,” I asked, as she was already filling a fresh mug.

“I figured s’much,” she replied. The race must have ended, as the place was largely empty. She hung around as I tried to look incredibly busy, fussing with my papers and looking over invoices. I didn’t notice her grab the dictionary from the counter.

“Whats’iss ‘ere?” she inquired, flipping through the pages.

“A dictionary, Miss,” I replied, gently removing the book from her hands and rotating it 180 degrees. “I’m a salesman, but I’m afraid I’m not having much luck.”

“Oooh. Well, ‘ow much’re they?” she asked, looking it over as if it were the most scholarly tome she had ever lifted.

“For you, Miss Bubble, a mere $19.95,” I replied. “That is, if you would be interested.” She giggled and nodded, trotting off to get her checkbook. I filled out the forms while she was gone, and she soon returned to make the purchase. I slid her a copy with her receipt and she eagerly bounced into the back to start reading. With a turn of the wrist, I downed the dregs of my cup, waved a thankful goodbye, and returned to the torrid heat.

The day had had its first pleasant turn and I walked possessed by new exuberance, or perhaps caffeine. Whichever it was, I no more carried a dilapidated demeanor; I had made my first sale, to a diner waitress no less. I turned up another street, hoping to ride the tide of good fortune to success.

The smell of fried chicken filled the air as I started down Mapleberry Lane. I walked towards the third house on the left, having caught the gaze of an older gentleman sitting in his rocking chair on the porch. I strode up the walk and took his hand in greeting.

“Good afternoon sir, I’m Dan Jennings from the Goosen Publishing Company in New York. I’ve come to you today to see if I can interest you in one of these fine, leather-bound dictionaries, containing all the words of the English language in this one convenient book! I’m supposed to try and sell them for $27 apiece, but for you sir, I believe I could go as low as $19.95.” He looked me square in the eyes the whole time, or at least I think he did. His gaze was somewhat indeterminate from his one lazy eye, but he seemed to understand.

“D’I look like I ‘ave twenny dollars spend on yer fancy book?” he asked. Looking over the porch again, I had to see his logic. Many of the floorboards were warped, the siding of the house was cracked and badly battered, and even his clothes were torn and tattered. “Lemme see one’ve dem books ‘ere neow,” he commanded, grabbing the demonstration copy from my hand. “See ‘ere, ya don’t even ‘ave “nucular” in this bran’new book’a yers,” as he pointed between “nuculanium” and “nucule”. “Fuck ya, git the ‘ell outta ‘ere ‘fer I git ma rifle ‘n’ shoot ya!”

What the hell was it with guns down here? I retrieved my lexicon and hastily retreated from his home. It was getting late now, and I still hadn’t eaten, so as such I walked back toward the main street of town. I noticed a few fast food joints up the road a short ways, and headed toward them. Spotting one to be a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and my palette still hankering for fried chicken from my brief jaunt down Mapleberry, I headed in.

I walked to the counter and attempted to order a 4-piece bucket, to which I received a blank stare. The young man behind the counter clearly had troubles with the language barrier between our cultures. Thankfully, I was finally able to manage success with “canna git a four piece bucket chicken anna Coke.” He dutifully obliged, and soon I was seated, enjoying my meal. I had always thought the Colonel to be a good man, and, as usual, his goods proved plentiful and appetizing. After a brief cigarette, I stepped outside in search of lodgings for the evening.

Lacking much knowledge of the area, I peered about in search of a phone book. No luck. Glances up and down the street proved equally ineffective. I started back from where I came. The bus stop was just up the street from the diner, and I ducked under the booth to ascertain the next arrival of conveyance out of this NRA poster town. I grimaced at learning there would be no such departures until tomorrow morning.

I sat down on the bench, defeated, and recounted the day. I’d been shot at, threatened to be shot at, and had a door slammed in my face, managing to rack up just one sale over coffee. What an incredible disappointment. A passerby stopped in the light from the streetlamp.

“Well, g’d’evenin’ there. Nex’ bus won’t be ‘ere ‘til tomorra’ y’know,” Bubble said flirtatiously.

“Yes Miss Bubble, I seem to have just missed the last bus out of town, and now I need a place to stay,” I replied, almost wishing I hadn’t mentioned my lack of residence for the evening.

“Well, sug, there ain’t no motel ‘round ‘ere. Yer more than welcome t’ stay with me, if’n you’d like,” she said, flashing her sumptuous gums as seductively as possible.

It had really come down to this. I sat and weighed my options. Spend the night in the bus stop, perhaps get shot by Joe Yokel or arrested by the law for illegal loitering, or take Miss Bubble up on her offer, which included who knew what else.

It was an easy enough decision to make. Miss Bubble and I walked arm in arm up Mapleberry Lane, past the cantankerous old gentleman to her quaint little doublewide. The bedroom floor received my clothes soon after.

The next morning I snuck out to the bus stop, finding solace in two facts. First, I knew no one in this town, so no one would ever know what proceeded to happen in her home. Secondly, a Bubble-Gummer was all I had ever dreamed it could be. On the way to Tuscaloosa, I penned an addendum to my own leather-bound tome under “B.”