Salad Days in Salmon: the saga continues

If you missed last month's excerpt of "Salad Days," click here.

Another unforgettable contact we made was our driver, Lloyd Coggins--a 63 year-old transplant from North Carolina. We worked closely with him for the latter part of the survey. He was hired on at the tail end of the summer. We got along well together. He liked our company so we spent many nights eating dinner with him, listening to stories about the North Carolina hill people. He took to us so much that he introduced us to his new fiancée, who came all the way from NC (no doubt dying for a Lloyd fix). She was the crust in his underwear and they were inseparable. He was constantly petting/complimenting her and giving her little presents (wildflowers, etc.). Maybe Lloyd was trying to teach me something by showing off his loving demeanor. I also got a chance to play guitar with him, but he was way out of my (little) league. He could finger pick some crazy bluegrass riffs while singing Appalachian mountain tunes. When I sprang one of my oddball songs ("The Meatheads") on him, he suffered/strummed along till the end like a good sport, then said "well now Rod...that there is quite an interesting piece...I reckon I've never heard anything like that one."

During the many damp, raw fall days working on the lame-duck Salmon project, Lloyd's stories, his take on current events, home remedies and endless supply of Dixie songs would fight off the drowsies, thus giving Gina and me a much needed charge. As the end neared, we realized that we had become attached to the old fellow. I think he liked telling/showing us all this stuff and we must have liked listening to him. His trailer-mate, Steve, didn't appreciate him much; he thought we were just being nice, encouraging the old codger. Steve didn't see that Lloyd was a likable guy who made the most out of what he had; he knew about everything but was still open minded and polite. His only problems were the length of conversations (could run for hours) and his extra strong "biscuits n' gravy" breath. Because he was so nice and would always do most of the workload, we learned to overlook the halitosis.

As we carried the various packs, bags and duck-taped cardboard boxes (free from the Safeway) out to the snot green Forest Service truck, Lloyd sliced through the achy, pre-dawn dusting of snow with his booming southern drawl, "Better git a move on, gotta good piece of weather 'head of us and the radio says there's already a foot of the white stuff up by LoLo pass in Montana." Driving out of our temporary home I wondered if we'd ever make it back for a visit. As we passed our neighbors, the Skragg's (names changed to protect the ignorant) shanty, an inaudible sigh of relief was uttered and I wondered if I really wanted to risk a visit.

We were glad we didn't have to live next to the annoying/hair-lipped kids, TJ and Amanda, their skeezy mother, three yelping hound dogs and one shit eating Chihuahua, "Baby," anymore. I recalled the time I came back from fishing to find TJ, Amanda and Baby holding Gina hostage in her own home. They had organic ammunition, yapping dogs and a determined attitude surrounding the miniature house. I could see Gina trying to reason with the delinquents through a crack in the window. Luckily, the sight of me scared them into throwing the last of their rocks, sticks and cow pies. Then they scattered home with Baby screeching the whole way. When I asked Gina what happened she was still shell-shocked and couldn't quite piece together the horror. After years of psychotherapy she finally came clean about that abominable day. Apparently right after I left with my fly rod, the Skragg's, knowing the coast was clear, raced over to do what they do best: terrorize. They started by threatening to break every window and steal all our stuff unless they both were paid off. TJ, Amanda and Baby continuously circled the house, tapping on every window, tossing bovine shit/rocks, shouting obscenities and idle threats. Gina tried to make a joke out of the ludicrous situation but they refused to call off the siege until they were properly compensated. Luckily, the three flies ($6.00 total) I brought to the creek instantly got stuck and inevitably busted off in the brush behind the pool I had so flawlessly cast into. I came back home after a relatively short time away, and in the process foiled the young Skragg's get-rich-quick plan.

Gina liked but felt sorry for Amanda. She seemed about poised to shoot out her first kid by age 11. She wore lots of eye makeup/lipstick and spoke with some crazy-ass confidence trying to emulate her Rhodes Scholar mother's every move. Sometimes we could hear Miss, Mrs., or Ms. Skragg late at night, with whichever current boyfriend she chose to entertain. She'd crash around, yell at the dogs, laugh, yell some more and then fight with whatever scumbag/asshole she dragged back to her shack. Eventually, after some faint moaning (couldn't be too faint for us to hear it 50 yards away) all the crashing would start up again. Ultimately the alcohol must have taken hold, mercifully causing them to pass out.

They didn't have much money, any transportation or motivation. On top of these assets, I don't think mama Skragg could read/write too well. One day Amanda was sent over with a note that she probably wrote for her mother (confirming the illiterate theory) asking to borrow our bikes. Even though this was a dangerous precedent to begin setting, how could we say no? Now they could ask for anything at anytime, never mind the fact that these three hair-lips were gonna use/abuse our already volatile means of transport.

We did our best to avoid them without seeming snobbish, until one night Gina was physically dragged--without me (to make sure the visit was brief), into their home for a "sit-down." I was in no condition for Skragg's, entirely thunderstruck by news that Boston Celtics star, Reggie Lewis died from a freak heart aliment. Poor Gina would have to go this one solo while I paid my proper respects. She saw, felt and smelled indescribable things that I will probably (if lucky) never encounter. Ms. Skragg was in a neighborly mood, wearing a Molly Hatchet ($2 at local thrift store) T-shirt with her famous neon pink stretch ($3 at same store) pants (svelt belly protruding over its waistband). According to a beleaguered Gina, she was very nice and voiced many opinions on every and any topic (dispelling life support/vegetable theory). She actually showed Gina some hospitality by offering one of her coveted Michelob Light's (.85 cents) and even a Marlborough (.11 cents). There was trash and clutter everywhere; broken glass, crushed cans, cigarette butts, overfilled ashtrays, broken toys and rodent scat (came from the pack of field mice that frolicked/resided all over the counters/floor eating anything marginally edible). Mama Skragg, seemingly oblivious, cleared off a place for Gina to sit, and proceeded to talk about her sad life/the bad reputation she and her kids maintained around town. In the middle of Gina trying to say something to console Ms. Skragg, one of her boyfriends pulled into the driveway with a thrashed, stalker looking white van. After a brief shouting match he sat down with a bottle of whiskey and turned the blurry TV channel that TJ and Amanda were preoccupied with. This set the whole place off, giving Gina a chance to escape. As she stepped out onto the porch, mama Skragg began to unsuccessfully ask for another favor, but a loud crash and the ensuing brawl inside made it impossible. Gina scurried back, locked the doors and turned off all the lights hoping this would dissuade any more Skragg visits. My only comfort to my befuddled mate was "yeah sure they have a tough/pathetic/ depressing life but at least they don't know it." In short we would not miss living next to the Skragg's, but will forever miss the endless white trash material they provided.

--Rod Murphy, Jr.

Tune in next month for the continuing saga of "Salad Days in Salmon."