Innocence Lost: A Mayberry Tale

Many years ago I lived in a ground-level apartment near a busy intersection. This meant that any ambulatory hooligan with bad intentions could walk up to my home and look through my windows. I never understood what the appeal was in watching a strange woman in grungy sweats and bad pigtails eat macaroni and cheese while watching Beavis and Butthead, but evidently some people found this enthralling. Most of these “visits” were made by a psychotic co-worker of mine who somehow managed to find out where I lived, but every once in a while some new blood would stop by.

One particularly memorable encounter occurred one night after I returned home from having a few drinks with a friend. I’d only been home for a few minutes when I heard the telltale rustling outside the window. Normally I would just turn off all the lights and wait for the perv to leave, but on this night I was full of piss and vinegar. And also a few cocktails. So I marched over to the window, raised the blinds, and looked at my uninvited guest eyeball to eyeball. (This was only the first of many ill-advised moves I made that evening.) I stood on one side of the window, and an Ernest T. Bass look-alike stood on the other. I stared at him for a minute. After a little while he got the brilliant idea of laying down in the grass outside the window so I couldn’t see him. The only flaw in his shrewd plan was that the window went almost all the way to the floor. So there he lay in the grass, and there I stood, looking him in the face. After this silent standoff went on for a minute or so, I got all big and bad and said, “Can I help you with something?” He just laid there, looking at me. For whatever stupid reason, I persisted and asked him again if I could help him. After a little while he responded, and in one of the most severe hillbilly accents I’ve ever heard, said, “Deewww yeeewww warrnnnuuh taaawwwk?”

At this point I lost whatever patience I had with this fella, so I told him that no I didn’t want to talk and he needed to get the hell away from me before I called the cops and had his perverted ass hauled to the pokey. I slammed the window shut, lowered the blinds, and turned off all the lights so that dude couldn’t see inside anymore. This meant that I could see outside quite well due to the bright lights from the street. This was unfortunate, because no sooner had I plopped myself down in the dark to wait for him to go away than he stood up and started engaging in an activity that young boys know will make you go blind. He started shouting something about a stupid bitch, I thought, “Oh I know he is NOT talking about me!” and before I knew it he finished his business. Then he left, and I never saw him again.

I’m sure he would be pleased to know that his legacy lives on, because every time I see a picture of old Ernest T., I get squicked out all over again. But I’ve got to give him credit for being so memorable, if nothing else. So to Angry Masturbating Hillbilly Guy, wherever you are: Well played, dude.