Dust On My Boots Part 5: They’ll Have To Pry It Outta My Cold Dead Hand
Part 5
by: Nazel Pickens
After fumblin’ through my pockets, I stuck a rusted key into my PO Box for the first time in I don’t know
how long, maybe weeks, probably more like months, and a flood of official lookin’ piss-yellow postcards
poured onto the floor at my boots. An old crone to my left contorted her wrinkly face, raised one of her
garbly-painted brows, and shook her ancient head in a ghostly disapproving motion (or maybe that was
just her way and it had nothin’ to do with me at all). As I began to pry out all of the lodged postal material
from the box more cards flew across the small lobby of this musty podunk post office. I picked one up to
see what the obnoxious hullabaloo was all ‘bout:
Resident,
We are hereby informing you that all landline service in your area will be discontinued in one month. We
would also like to let you know that fiber-optics lines are now being installed in your district to make
available to you for the first time ever the fastest and most up-to-date internet connection possible.
The world will soon be at your doorstep.
Illuminations Communications
I threw the card on the floor and grabbed another: “... discontinued in two weeks”, and another: “...
discontinued in one week”, and another: “... discontinued in two days”, and one more: “... discontinued
tomorrow”. My temperature started to rise and my vision became a little blurry. I quickly grabbed
whatever I could gather in my arms from the pile on the floor and ran out the door, nearly knocking over
that slow-movin’ elder who just really seemed to not care for my general existence all that much. I threw
the mail in the passenger seat of my truck and after a half a dozen turns of the ignition and a couple big
clouds of gray and black smoke, I peeled outta the parking lot towards home, raining gravel on some
collateral randoms loiterin’ in the area.
About halfway home a white van decided to retard my forward motion to about ten miles per hour under
the posted speed limit and was unresponsive to my numerous blows on the horn. As I swung past it I
read the words “Illuminations Communications - Bringing The Future To You Today!” printed on the side
of the van over some sorta electronic-space-aged rainbow logo. I gave the van a slight psychic nudge as
I jerked in front of it and floored the gas. I saw it get smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror as I
climbed the mountain road. I raced up to my cabin and ran inside, incidentally leaving a haphazard trail of
little yellow post-cards from my open truck door and up to my rottin’ front stairs. I kicked the door open
and went directly for my shotgun leaning on the wall next to the bed. Stopping only to grab a beer from
next to the sad carcass of a road-killed turkey in my nearly empty fridge, I went and sat down on my front
porch rockin’ chair and cracked open my brew. I breathed and rocked deep and slow in some sorta
ancient dirge-like rhythm as I contemplated the general and specific situations.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not a fan of the telephone. As an invention and eventual virtually obligatory
device, it was a significant step in the degradation of authentic communication and direct living. The
telephone, like all of its technological predecessors and follow-ups, has continually sped up time and
collapsed space. They smash us together like an exponential trash-compactor. Just when you thought it
couldn’t get any thinner, shallower, less filled with substance, or dumber, a new technology comes along
to squeeze out whatever remnants of life and authenticity still remain. The printing press, the ship, the
train, the telegraph, the car, the airplane, the radio, the television, and the telephone have all done this,
each time adding to the misery of false connection and meaning.
While everyone got dragged, NO, went flying like robotic moths to an electric flame into the 21st century
and the disgusting cyber-hell it brought, I drew a hard-line at my land-line telephone. That was it, no
further, with the eventual goal of ridding myself of that disorienting and debilitating crutch as well, but on
my terms, in my time. I had no idea how complicated it would be to navigate their cowardly new world
without their neoteric compulsory technologies. In many ways it was fairly easy and extremely fulfilling,
but in others it was becoming much more difficult and aggravating. The bottom line for me was that I
could see the chasm forming and growing wider more quickly with each passing year, and I was content
with the choice I had made. So, I guess in some way my landline was sorta an arbitrary hill to die on,
more metaphorical than anything, I suppose, but one which I was now preparing for, especially coupled
with the seemingly inevitable intrusion of their fiber-optics webwork of treachery, and, well, that slow-
drivin’ guy in the van too.
These meanderings of my mind were soon blotted out by the sound of a vehicle coming up the road. I
took a big swig to empty the can-o-courage, crushing it in my hand and tossing it aside with a deep stare
on my face into oblivion. As the van came down the driveway, past the gate I intentionally left open for
this potentially-climactic conflictual last stand, I stood up slowly, keeping my eyes focused on eternity or
infinity, whatever. An over-fed dupe in a yellow jumpsuit and matching cap opened his door, so I loaded
up with a couple of .12 gauge shells (and not the stuff for the birds).
“Woah! Now hold on there, sir.” he said in an awkward high-pitched shaky squeal, ducking down behind
the open door. “Don’t shoot the messenger”.
“Now, nobody needs to get shot today. I just don’t want you city-slickin’ cyborgs comin’ up here with your
new-fangled ways and things.”
The dude proceeded to walk out from behind the door, only to have me send him divin’ back as I racked
my gun... “cha-cha!”
He reached for his phone, I assume to call his superior dupe, only to have him realize there’s no
reception back in here. He then nervously called out: “Ya see, we at Illuminations Communications can
make it so you get phone service through your new high-speed internet and never feel left out and
stranded ever again.” The plastic smile on his sweaty, round, red face really got under my skin.
“I never feel left out, and I don’t recall ever be stranded neither, thank you never-much. Now you just get
back in that van there, head down this mountain, and tell yer bosses to stay ‘way with their optical fibers
and unsolicited services, and, damn garnet, that they’ll have to pry my landline outta my cold dead hand.”
He looked confused, kinda like when ya tell a teenager that they don’t know ev’rything and that the world
don’t spin ‘round on their inexperienced and relatively insignificant lil’ head.
“But sir... ”
“And quit callin’ me sir ‘fore I ventilate yer hind side!”
“OK, I’ll take no more of your time, si..., um, but, ah, here’s a brochure of all the bundles and packages
that will be available to you real soon.”
He proceeded to set some glossy catalogue down on the ground in my direction. As soon as he stepped
away from it I fired off a shot, turnin’ it to useless confetti and sending him jumping into the van and
speeding off, nervously getting stuck for a few seconds at the top of the driveway on some loose gravel,
and then flying back down the road from which he came.
“So I guess he can drive faster after all.” I mumble to myself with a cocky smirk. I went inside, put down
another beer, kicked off my boots, laid down on the couch, and took a nap.
————
That evening I reflected about the days twists and turns, and all the things they want us to endure, cave
to, delude and distract ourselves with, and the endless misery, emptiness, and helplessness it all offers.
How blankly compliant ev’ryone seems to be. How meaningless it all seems. I went and grabbed my
shotgun again and sat down on the couch and opened another beer, pouring the whole can down in one
full gulp. I reloaded my gun and racked it. Time stood still as I took a deep breath and my life flashed
before my eyes, sputtering and clicking like an old film projector and in a strange sepia tone...
“Ring! Ring! Ring!”
... and then I blew that god damn phone right off the wall, leaving a gapin’ hole to the outside world. As
echoes of the blast faded and the dust and shards settled, I saw some yellow leaves a-fallin’ from the ash
trees through my new renovation. I heard some of the last desperate calls of dying autumn crickets, felt a
cool breeze on my face, and smelled the slight rot of the darkenin’ season.
“That damn thang always annoyed the hell outta me anyway, always ringin’ at the wrong time, people
tryin’ to stuff their way into my head, into my life, from who knows where. The hell with it! My friends can
write me a damn letter. If someone wants to talk to me, they can try’n find me up’ere... and if its one of
them good-for-nothin’ self-leashed brain-dead cyber-slaves, well, they’d best be ready for some IN REAL
LIFE consequences.” I declared to myself in a defiant tone as I leaned my shotgun against the couch, got
up and grabbed my guitar. I went outside and sat in my rockin’ chair on the front porch and played a lil’
tune to the world out there, whether they could hear it or not, don’t much matter to me.
Well, I don’t dial 911
I don’t pay taxes, I’ll keep my guns
I make moonshine, and I been known to smoke a lil’ weed
So leave me alone ‘cause I’m alright,
I ain’t lookin’ for a fight
And I’ll be just fine, If y’all just let me be
Well, I ain’t left and I ain’t right
I sure as hell ain’t afraid to fight
To me gun control is a steady hand
My hair it smells like black powder smoke
I like me a good dead cop joke
I’ll fight the law, but I’ll defend this land
Don’t Tread On Me, Don’t Tread On Me
Livin’ wild and livin’ free
I told you once, don’t make me tell you twice
Don’t Tread On Me, Don’t Tread On Me
I’m warnin’ you, don’t bother me
Next time I might not be so nice
I love my mama, I eat red meat
Look both ways ‘fore I cross the street
But I’m gonna go anywhere I damn well please
Never could walk that straight narrow line
Never gonna give up my wine
Never gonna live upon my knees
Like a rattlesnake eatin’ up a mouse
Got boobie-traps all ‘round my house
Me and my friends don’t like seein’ you ‘round
You think you big and we so small
‘Cause you think you own it all
One day yer world’s gonna come on crashin’ down
Don’t Tread On Me, Don’t Tread On Me
Livin’ wild and livin’ free
I told you once, don’t make me tell you twice
Don’t Tread On Me, Don’t Tread On Me
I’m warnin’ you, don’t bother me
Next time I might not be so nice
So, you can call me an outlaw, say I’m a rebel
I’m just tryin’ to put some food on the table
Ain’t tryin’ to be no modern day Robin Hood
‘Cause I don’t care ‘bout their big mess
I ain’t never gonna pass their test
And tryin’ to change me now wouldn’t do ya no good
Don’t Tread On Me, Don’t Tread On Me
Livin’ wild and livin’ free
I told you once, don’t make me tell you twice
Don’t Tread On Me, Don’t Tread On Me
I’m warnin’ you, don’t bother me
Next time I might not be so nice
Yeah, next time I might not be so nice
No, next time I ain’t gonna be this nice!
*Note: This story was mostly fictional, although based on
very real experiences, events, situations, and feelings.
—————
Nazel Pickens, a cosmic-anarchist-cowboy with backwoods, home-spun, divergent, deviant, rebellious, sorrowful, cynical, silly,
and celestial commentary on the world at large and his forever cluttered and dusty lil' place in it. Ol’ Nazel doesn’t have a
cellphone (they’re gonna pry his rotary landline outta his cold dead hand) or internet connection, but he sure does have opinions
about this psychotically alienated technophilic postmodern mess of a world and of his perpetual pursuit of authentic anarchic
freedom, and loves to pound them out on his typewriter, some of which is available as the somewhat regularly reoccurring
column “Dust On My Boots” from The Rogue Writers Guild’s online magazine (www.roguewritersguild.com). From essays to
poems to rants to short stories to songs, Mr. Pickens emotes with words in the dust, and lets the wind take it all away. He
sometimes joins forces with another voice in his head, Invecchiare Selvatico, who writes from a more sophisticated, sometimes
more analytical, voice. They teamed up to put out a book, Black Blossoms At The End Of The World, available from
underworldamusements.com.
Messages to be passed on to Nazel (and requests for a free catalog of his own distro) can be sent to nazelpickens@gmail.com.
Nazel also puts out music with his (now defunct, but hopefully someday reconstituted and resurrected) cosmic-outlaw-country
band, which can be heard at: distilledspiritrebellion.bandcamp.com
