Go to any backwoods honky tonk south of the mason-dixon line while any Merle Haggard or Charlie Daniels song plays on the jukebox and you will hear it screamed above the drunken crowd no less than half a dozen times. The South Will Rise Again! It is the rebel rousin' cry of Dixie and the southerner's claim to fame. After last weekend, despite my personal views on the south and the people unfortunate enough to have been born here, I believe they have the capabilities of doing so.
It started with a car accident. My friend and I were half way through a bottle of Vodka and quickly working our way through two dozen chicken wings when I heard the inimitable sound of colliding vehicles. I haphazardly dropped my chicken on the plate, carefully set down my glass of vodka, and ran outside to see two, mangled, smoking, fluid spewing vehicles sitting feet in front of my lawn. I heard moaning, so I made my way across the pavement to see if anyone needed the assistance of a shirtless, unequipped, half drunk, barefoot, stay-at-home dad. Surely they would.
They didn't.
But I did call 911 and stayed for moral support, doing my best to calm the drunk driver of the crushed car and tell him he needed to sit down and apply direct pressure to his head. He didn't listen and thought it best to simply walk home and let the police take care of the accident. He made it a little more than eight feet before tripping over the curb.
Next came the elderly mother and middle aged son from the smokey depths of the car, reeking of freshly deployed airbag and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Judging by their slurring and arm gestures, I determined they were locals. Judging by their breath, they were also drunk. I guided them both to the curb, and once again cajoled them to apply pressure to various leaking ports on their heads and faces. It was to no avail because who did I think I was, I aint no doctor and I aint even got no shoes on. Silly me.
I was juggling now. The dispatcher on the phone wanted more detailed information, the elderly mother was crying and screaming "what do I do?" into the night sky and the man in the grass was attempting to crawl away. Just when I thought about bidding the whole thing farewell and returning to my abandoned vodka, I saw the glorious, flashing, red and blue lights of an undercover police car approach the chaos. I cautiously pranced around glass and antifreeze toward the man stepping out of the jeep. I thought it odd that he was wearing civilian clothes, but I assumed he was off duty and proceeded to give him a rather in depth situation report. I rambled on about the severity and number of injuries, who was driving and how I believed it all happened. I caught my breath and waited for him to jump into action. He didn't move.
"Well, aren't you going to go over there?" I said after several seconds of him standing on his tip toes to get a better view of the steaming wreckage.
"Oh, no" he said, quite matter-of-factly. "I'm not a cop, I just have this flashing light on my jeep and figured I would come down and sit here to keep other cars from crashing into y'all 'till the cops show up."
It took me several seconds to absorb this, and even then, I had to break it down into more digestible niblets.
He isn't a cop.
He isn't even a volunteer firefighter.
He's just a guy.
With a flashing light.
And a jeep.
Okay, I understood now. All except for WHY THIS GUY HAD A FLASHING LIGHT ON HIS JEEP! Who were these people?
I had little time to dwell on the matter before a truck full of men with unusually large goatees pulled over asking if everyone was okay. They piled out of the extended cab and accessed the tool box in the bed. Out came flashlights, a first aid kit, various tools, blankets and even a few road cones. After all, you never know when you may have to be solely responsible for directing traffic. I wondered how long it would be before someone pulled the jaws of life out of their trunk. I gladly afforded them the spotlight and, after getting my lukewarm drink, played the less demanding role of a spectator from my front yard.
Nineteen agonizing minutes after the collision, the police and fire trucks arrived at a perfectly organized scene. There were cones, triaged patients, jeeps with flashing lights, and someone even found some emergency flares to keep traffic at bay. It was the most organized citizen response I had ever witnessed. There was no panic or bickering, and everyone knew what to do, as if they practiced monthly drills and ran through equipment check lists every morning.
So the next time I find myself in Dukenfield's bar watching two swaying, fifty year old men stand and salute the confederate flag while wailing that the south will rise again, I'm going to take their word for it. Mainly because they scare me, but also because now I know if they really wanted it to happen, they have enough shit in their trunks to get er' done.