I Won't Tell if You Won't Tell

Before I married my husband, he worked in St. Louis in a
factory. He was in charge of maintenance, which meant
everything from repairing machines to pouring acid down
toilets. He tried to help out a local guy and get him a job
there. Let's call this guy "Ray."

Ray didn't have a car, so he walked about two miles to
our town every morning along the railroad tracks. Then
my future husband drove him to the city, about 70 miles.
This was in his light blue 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass with
the headliner that sagged down on top of his head as
he drove.

On the way home one day, Hubby noticed that Ray
was unusually quiet. He sat kind of bent over with his
jacket in his lap. It was raining during the drive through
rush-hour traffic. The car in front of them hit the brakes,
and so did Hubby--but a little too late. He ran into the
back of a car. Ray was thrown forward. Hubby got
out to exchange information with the other driver, and
they agreed to drive to a police station that the driver
knew was just off the next exit.

As Hubby came back to his car, he noticed Ray bent
over picking at something on the floor. He looked
closer, and it was screws and nuts and bolts. Ray
was putting them back in his jacket pockets. They
looked at each other, but didn't say anything.

Hubby was afraid Ray might say he was hurt in the accident,
to get an insurance settlement. Ray never mentioned the
accident, and Hubby never told on him for stealing from
work. I guess country boys have to stick together in the
city.

Many rednecks long for such an opportunity. My high
school students have told me that their parents advise
them to say they hurt their back if they are in an accident.
That's because it's hard to prove that your back isn't hurt.

Oh, and the blue Olds Cutlass got a new used right fender
--maroon. Because rednecks don't always have cars
with all the parts in matching colors. When you go shopping
at the auto salvage yard, you have to take what they have
in stock.