God Loves Trailer Trash.

And so, around ten yesterday morning, Richard's parents came and picked us up at the motel.

"How did you get here?" Asked Robert, Richard's plump, bearded father. He looked especially stressed.

"Greyhound." We both said flatly. His mother, Julie, a scrawny dishwater blond with a pinched face, eyed me with the look that something was just not right and answered all my questions with curt short replies.

I was met with coolness and wary distrust. They seemed leery to let me live with them, but since they were God fearing Christians they let me stay anyway. We all piled into their battered SUV and took off to their home.

The O'Herly's live in a town in upstate New York called Oneonta. It's a town in the deep forest of old Indian country that consist of a gas station, a few stores, a Holiday Inn, a Wal-Mart, and hundreds of trailer parks. I do believe the entire population of this town resides in trailers.

The O'Herly's are no exception. Around the skuzzy edges of town, where pine groves and truck gardens bump against roadhouse honky-tonks and low bid developments, there where to be found six or seven house trailers and three or four conventional homes. The O'Herly's trailer lies on the bank of a small, muddy river. We entered the cozy three bedroom mobile home and I was accosted by a barrage of Jesus related objects from every corner! These people are God damned Jesus freaks!!! God peers at you from every empty space and knick-knacks remind you a hundred times that "Jesus loves you." Even in the bedroom where they let me stay; there is this huge poster of Christ staring down at you with such malevolence. It's one of those posters so contrived that the eyes follow you when you move about. At night I'm afraid to masturbate because I thought when I reach down to my privates; sparks would fly out and burn my hands like the Wicked Witch of the West reaching for the ruby slippers.

Well, I settled in and was comforted by the fact that not only that they had a computer with Internet access, which is slower than shit (fucking dial up), but they also had cable. As myself and the Family sat down to a great meal of roasted chicken, steamed broccoli and toasted bread. After saying grace (Creepy), the questions began to fly. What was I doing with Richard? Why was I so far from my home? How did we meet? Where are my parents? Soon the interrogation turned into a screaming match between Father and Son. I slinked back to my room.

I gotta get out of here...and I don't even know where here is. No maps in this place. Staring at some porcelain cat with God Loves Kittens embellished on it. Ech. Perhaps if I can get to New York City I can somehow find transport back to El Paso or Tijuana. First, El Paso, though...my trunk is still there.

Yee haw.