There were two ways to survive life in a town like Buford,
South Carolina, according to Roland McKenry, Jr., recently-
appointed president of the Farmers Community Bank.
One was to be dumb as a brick. The other was to have a
highly developed sense of irony.
Roland had flirted with the former approach in his younger
days, but had eventually chosen the latter strategy. His
flirtation with dumbness had taken the form of the ingestion of
heroic quantities of cannabis smoke. But eventually that got to
be a drag. He didn't have the kind of heroic constitution
required of a drug addict.
Of course he could have gotten a job in Columbia or
Charleston or Spartanburg, sold carpet or seat belts or something
for one of the thousands of mills that dotted the South Carolina
landscape. There would have been plenty of girls in black
clothing out there in the big cities, plenty of people who'd read
a couple of good books and maybe had a thought or two about the
human condition to provide some diversion from the Great
Mundanity which was life. But it would have been a hassle taking
on that way of living. It would have been work. It would have
been uncertainty.
No, far easier, far simpler to come back to Buford and
allow himself inherit his Dad's bank.
Eventually some big money center colossus would come along and
buy up the Farmer's Community and he could sell out -- hopefully
after the old man had passed on to his Great Reward. At which
time Roland McKenry, Jr. could move on, take up a more
interesting way of life.
Readers, girls in black leather miniskirts, actors,
musicians, wine drinkers -- that would be just the ticket for a
guy with a million or so bucks in the bank. Maybe he'd write a
novel or possibly see what the screenplay business was all about.
But for the mean time there was only the bank, the Friday
night reefer, the couple of dumb-as-bricks women and the highly
developed sense of irony to keep his mind minimally sane,
minimally occupied.
