There was a story on the local news recently that was a perfect example of how local governments can act quickly on important issues, as opposed to the slow grind toward democracy in their state and federal counterparts. The coverage centered on Redneck Heaven, a restaurant in Lewisville, Texas. The controversy began with complaints to the police department that the waitresses there were topless. Apparently the line that distinguished a sexually oriented business from a food service establishment was one drawn in brush strokes across a nipple. This breast-staking event was covered by every local channel. The news stories went on to describe how the police had visited Redneck Heaven and reported back to the city council that the women were in fact, covered by body paint; and they wanted a ruling on whether the paint counted as clothing. The news reports did not mention how many trips the cops had to make to the place in order to observe these servers.

I was amused by the interviews of customers at a nearby dining establishment. One woman described how her family had wandered in there “by accident” and discovered the scantily clad servers. I for one, when faced by a choice between Olive Garden, Chili’s, or a place called Redneck Heaven, would never chose the latter. Not because I am a prude or offended by nearly naked women, but because I would expect the menu to consist of fried bologna and Velveeta cheese sandwiches, served with a side of cheesy puffs, with maybe a free side of bait and ammo to go.

The news stories went on for two or three days, following the event to its logical conclusion when the council met for a special session where they voted on an ordinance that stated that body paint and tattoos were not clothing. Whew! I was glad to hear this, just when I was bracing myself for casual day at work. Redneck Heaven’s version of casual day includes something called “Anything but Clothes”, or ABC days. On these occasions the women wear their standard skimpy bikini bottoms, garter belts to hold dollar bills, and an assortment of strategically placed items to cover (or not), their top parts. There are pictures on the restaurant’s website of typical costumes worn on these days, and I was amazed at the creativity on display. One woman covered her breasts in what looked like whipped cream, with a couple of cherries placed on top. I spent a good five or ten minutes trying to figure out how she got those cherries to stay there, as I can barely get a barrette to stay in place on my hair without plastering it in with hair spray. Other non-edible coverings included artificial flowers, condom wrappers, and the controversial body paint.

Like most of the male patrons interviewed for the story, I don’t see anything wrong with women walking around nude, or nearly nude, or mostly naked.  I’ve always limited myself to accidental nudity, like the time I went down the water slide at Hawaiian Falls, or the morning I forgot to close the living room blinds. But I was concerned because they were working in a restaurant and not someplace where the décor consisted of dim lighting and metal poles. Food service can be a dangerous business, and I hoped for the sake of the waitresses and customers, that they were serving mostly cold beer and sandwiches wrapped safely in plastic.

I know firsthand of the dangers. I was once a waitress myself, and one time I set a basket of chips on fire at the Mexican restaurant where I worked. I extinguished the blaze by throwing the basket into the fountain in the center of the dining room, along with three cocktail napkins, the crepe paper flowers hanging over the booth, and a cardboard take out menu my customers had thoughtlessly left lying on the center on the table. I think I was only partly at fault for this accident, and the person who thought it was a good idea to add flaming cheese to the menu should have shared in the blame.

Luckily I was wearing a shirt and pants when this event happened. Had I been clothed in just a necklace of paper condom wrappers, that thing would have gone up like a string of Chinese fire crackers. While I sympathize with the reluctance on the part of many of the customers of Redneck Heaven to see the end of body painted boobies, surely they understand that city ordinances are put in place to keep a strict separation between places that are serving food and places that are serving up something that only occasionally is covered in whipped cream. I applaud the Lewisville city council for their quick action to protect the public and tighten up the definition of clothing, especially for those of us who might be confused on casual Fridays.

I grew nostalgic recently, trying to figure out the dashboard controls of the rental car that I was using. All I wanted to do was listen to the radio on the way to and from Austin, and at first I thought that Avis had given me a small airplane instead of the Ford Focus that I requested. They were located, after all, near the airport, so I believed this was a reasonable suspicion. I yearned for the large silver tabs on my parents’ 1967 Oldsmobile. Back then changing the pre-set stations was a simple task but required a real commitment, as you had to first pull out the locking buttons under the dial – a feat not unlike King Arthur pulling that sword out of the stone – and then push them forcefully back in once you had settled on the station that you were pledging your undying devotion. Back then there was no satellite radio, and I confess that I miss the days when you could judge how close to home you were by the level of static on the local radio stations.

When I was a child, I would stretch out in the rear window of the Oldsmobile as we traveled back to our house at night; my face tilted up to watch the stars pass by overhead in a dizzy parade of pinpoint lights. These were the days before child safety regulations; and it’s a wonder we didn’t all wind up scattered along the sides of the highway like bits of litter. As we drove along, I rested my ear against the speaker in the rear deck, listening for faint whispers of country music blowing across my face like scratchy West Texas tumbleweeds. I would hope for Hank Williams, something I could tap my foot too, not knowing or caring then that Hank was years past a rock star death in the back seat of a limousine.

If we were far from home the music might be interrupted by a late night preacher, fading and weaving through the melodies like a snake rustling through brush. I turned my face away from all that shouting, figuring that someone had done that preacher wrong for sure.  I patiently waited for deliverance from the threatened fires of hell, closing my eyes against the rush of wind through open windows while the firefly sparks from my father’s cigarette settled like bright brimstone on my arms and legs.

My mother’s job was to shake Dad now and then to make sure he didn’t nod off too deeply and run us all into a ditch along those moonlit roads. As soon as we got to the first stop light in town, my father would wake up and slam on the brakes, sending me tumbling from my perch in the window, bouncing across the bench seat in the back, and finally settling limply across the hump in the back floorboard. I would lay there, too stunned to climb back up, and breathe in the dust from the mats while I took hard comfort in the dull road hum beneath me as we moved on closer to home and soft beds.

When I rode with my older brother Ronnie in his Mustang, I was always securely buckled in the front seat. This, I supposed, was my parents’ token gesture toward safety once they decided it was all right for my epileptic brother to take me to the grocery store in a fast car. My brother was twenty-one and I was eight years old that year. Every time we stopped at a red light Ronnie would shift to neutral and press the gas. The engine growled and snarled, and when the light turned green, I wouldn’t  have time to worry about car crashes, or breath to protest how fast we were traveling as my back pressed into the soft leather of the seat.

Our journeys were accompanied not by Hank Williams, nor calls to salvation, but by raw Sixties Rock n’ Roll. It might be Jefferson Airplane asking if we didn’t in fact need someone to love, or it might be the Stones and “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”, but it was always loud and mostly clear.

Almost twenty years later I would be returning to the mobile home we lived in at that time, driving a car my father-in-law bought for me for $50. My older son Robert was strapped and buckled in a child carrier in the back seat. The car had good brakes and a working radio, but not much else for $50. The rear driver’s side window was a clear plastic drop cloth, held in place with duct tape. Somewhere along the highway the catalytic converter plugged up, and the car grew sluggish while we were still some way from the trailer park. Then, just as we slowed down to a crawl and I thought I would have to hike the five or six miles carrying Robert, “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” came blasting out of the speakers. The car surged forward with a loud bang, and we gathered speed as the song played. The rest of the way home flames shot from the exhaust at every chorus of “it’s a gas, gas, gas…”  I was sure that someone along that redneck white rock road would come out with a shotgun and return fire, but we made it safely to our lot just as Keith played the final chorus.

I finally figured out the controls on the rented Ford, and made the trip safely to Austin. On the return trip that evening I drove through Waco, that city of apocalyptic prophets and Baylor Bears. A Christian light rock station filtered through the static on the radio, the cheery chorus far removed from flames of eternal damnation. As I drove over the bridge that spanned the muddy Brazos, I rolled the window down and let the mossy air from the river below wash over me. I punched the tuner and found my favorite local radio station fading in and out from the speakers. The stereo called out stronger with each mile, reminding me that; if not on the road to salvation, I was at least on the road towards home.