observations were always tinged in judgment—funny and accurate, yes, but oftentimes mean-spirited.
Randy had not even bothered to search for a house. He lived in the new Residence Inn, an extended-stay, faux-Tudor motel off I-75 on the west end of town, and, even after half a year, the warranty tags still hung from the grill inside the oven. As if he were a guest, Randy continued to use the free, miniature soap bars, even though they seemed to dissolve as quickly as a lozenge on the tongue, and he was always cursing at the diminutive size as they slipped from his grip like a wet goldfish. He flavored his take-out meals with the paper packets of salt and pepper that the maids refreshed every day. He unconsciously refused to change the AOL access number on his laptop from Philadelphia to Selby, requiring a long-distance call each time he wanted to retrieve his e-mail. In fact, the only thing Randy Whitestone had added to feather his new nest-in-exile was the black Krups espresso machine in the kitchen, which he used morning and night.
Randy kept a journal of what he called his “travels,” filled with the details of life in central Georgia that he found unique, and he would pull out this palm-sized leather-bound notebook and his yellow Mont Blanc fountain pen whenever anyone started telling him something that he feared his friends on The Outside, as he called it, would never believe.
He focused his attention and wrath on the affluent northern half of town, the environs of Sugar Day Country Club. These were the people, the power brokers and agenda setters, whom he had to deal with in his job, and he despised their air of exclusivity and attempt to create an identity of British landed gentry. He did not like how they drove to Atlanta for shoes or T-shirts instead of shopping with the working class and blacks at the Selby Mall. He scoffed at their perfectly symmetrical, oversized, hollow-pillarhomes with the circular driveways and boxwood topiary hedges. He did not like how they had all but abandoned the public school system.
“I swear they seem more consumed with class than race in this town, especially north Selby,” he said. “Have you noticed the weird little stickers in the back windows of all the cars?”
Indeed, Margaret had noted the cryptic adhesive patches, always in the lower left-hand corner of the back windshield of a Chevy Suburban or Mercedes or Lexus SUV. She’d seen a red
P
on a white circle; a yellow
T
rimmed in black; a blue star with a cur-vacious, plump white
C
that was reminiscent of the
S
on Superman’s chest.
“It’s taken me forever,” Randy said. “But I’ve got it all figured out now. Okay, so the red
P
is for Montezuma Presbyterian Day School. It’s expensive but very, very conservative, so you don’t see many docs’ kids there. Certainly no Northerners. Basically it’s where the rich white-supremacists go.
“Now, the yellow
T
is for Traemont Academy. Tuition is half of what it is at Presbyterian Day, so these people can’t even really hang with the
P
people, and they’re more likely to drive teal-colored cars and luxed-out pickup trucks. The
T
says ‘I might not have graduated from college but my kids are going to.’ I’m sorry: ‘fixin’ to.’ Oh … and a lot of them smoke. And it’s obvious that a lot of the moms dye their own hair.”
Randy took another bite of hash browns, swallowing after just three chews.
“Now the
C
,” he continued. “The
C
is the signature of royalty in the kingdom of Selby. It costs twelve thousand a year for your kid to go there. The
C
in your window means you belong to Sugar Day or are on the waiting list to belong. It means you own your own tuxedo and that you probably retain a poor older black guy around the house to do things like wash your sidewalk. Canterbury’s acceptable to the transplant Yankees because it’s the only school in Perry County where Emory and Duke recruit. And it’swhere the Japanese kids go. Oh, and
Randy had not even bothered to search for a house. He lived in the new Residence Inn, an extended-stay, faux-Tudor motel off I-75 on the west end of town, and, even after half a year, the warranty tags still hung from the grill inside the oven. As if he were a guest, Randy continued to use the free, miniature soap bars, even though they seemed to dissolve as quickly as a lozenge on the tongue, and he was always cursing at the diminutive size as they slipped from his grip like a wet goldfish. He flavored his take-out meals with the paper packets of salt and pepper that the maids refreshed every day. He unconsciously refused to change the AOL access number on his laptop from Philadelphia to Selby, requiring a long-distance call each time he wanted to retrieve his e-mail. In fact, the only thing Randy Whitestone had added to feather his new nest-in-exile was the black Krups espresso machine in the kitchen, which he used morning and night.
Randy kept a journal of what he called his “travels,” filled with the details of life in central Georgia that he found unique, and he would pull out this palm-sized leather-bound notebook and his yellow Mont Blanc fountain pen whenever anyone started telling him something that he feared his friends on The Outside, as he called it, would never believe.
He focused his attention and wrath on the affluent northern half of town, the environs of Sugar Day Country Club. These were the people, the power brokers and agenda setters, whom he had to deal with in his job, and he despised their air of exclusivity and attempt to create an identity of British landed gentry. He did not like how they drove to Atlanta for shoes or T-shirts instead of shopping with the working class and blacks at the Selby Mall. He scoffed at their perfectly symmetrical, oversized, hollow-pillarhomes with the circular driveways and boxwood topiary hedges. He did not like how they had all but abandoned the public school system.
“I swear they seem more consumed with class than race in this town, especially north Selby,” he said. “Have you noticed the weird little stickers in the back windows of all the cars?”
Indeed, Margaret had noted the cryptic adhesive patches, always in the lower left-hand corner of the back windshield of a Chevy Suburban or Mercedes or Lexus SUV. She’d seen a red
P
on a white circle; a yellow
T
rimmed in black; a blue star with a cur-vacious, plump white
C
that was reminiscent of the
S
on Superman’s chest.
“It’s taken me forever,” Randy said. “But I’ve got it all figured out now. Okay, so the red
P
is for Montezuma Presbyterian Day School. It’s expensive but very, very conservative, so you don’t see many docs’ kids there. Certainly no Northerners. Basically it’s where the rich white-supremacists go.
“Now, the yellow
T
is for Traemont Academy. Tuition is half of what it is at Presbyterian Day, so these people can’t even really hang with the
P
people, and they’re more likely to drive teal-colored cars and luxed-out pickup trucks. The
T
says ‘I might not have graduated from college but my kids are going to.’ I’m sorry: ‘fixin’ to.’ Oh … and a lot of them smoke. And it’s obvious that a lot of the moms dye their own hair.”
Randy took another bite of hash browns, swallowing after just three chews.
“Now the
C
,” he continued. “The
C
is the signature of royalty in the kingdom of Selby. It costs twelve thousand a year for your kid to go there. The
C
in your window means you belong to Sugar Day or are on the waiting list to belong. It means you own your own tuxedo and that you probably retain a poor older black guy around the house to do things like wash your sidewalk. Canterbury’s acceptable to the transplant Yankees because it’s the only school in Perry County where Emory and Duke recruit. And it’swhere the Japanese kids go. Oh, and
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