"INSTINCTS!" Said Like Jon Lovitz Said "ACTING!"

There is a family that lives on our county road. A family known for their speed. No, they are not world-class sprinters. Nor champion NASCAR drivers. But they ARE drivers. Fast drivers. Tailgating drivers. One minute, I’m in T-Hoe, tooling along at 50 mph, free as a bird, happy as a lark…then I glance in the rearview mirror and see that a strange vehicle has become attached to my bumper like an albatross around my neck. No matter how fast I go, a member of the Best family wants to go faster.

There are as many Best family members as there are Rita’s family members in Flushed Away. The Bests live in a compound of sorts, across their own low water bridge that is impassible for a couple of days when the water comes up. I’d say there are five or six houses in the compound, judging from the number of mailboxes on their mailbox row. So you can’t always tell by the make and model of the car when you have a Best on your tail. Except for the fact that they try to push you out of the way.

On the way home Wednesday evening, I was chatting with The Pony, making eye contact with him in the rearview mirror, when a white truck appeared out of nowhere and attached itself to T-Hoe’s rear bumper. I couldn’t shake him. Let the record show that Hick is always complaining about THE WAY I DRIVE. Yeah. Imagine THAT! He says I go too fast. “Val. I was behind you. You must have been going at least 50.” Let the record further show that once upon a time, the county put up a speed limit sign when you first turn onto the county road. It said 35 mph. Oh, excuse me! I had to hold my ribs in with my hand, lest they shoot out of my thoracic cavity with my guffaws. That is just a RECOMMENDED speed limit, right? Because nobody out here drives that slow unless it’s a 7-year-old on a John Deere pulling his grandpa’s hay trailer loaded with round bales.

“That tailgater! He must be a Best. Not far now. We’ll lose him when he turns into the compound. Whoa! That truck did NOT turn! Maybe it’s a Popper.”

The Poppers live up the road a piece, closer to our mailbox row. They are known for fast driving, too, and having boxer dogs that stand in the road. But the truck did not turn at either of the Popper driveways. I put on my right turn signal and pulled to the side of the road and stopped so that The Pony could jump out and get the mail. That’s how we do in Backroads.

That tailgater swung around me and TURNED ONTO OUR GRAVEL ROAD! It was a white flatbed truck with dual wheels on the back, and a tool box and construction-like equipment on the bed.

“I’ll bet that’s our roofers, Pony! I do NOT appreciate the way they were driving. They must be rushing back out here to see Dad about something. No wonder Ann is gone if they drive like that! I’m going to let Dad know about that maniac he hired! Or else that’s a cut-through, tearing up our roads with their heavy equipment and spinning tires. They sure drive like a Best, though.”

We got the mail and drove the mile over gravel to the homestead. As we topped the hill by the neighbors’ barn, we saw it. The white speeder truck, parked with three tires on our gravel road, and three tires on our BARn field land.

“Huh. It MUST be the roofers. I guess they found Dad.”

A half hour later, I sent Hick a text.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Gordo Best. He’s going to dig me a trench for my freight containers. So I can make a garage.”

Val’s instincts are almost never wrong.