Earl Is Here

As I write this Hurricane Earl is raging outside.  Well, maybe not raging, but definitely doing something.  I mean, when I went outside this morning the grass was kinda damp, and my car definitely had some raindrops on it, so like the rest of the Jersey Shore I’m in FULL PANIC MODE!!

Seriously, last night I went to the store and filled an entire shopping cart with milk and bread.  I don’t even like milk.  I’m not going to take it out of the car either.  What if we have to evacuate?  There’s no way I’m bringing 17 gallons of milk INTO the house just to bring it back OUT to the car again when we have to flee.  It can just stay in the trunk.  That’s called planning ahead.  Look it up.

So anyways, last night the wife and I were having a conversation about the upcoming death storm, after making sure everything that could possibly blow away in our backyard was firmly nailed to the ground, and she asked a very pertinent question.

“If you conceived a child during the storm, would you name it Earl?”

My gut reaction was no.  However, the last name “Suit” kind of lends an air of class to Earl.  It sort of sounds like he could be the Earl of Suit.  Regal, yet down to earth.  Even so I’m pretty sure that if you’re named Earl in the United States you are legally required to be a trucker.  That’s not what I want for my kids.

Left: The Earl of Suit - Right: Earl Suit

Then my wife came up with this piece of utter and unrepentant genius, “And if it was a girl, you could name her Earlene.”  Have you ever heard a more absolutely awesome name for a girl?  I submit that you have not.

I know it loses a little something seeing it typed out.  So I want you to do something.  Say it for me.  It’s not hard, just take Charlene and replace the “Char” with “Earl”.  Put on your best southern accent; don’t pretend you don’t have one.   It’s the one you use when you’ve had a few drinks and you want to make fun of someone for being a dumb hick, whether they’re from the south or not.  It’s a cross between Foghorn Leghorn and Larry the Cable Guy.  It’s not that good, but you do it anyway because it’s the only accent that absolutely everyone in the world can do, and damned if you’re going to be the exception to that particular rule, thank you.  So maybe say “Boy, ah say boy!” to get warmed up, and then wrap your lips around this awesome name.  Earlene.  Savor the taste of that on your palette.  Earlene.  If you’re in an office just whisper it softly, but don’t lose the accent.  The accent is key.  Earlene.  Pure magic.

Alternatively, if you ARE southern, just pretend I’m not about to stereotypically poke fun at your entire culture and dialect, and then spit your dip into the Styrofoam cup sitting next to your keyboard, adjust your denim overalls so they don’t  get caught in your exposed chest hair quite so much, and then say Earlene in your normal-talkin’-voice.  Maybe fire a shotgun a couple of times into the air.  Go nuts.

You hillbilly.

I can just picture the couple that would name their child Earlene.  They are at the hospital after the birth.  The mother holds the child, radiant and smiling, while the father looks on with pride and happiness.  The attending nurse says, “She’s beautiful.  What are you going to call her?”

The father, with neither hesitation nor doubt, says, “Earlene.”

The nurse’s smile falters for a split second.  “Earlene?” she says, “Not Charlene, or Arlene?”

“No-mam, E-A-R-L-E-N-E.  We was gonna name the baby after her great-grandaddy Earl.  Thought it was gonna be a boy-child.  She’s pretty as a mountain flower, and Earlene will do just fine.”

The mother looks up at him with misty eyes and says, “Oh Dale, it’s PERFECT!”

They lock eyes, two young lovers just starting their life together, and he says softly, “I know.”

The nurse slowly backs out of the room, a plastic smile fixed on her face.

Incidentally, Earlene has just topped my list of “Top 10 Names To Holler From A Front Porch” just edging out Bobby-Ray.  Most of the rest of the list are hyphenates actually.  Why you ask?  Come with me, if you will.

It’s early morning, the dew sparkles on the grass and the crickets have not yet stopped singing.  A screen door opens and a man steps, barefoot, onto his cracked cement patio.  He is a large and imposing man, once he was well muscled, even handsome, but those days are gone.  He used to be the quarterback of his high school football team, and took them all the way to State back in ’83.  Now the muscles have mostly turned to fat, his hair has thinned, and his once handsome features have been lined and pocked by age and abuse.  His stained wife-beater undershirt strains around his gut as he stretches in the early morning light, surveying his kingdom.  The old Thunderbird on blocks, that he swore he would re-build to recapture his glory days, but only sinks further into disrepair each year just as he does.  The weed infested yard that resists every attempt at fertilization and re-seeding, that he never the less does every fall hoping that this year will be the year that it works.  The dog on his chain, too old and tired to even raise his head at his master’s half hearted call.  It all could have been so wonderful, he thinks, and he blames many things for his lot in life.  He blames his knees, for not being strong enough for college ball.  He blames his job, it doesn’t pay what he needs.  He blames his wife, mostly for blaming him but also because her once good looks have slipped away over the years just as his have.  He blames the government, the weather, and the land.  God help him he even blames the kids, because it seems like nothing has been right ever since their first.  They have five now, and each one makes the paycheck he takes home look smaller and smaller.  Damned if there isn’t one of ‘em now, in the front lawn in front of God and everybody, doing something she knows she ought not to do! His head swims as he fills with an impotent rage that he can never truly articulate.  He fills his lungs and bellows…

“EARLENE!! YOU PUT THAT SQUIRREL DOWN! HOW MANY TIMES I TOLD YOU THEY ‘AINT FOR PLAYIN’!  YOU GET YOUR SCRAWNY BUTT IN THE HOUSE ‘FOR I COUNT TO TEN!”

I should probably go get that milk out of my car.

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