Last month in a certain undisclosed small town in Central Florida, a fishing cohort and I went through a drive-thru. The kid in the window exposed his arm tats when he reached out with the food bag. He had no teeth. My buddy opened up all the wrappers in the bag. “A tweeker touching your food can’t be good,” he said.
Roll through enough rural areas in pursuit of fish and you’re bound to hit a tweeker town. A scraggly dude or two will be loitering near the gas pumps and they’re sizing you up, waiting to see if you forgot to hit the key fob on your way in to use the restroom.
A tweeker might actually talk to you, try to seem legit despite his edge, “Building model airplanes,” he tells you*and then asks for a dollar for gas money.
I’ll be rolling through a Tweekerville tomorrow en route to fishing. I’ll be covering up my stuff with a blanket in the back–that’s a top notch secret security trick. But, having read articles in the past about tweeker break-ins at boat ramps and river-access parking points, I’m wondering–despite what I paid for some of my gear–how much quick cash can a desperate person make hawking worn-out boots and dinged up reels? What pawn shop is going to buy a fly rod with thrice bent eyes?
Like the people in the City who put stickers on their cars saying, “No Radio,” maybe I’ll put a sign in my back window saying, “Trunk full of stupid fly fishing shit.” I should be left alone.
*blatant rip-off of a Tommy Boy line.