A Rifle Named Waylon: Hoping for Love on My Farm in Mississippi

Despite the value of our platonic relationship and despite the hazards of making it romantic, I have always hoped for a little something more


One afternoon last year, on a cotton farm in Mississippi during the late summer, I stood on a hillside watching Elaine, the most beautiful woman I've ever known, fire a rifle named Waylon. She was a decent shot. Her black tights grew darker with sweat as she situated each of her legs to aim. The freckles on her cheekbone coalesced as she squinted one eye to sight the target. Her tan shoulders got sharp from strain as she took her time waiting to fire. On the tenth shot of her round, eight of which had resulted in a shattered whiskey bottle twenty yards away, Elaine, propping the barrel against her shoulder, walked towards me with a coy simper. It was at that very moment I found myself, involuntary as a hiccup, falling in love with her all over again.

The gun was her idea. Although I grew up in the South, hunting is one aspect of Southern culture in which I have never participated.

Elaine and I had some history. Ever since my sophomore year of college, when the two of us met at a frat party, we had run the gamut of a friendship without benefits. We watched movies together and we had drinks together and we studied for class together. The potential for intimacy was part of our attraction to each other. Inside a bar, her hand would squeeze my thigh as she laughed at a joke I had made, and outside a bar, her gaze would match my own the whole time she spent lighting a cigarette. Not once did Elaine or I take it further.

The problem was that one or both of us usually had significant others. But our friendship also had its advantages. She happily obliged whenever I asked her to be my arm candy for a party at which an ex-girlfriend would be in attendance. She brought me along as a third for coffee dates whenever her current boyfriend needed a push towards commitment. Still, despite the value of our platonic relationship and despite the hazards of making it romantic, I have always hoped, throughout the ten years I've known her, that Elaine might one day ask from me what I was desperately, helplessly prepared to give.

That summer she'd come to visit me in Mississippi so that I could finally show her my home state. I was single, but she was not. Even though I was excited to see her, I was also disappointed that Elaine, after all of our talks about a visit, had finally taken me up on the offer. What would her boyfriend think? The thing I found disappointing was that he obviously saw no reason to worry.

At the camp house on my family's farm, where I was staying for a few weeks so I could write, Elaine had the run of her own bedroom, separated from mine by the excruciating length of a kitchen. The bathroom was on the other side of my room. Every morning of that long weekend, consequently, I had to pretend not to notice how perfect her shoulders looked with a towel wrapped around her chest, the way her hair got even curlier when wet, the way her cheeks got even shinier when clean, how beautiful her lips seemed even during a task as quotidian as the brushing of teeth.

Elaine wanted the full experience of the South. "No problem," I told her, "my pleasure." So I did everything possible to give it to her.

Over the weekend I basically had to teach Elaine a new language -- putting "comeback sauce" on the "kibbee," driving a "Kubota" down to "the home place" -- in order to show her the world in which I had been raised. We picked honeysuckle by the bunch. At a cotton gin in Linwood, we waited out a thunderstorm, tin roof atwitter, by touring machinery covered in lint. We ate slices of Mississippi Mud pie with Mississippi mud caked on our shoes. At a gas station in Benton, we fed a bag of deep-fried peanuts, their shells edible, to a stray dog with only one ear. We watched a family of deer nibble at salt licks. Around sundown each day that weekend, Elaine and I sat in a breezeway on the porch, sipping whiskey and making chit-chat, a fan overhead drying the sweat from our brows.

Later, I had to watch Elaine rub lotion on mosquito bites, my regret for the landscape having caused her pain joined, confusingly, with thanks for it allowing me to stare at her thighs.

My feelings in regards to Mississippi were just as complicated. Growing up in the confines of the Deep South, I had been a liberal among conservatives and an atheist among believers, the latter in each case often intolerant of the former. Mississippi was, at the same time, a part of myself. Despite its many problems, I cared about the place, its people as well as its culture. Elaine always seemed to understand my conflicted feelings for the state, which I suppose is ironic, given how those conflicted feelings were mirrored in my situation with her. Something in my heart has always been recklessly attracted to people who are reckless with my heart.

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Snowden Wright is a writer based in New York City. He has contributed to Salon, The Good Men Project, Thought Catalog, and Nerve. More of his work can be found here.

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