I made my escape safely. The next day I drove 80 miles east to bask in the sun on rocks at Cummins Falls State Park. But even out there, tucked away in hillbilly country, the gas-station owners were Indians. It didn’t matter that they sold boiled Cajun peanuts and what were alleged to be fried chicken livers, although I suspect they may have been alligator testicles—they owned the place. The white hill folk who’d inhabited the area for centuries still couldn’t get it together enough to own a simple gas station. It reminded me of how in Georgia, all of the reputed “country buffet” restaurants seem to be owned by Asians. Even my downscale Nashville motel was helmed by Indian proprietors.
I can only imagine what these enterprising and disciplined Asian and Indian immigrants think of America’s white and black underclass. Not much, I’d presume. And seeing how what are now the “natives” have devolved into one dysfunctional Jerry Springer nightmare super-blob, I can’t say I blame the invaders one bit.
