The Dirty T

I’m not sure what it is about Tucson, but it draws some weird little freaks, and everyone else is OK wth that.

The town’s official slogan is the “Old Pueblo.” That kind of bullshit can only be squeezed out of the sphincters of the Chamber of Commerce.

The other nickname: “The Dirty T” is closer to the truth.

I heard they call it the Dirty T because of the dust from the desert.

I have my own theory. By 5 p.m. most people have had 5 times as many beers as showers. And nobody really gives a shit if you are dirty or clean.

My niece had a good description: “There are really two kinds of people: Crunchy Granola Eaters and Gangsters.”

I add one more group: “freaks on the street.”

The Dirty T attracts tons of 60-to-70-year-old men with long gray hair, beards and pony tails. They are a combination of “dead head” and old-timey prospector. Most of them look half dead from the heat and for some goddamn reason they ride bicycles.

There’s one fucking guy, who has a pony tail and a coon-skin cap. At first glance, it looks like he has a Trump-toupee with two tails sticking out the back.

It’s a 105 degrees and he is walking in the sun. He’s got a black-leather vest, a long sleeve shirt and a dead raccoon on his head. How the fuck is he still alive?

A few years ago, coon-skin cap bought (or stole) a fat tire bike. So most days, I see the ghost of Davey Crocket on a fucking hipster bike pass before my eyes while I’m trying to drive to work.

Near Campbell and Prince, there’s a ton of younger jay-walking drunks who stagger across the road. They always “lean” off the sidewalk just as I’m passing.

If I hit one of those drunky drunks, I’m not stopping. If they run into me, it’s not a hit and run — more like a catch and release.

I don’t know how many half-way houses there are in that neighborhood, but business must be fucking booming.

Recently, I saw the two biggest mother-fucking freaks of them all. They were under 25, wearing John Wayne cowboy hats, dark wife-beaters, shorts (with their skinny, white chicken-legs sticking out) black socks, and boots.

Both of them had guns on their hips like they are the fucking Earp brothers headed for the OK Corral.

I’m not sure if these were just Douchebag Millennials playing with guns or time travelers who raided a dumpster to find clothes to “fit in.”

I thought about calling the cops. But it’s an open-carry state. No one else seemed to be worried.

So apparently there is a place where it is socially acceptable to wear part of a cowboy costume, strap on a six-shooter and walk into the Safeway.

That fucking place is the Dirty T, and after 8 years working here, I am just now learning to be OK with that.