You never know who's going to turn up at The Trailer. Sometimes even after you've been there, and everyone's turned up, and done their thing and said their piece, and left again, you still don't know.

Rockford of course is always there – except of course when he's not, but that's not very often. The Trailer is where he lives. It sits beside the road about 10 miles north of Goffs, surrounded by a clutter of half wrecked cars, old refrigerators, junked computers, soiled diapers, scratched CDs, wooden nickels, gift horses with no teeth, Greeks who've lost their gifts, and other assorted flotsam, jetsam, toe jam, and who-knows-what-kind-of-jam. The whole mass is slowly rotting into a homogeneous mess, sinking into the desert soil under the weight of its accumulated mass.

In the midst of this detritus Rockford has built a sunshade of 4x4s, with a roof of green fiberglass panels. His disreputable recliner sits under the chair, and next to it a cooler filled with ice which would not dare to melt in the heat, and in the ice dozens of cans of Coke. He pulled a can from the cooler, popped the top with a finger the size of a bratwurst, and guzzled the can in three swallows. Then, as is his invariable custom, he tossed the can over his shoulder, where it landed with a clang somewhere in the wreckage in back of the chair. There were other cans lying helter skelter among the broken appliances and scrawny cactus.

At this particular moment Rockford Files was not alone. There was a circle of chairs around him, under the sunshade, and in the chairs was a motley collection of, well, motleys. Across from him was a character in bib overhauls, hayseeds in his hair and a stalk of hay in the corner of his mouth. This character wore mud-crusted clodhoppers and a plaid shirt that bore the stains of mule sweat, farm dirt, poached watermelons, and chicken ... stuff. He looked at Rockford and spoke in an accent that sounded exactly like Tennessee looks. "If'n y'all don' wan' that thur can, cain't y'all resahkle it somewhurs?"

To Rockford's left was a man who everyone would have thought was imitating Rockford, except they knew that was a capital offense in every civilized country and would upset Rockford besides. He had on a 10-gallon hat, and boots, and spurs, and cow flop, and chaps, and Levi's, and tobacco juice – not necessarily in that order. He replied to the hillbilly's question. "Shoot, podner, what yu wanna mess up a perfec'ly good junk heap fo'?"

Rock turned to his right, awaiting the third visitor's response. This guy had grease in his slicked back hair, and a short sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up a couple of turns, and straight leg jeans, and engineer boots. His accent was pure Oklahoma. "Ah think we oughta let Mr. Fahls settle this 'un. Aftah all, it's his place."

They all with one accordion looked at Rockford. He couldn't figure out what they were doing with an accordion, but never mind that. They were looking at a man who was about 6'9", and about 300 pounds, and about as broad as the Mississippi River, and about as tough as Chesty Puller, Bill Halsey, and George Patton rolled into one. He had on a 25 gallon hat, and Levi's, and boots that had gotten their heels rundown at the Little Bighorn, and a shirt that King Kong had discarded because it was too big for him; it fit Rockford perfectly.

Rockford looked at the Okie. "When you call me that, smile." He shook his head. "Wrong book, there. Sorry 'bout that." He grabbed another Coke, popped the top, drank it down, and tossed the can. "I figure it this way – and anyone wants to figure it different, start runnin' now, an' I'll give you about a 24 hour head start. Maybe your body ought to start too. Anyway," he continued, glaring at himself for interrupting, "I figure it's my place, and my Coke, and my cans, and I'll do what I want with it. After all, the EPA said they weren't about to touch this place with a billion dollar pole."

The invisible observer who's reporting all this thought to himself, "It would take a supernova, not the EPA, to clean this up."

Rockford started upright in his chair. "Who's thinking while I'm not?"

The observer figured that the answer was, "Everyone – all the time," but didn't dare say it.

"I didn't hear that!" shouted Rockford.

"Of course y'all didn'," said the hillbilly. "They warn't nuthin' t' hear."

Rockford leaned back in his chair. "Yeah. Right. Nothin' to hear. Yeah. I got it now."

No one could figure out why they called it the Good Ol' Boys Society. None of them were good, none of them were old, all of them were men rather than boys, and whatever the gathering was it was certainly not society. But we'll refrain from telling them that. What they don't know won't hurt us.