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."