Don’t see Randy

“Whatever ya do, don’t see Randy” (or what’s-his-name), said a sweat-stained redneck with a giant beer-belly to a flaccid-skinned Harley-momma with arms the size of my legs.
“Randy is forbidden,” he said.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Harley-momma said. “I do as I please. Life without Randy would be no fun at all.”
Every late afternoon, before supper, I take our dog for a walk up the street.
That means Michael Prouty Park, often the site of a giant soccer-game, with bellowing coaches and squealing teenyboppers.
Often it’s just me and the dog and any bunny-rabbits she might see.
Our dog is a hunter. She’s already dispatched at least eight bunny-rabbits in the two years we’ve had her.
Other times it’s kids shooting baskets on the macadam basketball court, or grad parties in the pavilion.
Once I passed a cub-scout pack in the pavilion giving the wolf-howl.
“I’ll call,” said redneck, as he climbed into his maroon sky-high 4-by-4 Dodge Ram pickup.
“And if I get the tax-bill, I ain’t payin’.”
Little children at picnic tables made snide remarks. I guess redneck was their father.
And Harley-momma, divorced, their mother.
“Did I miss something?” I thought to myself.
Over 42 years of marriage I never heard talk like this.
Pot-shots and intimidation.
My sister in south Florida implies I’m inexperienced, having been only married once.
My sister is on her fourth marriage, although thankfully her last. She did pretty good this time.
“I don’t have no Internet,” Harley-momma said. “Send me an e-mail and it will bounce.”
It was pushing eight o’clock. The sun was setting.

• “Michael Prouty Park” is a town park near where we live. The land for it was donated by the Prouty family in honor of their deceased son (“Michael”) who used to play in that area. —It is mostly athletic fields, but has an open picnic pavilion. It’s maintained by the town. I walk our dog to and around it.
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.)