Growing up, I lived in a small town that rarely shows up on most maps, called Luverne in Southern Alabama.  Luverne is like all small towns, where everybody knew everybody’s mama, grandmamma, and great-grandmamma.  Like most small towns in the south, Luverne was laid out so that even the simple could find their way to Main Street. 
Not many residential home were in or around the town’s center, but the two or three that were had been passed down from generation to generation; these houses had been built some time near the date believed to be Luverne’s birthday.  In one of these ancient homes lived Ernest Broderick. 
Ernest Broderick was dreadful ingrate and a cantankerous 63 year old retiree, who lived in his house all by himself.  There were few things in the world Ernest cold enjoy in his old age.  They were: complaining, shouting at his television set, drinking beer, going around his house in a ratty old undershirt and boxer shorts, and making as many people as he could in town as miserable and as irritated as possible.  If the people who lived in Luverne had it their way, they would completely ignore him and would avoid passing in front of his house when walking to and from Main Street.  But the people of Luverne did not have it their way, and could not avoid walking past the Broderick property on their way into town.  Most people had somehow foolishly convinced themselves that if they ignored the old man, they could avoid what was sure to ban unpalatable experience, and they obstinately refused to see reason. 
Ernest would indolently sit outside in a lawn chair with an ice-cold Budweiser, and mumble to the only companion he found tolerable, a golden retriever named Laney.  Most of the adults in town treated Ernest with thinly-veiled disdain, hidden behind the good southerly manners that had been impressed upon them as children by their parents.  Ernest however seemed to have been taught different manners than everyone else.  He could often be seen in clothes that could barely be considered fit, wearable or appropriate; he cussed worse than the Devil in a blizzard, or Sisyphus pushing his rock up that hill of his in Hades for all eternity.  And of course whenever the city council members attempted to tell him to clean up and put some pants on, or to be wary of the children who copied his language and behavior; he feigned severe hearing loss, and obdurately insisted that he couldn’t hear them well enough to understand what was being said.  All the while haughtily complaining that he didn’t pay taxes just so the city council could imperiously throw their weight around. 
All of the fractious preteens enjoyed playing pranks and taunting Ernest in ways that couldn’t get them in trouble with anyone besides Ernest.  And poor, irascible Ernest could only sit there seething with malice and glower at the repugnant preteens. 
As the preteens grew older, their pranks and taunts sometimes strayed from the beaten path, and the Luverne police would get involved.  Usually, when this happened, Ernest would complain that the police were biased.  He claimed that the police force was made up of homegrown officers, and that it was unable to dole out the justice that his case deserved because they had done something similar in their own youth.  Although unable to find any substantial evidence, his claims stayed exactly that: claims and accusations made by a possibly mentally addled and angry old man. 
I haven’t gone home in a while, my last visit being two years ago at Christmas time.  So, I don’t know how Ernest is doing now.  Last I heard, Ernest was still alive and kicking.  He probably doesn’t have to pretend to be deaf when the Luverne city council comes around now.  I truly do hope that the kids who are currently running the Luverne streets have lightened up some on Ernest, because only the great Lord knows how much the kids, both past and present, will miss him once he’s gone.  As insolent as he is, he’s made the childhoods of countless kids worth remembering.