Once or twice, me and my chonies have gotten theatrical

Chonies.

It’s one of my favorite words I learned here in The Great American Southwest.

It’s a colloquialism for underwear.

I mean, call underwear what everyone else everywhere else does and it’s pretty plain: Underwear, tighty whities, stuff like that.

Chonies? That gives underwear character, that gives underwear soul.

One may give chonies even more character, even more soul by using them theatrically.

I need to explain this.

A couple of times in my life I have walked out of my domicile wearing just my chonies, to get attention, make a point.

No shirt, nothing on my feet, just my chonies and my messed up hair, when I had hair.

The first time was 1989 in Albuquerque when I lived in my groovy studio apartment in an old motel off Central Avenue between Tramway and Juan Tabo.

I worked second-shift construction, getting off work at 1 a.m. in Belen then commuting back to the Duke City.

I reckon I typically got to sleep around 3 a.m.

Somebody in an apartment below me started getting a ride to work at 5 a.m.

And the dude’s ride announced his presence by blowing his horn.

The third morning it happened I flung off my covers, flung open the door of my groovy pad and went downstairs in my bed-head hair, bare feet and chonies.

I wasn’t going to yell or threaten, me and my chonies were going theatrical.

I ambled over to the car, put on my best toothy grin and raised my hand in an open-palmed greeting of peace.

“Morning amigo!” I said in my loud voice.

The dude turned his head and stared at me with open mouth.

“Hey, I work nights and get to sleep around 3. Could you knock at your buddy’s door instead of beeping? That’d be great,” I said.

The dude just nodded his head up and down slowly.

There weren’t any more 5 a.m. beepings after that.

The next time me and my chonies got theatrical was on Clovis’ north side some years ago.

I had a neighbor who enjoyed parties, tied-up barking dogs and shooting off fireworks no matter the season.

One night I had had enough of the fireworks.

It was just a few days before the Fourth of July and the past few nights it sounded like a war zone next door.

It was 3 a.m. and I was sitting up in bed.

“Call the cops,” The Lady of the House said.

“Nope, ‘cos they’ll just get back to it after the cops leave. I’m gonna do the man to man thing. I have a hunch that might get more attention, especially if I go out in my chonies,” I said.

I stepped out of the house in the dark and emerged in to the neighbor’s lights a few steps later with a toothy grin, hand raised in a gesture of peace, bare feet and chonies.

There were probably a dozen people in front of the house.

They went quiet.

“Dudes. Really? It’s 3 a.m. I have to get up at 5, come on,” I said.

There was quiet.

“Sure man, we’ll stop,” one said.

“Thank you,” I said.

I turned around, went back to my house and back to bed.

And I didn’t even get a goat-head sticker in my bare feet.

Grant McGee writes for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact him:

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