The Holy Grunt for Jesus
Between Auburn, Al and Fort Worth, TX.
Things are going well and after a night's sleep in the cozy rested arms of an open Alabaman window I wake at 6, kiss the sister goodbye and fire up the Oldsmobile. I'd never been on HWY 80 before, not to be confused with I-80. The two-lane road took me through Montgomery, across lower Mississippi, on to I-20, into Dallas/Ft.Worth.
Gallion, AL, Somewhere between Selma and Demopolis.
Somewhere south the Mason Dixon line I'd promised myself a true southern breakfast. Not a Waffle House, off the Highway, but some small back woods mom and pop, if I could find it. So while crooning along to the 'O Brother Where Art Thou' soundtrack, feeling every bit a Yankee cliché I warned myself of I spot the breakfast shack I'd hoped for.
Let it be known that though I cannot always foresee idiotic moments in my life, sometimes setting myself up for one is all that gets me through the day. I am wearing a flashy new "I *heart* NY" T-shirt, my birds are flapping off my arms, comfy blue baggy pants and a Costa Rica knit skully. I look like I should be sitting in a car all day cautiously NOT interacting with the rest of the world, yeah, I am one road weary, sexy bitch walking into Dorothy’s Kountry Kitchen. I am walking into Deep South Alabama, gee this is really different being outside the car, and I have no idea where I am, so I switch on observation mode.
Breakfast Special $2.75
Two eggs, scrambled, grits, white toast, and sausage.
Sit, wait for food.
Handwritten signs posted a code of conduct.
No use of profanity is allowed in this establishment all violators will be asked to leave. No loud talking.
There are bars on the windows, I notice now, and the walls are plywood, four feet high, then plaster, with four Deer trophies and plaques boasting about the kills, the TV is on behind my head. The long drawn out morning conversations are blending between two groups of people. I cannot make out a word of it, dialect or content. The cook calls me by the only name he knows, "Hey, I love New York, your orders up." I rise to get my food, a large Styrofoam cup of coffee and his smile. The food is all stained, butter yellow, separated by ingenious Styrofoam dykes in the plate, it all tastes pretty good. The theme to Superman raises the eyebrows of an old man sitting in the corner enjoying his cigarette, which is attached to one of those fancy holders.
Superman.
This seemed like a joke and fun until I walked in here. Superman, where the fuck is he? The cook, the two conversations, everything stopped and we were all watching Superman save New York.