Pledge of Allegiance, a picture of a winged Jesus ushering along two kids who belonged in a Little Rascals film, and the obligatory waterfall lithograph. The clincher: small, white, hexagonal floor tiles. Two old men, carrying their arms folded behind, stopped to greet each other with a light, feminine touching of fingertips, a gesture showing the duration of their friendship. I went in happy.
I expected a grandmother, wiping her hands on a gingham apron, to come from the kitchen. Instead I got Brenda. Young, sullen, pink uniform, bottlecaps for eyes, handling her pad the way a cop does his citation book. The menu said all breakfasts came with grits, toast, and preserves. I ordered a breakfast of two eggs over easy. “Is that all you want?”
“Doesn’t it come with grits and so forth?”
“Does if you ast fort.”
“I want the complete, whole thing. Top to bottom.”
She snapped the pad closed. I waited. I read the rest of the menu, the Gettysburg Address, made a quick run over the Pledge of Allegiance, read about famous American women on four sugar packets, read a matchbook and the imprints on the flatware. I was counting grains of rice in the saltshaker (this
was
the South), when Brenda pushed a breakfast at me, the check slick with margarine and propped between slices of toast. The food was good and the sense of the place fine, but Brenda was destined for an interstate run-em-thru. Early in life she had developed the ability to make a customer wish he’d thrown up on himself rather than disturb her.
Highway 34 out of Darlington ran past a rummage of steel and concrete where the Rebel 500 stockcar race would be held in a week. I stopped and asked a man leaning on a rake if I could look at the track. He told me how to get in. To be honest, I had little interest in an arena where men with a single talent—driving a car fast—performed. I was just looking into things. The immense asphalt oval lay baking in the quiet heat, and I walked around. Hmmm. When I came back out the man at the rake said, “That your honeywagon?”
“That’s my truck.”
“I spect you can stack the ladies in there like cut cordwood.” He became animated, and his eyes opened and closed alternately like an old-time two-bulb blinker stoplight. He was a homely man and the blinking didn’t help.
“Haven’t done any stacking,” I said. “Been moving along.”
“Travelin’ alone! Ever ascared alone?” I shrugged. “Me, I ain’t never ascared,” he said. “Looky here.” From his left breast pocket, he took a worn bullet: a .22 long rifle. “I carried a live forty-five round in the war and never got shot by friend or foe. Always carry me a round over my heart, and ain’t never ascared because I know when I die it’s agonna be from this. And quick. Lord’ll see to that—when it’s my time.”
“You mean you’ll put it in a gun and shoot yourself?”
“It’s a sin to do that, ain’t it now?” He waited for an answer.
“I’ve heard that’s the case.”
“Nope, this here little lady will go off by herself some way or t’other. When it’s my time. Won’t know it neither.”
“What if it goes off by accident before it’s your time?”
“You ain’t alistenin’. Ain’t no accidents in the Lord’s Plan. When she pops off, my ticket’s agettin’ punched. Oughter get yourself one. They make a man right peaceful.”
The sun was like slaps on the neck. Maybe I should have talked longer to that fatalist who made sure he remained a fatalist, but I yielded to the heat. On the road again, I wondered whether there were times when he didn’t put the bullet in his pocket, days he didn’t feel up to the extra risk. Sooner or later, a man carries the seeds of his destruction with him, but I’d never seen a seed like that one.
Dusty little clouds went puffing over powdery tobacco fields in the hot wind, the pine needles looked dry and bleached, and the buds in the deciduous trees afforded no shade. A horse stood
I expected a grandmother, wiping her hands on a gingham apron, to come from the kitchen. Instead I got Brenda. Young, sullen, pink uniform, bottlecaps for eyes, handling her pad the way a cop does his citation book. The menu said all breakfasts came with grits, toast, and preserves. I ordered a breakfast of two eggs over easy. “Is that all you want?”
“Doesn’t it come with grits and so forth?”
“Does if you ast fort.”
“I want the complete, whole thing. Top to bottom.”
She snapped the pad closed. I waited. I read the rest of the menu, the Gettysburg Address, made a quick run over the Pledge of Allegiance, read about famous American women on four sugar packets, read a matchbook and the imprints on the flatware. I was counting grains of rice in the saltshaker (this
was
the South), when Brenda pushed a breakfast at me, the check slick with margarine and propped between slices of toast. The food was good and the sense of the place fine, but Brenda was destined for an interstate run-em-thru. Early in life she had developed the ability to make a customer wish he’d thrown up on himself rather than disturb her.
Highway 34 out of Darlington ran past a rummage of steel and concrete where the Rebel 500 stockcar race would be held in a week. I stopped and asked a man leaning on a rake if I could look at the track. He told me how to get in. To be honest, I had little interest in an arena where men with a single talent—driving a car fast—performed. I was just looking into things. The immense asphalt oval lay baking in the quiet heat, and I walked around. Hmmm. When I came back out the man at the rake said, “That your honeywagon?”
“That’s my truck.”
“I spect you can stack the ladies in there like cut cordwood.” He became animated, and his eyes opened and closed alternately like an old-time two-bulb blinker stoplight. He was a homely man and the blinking didn’t help.
“Haven’t done any stacking,” I said. “Been moving along.”
“Travelin’ alone! Ever ascared alone?” I shrugged. “Me, I ain’t never ascared,” he said. “Looky here.” From his left breast pocket, he took a worn bullet: a .22 long rifle. “I carried a live forty-five round in the war and never got shot by friend or foe. Always carry me a round over my heart, and ain’t never ascared because I know when I die it’s agonna be from this. And quick. Lord’ll see to that—when it’s my time.”
“You mean you’ll put it in a gun and shoot yourself?”
“It’s a sin to do that, ain’t it now?” He waited for an answer.
“I’ve heard that’s the case.”
“Nope, this here little lady will go off by herself some way or t’other. When it’s my time. Won’t know it neither.”
“What if it goes off by accident before it’s your time?”
“You ain’t alistenin’. Ain’t no accidents in the Lord’s Plan. When she pops off, my ticket’s agettin’ punched. Oughter get yourself one. They make a man right peaceful.”
The sun was like slaps on the neck. Maybe I should have talked longer to that fatalist who made sure he remained a fatalist, but I yielded to the heat. On the road again, I wondered whether there were times when he didn’t put the bullet in his pocket, days he didn’t feel up to the extra risk. Sooner or later, a man carries the seeds of his destruction with him, but I’d never seen a seed like that one.
Dusty little clouds went puffing over powdery tobacco fields in the hot wind, the pine needles looked dry and bleached, and the buds in the deciduous trees afforded no shade. A horse stood
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