This week, I drove through Maryland, Virginia, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. Most of it was pretty much what you'd expect of the South. Especially Virginia, and there were 400 miles of it.
But Alabama always offers up several moments of "what the hell is that doing here?" For instance, we stopped at a rural gas station that was typical in every way except that they sold Citrus Altoids at the checkstand. I know that seems like a small thing, but if you asked for Citrus Altoids at an Exxon in Middle of Nowhere, Mississippi, you'd get a look.
Or like the time I pulled into another gas station at the end of some Alabama offramp. No-name place with a gravel parking lot, portable sign out front advertising Bud tall boys for a dollar. A bank across the street, no other businesses or even buildings in view, just woods. We go in. Guy behind the counter is on the phone, loudly discussing the whooping of somebody's ass. My friend Martin checks out the beer cooler. He says they have quite a selection. I say, sure, Bud and Bud Lite. He assures me he is serious. I go over, and there's Harp, Guinness, Dos Equis, Negra Modelo, and so on. Then we're drinking our Harps in the parking lot, and a lady pulls up in a red Mercedes convertible with a brindle Great Dane in the passenger seat.
Except for this lady, her car, her dog, and the fancy beer, there's absolutely nothing else in sight that says "money." Well, except for the bank. Everything else about the place says you are nowhere, there is nothing here, there is no one here who is not completely out of luck.
So this time, we're in Fort Payne, Alabama, some distance from the the town of Gadsden, where incidentally you can order Chinese delivery until 11 PM. We stop at a Cracker Barrel, which chain restaurant my wife insists on visiting because she has never been to one. Let me tell you that the name is appropos. Inside is a critical mass of rural caucasian persons, or crackers, and a shop selling cutesy cracker crafts. We are seated by a woman who is basically Flo from Alice. So far, so good. But then this Uma Thurman type walks up-- burgundy overdyed hair, copper lipstick-- and announces in an Eastern European accent that she is our server, Olga. In the course of small talk we discover she's from Ukraine and (sideways look) may not stay in Alabama for good.
Now what the hell is Olga doing here in the first place? If we saw her in a Denny's in Tuscaloosa, we'd say fine, she's an art student. But there's no university in Fort Payne. Even if there was, who comes from Ukraine to attend the University of Fort Payne? And she's not what you'd call peasant stock. Look at her hair and her lipstick. Her in a Cracker Barrel waitress uniform is like a Mies house with a porch swing.
We still wonder how Olga wound up serving bacon and grits to busloads of honkies in rural Alabama. Our hearts went out to her. Maybe we remembered what it was like to feel out of place. Or maybe she was just a cute chick at a truck stop. I don't know, because after 1200 miles behind the wheel, I have no serotonin left.
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What others say about boorite!
Porch swing 