You ever been to see The Pixies? It’s a very tense, very dangerous, very loud show. You gotta keep your eye on Black Francis. He might sneak up on you in the crowd and start pounding on ya.
But you got kids now who could give a damn about The Pixies. They sneer at most everything that’s not in their confined music radar. Sound familiar? I got these two sons, and one’s metal and one’s pop. I got the Slayer in one ear, Katy Perry in the other. I took ‘em aside one night and said, listen, here’s Johnny Cash and here’s Iggy Pop and I want you to understand them both.
And I left the room and they went to YouTube and found Motorhead and Flyleaf. It’s a G-minor frustration loaded into a phaser pedal, but I got all my old CDs and the albums I want to burn onto CDs, and I’ve got my mom’s old Platters tape to remind me about how it is to listen to whatever the hell you want to listen to when you’re growing up.
People hated Buddy Holly and they hated Dizzy Gillespie. And Frank Black screams during “Gouge Away” so loud you can feel it for days. And Kim Deal screams so off pitch you almost go back in time.
I saw Peter Murphy once and he complained so much I almost went out and bought a Garth Brooks album. At the Jesus and Mary Chain show, there was so much smoke from dry ice I couldn’t see the band. It coulda be anybody. And I saw Muse and they were so good I almost died on the spot.
Last night I went to a metal show with all these kids and their parents (including me!) and this one dude from a guitar shop was there, mentoring a student, and I wanted to punch him because he sells these guitars so overpriced that none of these kids can buy them. But there he was all Billy Squier and he had this look on his face like he’d invented boredom. Maybe he had these little guitars in his pockets he wanted to sell for $15,000, but nobody had any money.
I saw the Doobie Brothers when I was 13 and my older brother was getting high and I was freaking out, and it was so goddamn lame. I saw Willie Nelson and it was like being up near God. He had the most beautiful, pure sound from his guitar that I’ve ever heard. It’s so much better in person, it’s almost not real.
At the Violent Femmes show it was actually Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians and that was the most depressing thing ever. Then I took my son to see the Femmes (his first show!) and Gordon Gano was so short it was funny. But “Country Death Song” just killed. And when they played “Children of the Revolution” I wondered what the people thought when they first hear Marc Bolan play that song.
Joey Santiago comes at you like a wall of sound, a real wall of sound, not that Phil Spector wall of sound that you hear about but can’t figure out what it is, if it’s real or not. (It’s not real.) Santiago sears this noise into your brain, and if you’re my age, you feel 1989 all over again. And Frank Black is screaming and Kim Deal is screaming, and your soul is gone to heaven.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Floating the Moon
I first met Marvin “Dutch” Horton at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in December. (Full disclosure: Dutch is his real nickname, but his first and last names are otherwise.) Dutch is older than me, early 50s, and his experience is one of the toughest I’ve ever heard. Here is his story’s beginning, as he told it to me this past Monday night.
Interview 1:
Dutch: You on?
Me: All plugged in and ready to go. Begin anywhere you want to.
Dutch: My grandma named me “Dutch.” As a boy, I played all about the yard around my daddy’s farm, and his mamma lived with us. I always was doing things in the ditches: floating paper boats, plastic toy battleships, playing cards, those old-timey wooden blocks, Legos, rubber balls, my sister’s dolls, everything you could think of. And I said “ditch” wrong, so my grandma called me Dutch.
(Dutch rolls up one of his sleeves a little bit and fusses that we can’t smoke in this restaurant. He says we’ll go outside in a few minutes so he can smoke. That’s fine with me, because I smoke, too. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and he’s shaved clean, missing the Vandyck I’ve known him to wear every since that first AA meet-up. He even smells like cologne.)
Dutch: My daddy was a drinker, and so was my grandma. And all my uncles and my aunt on my daddy’s side. Momma drank wine on occasion, but I never saw her drunk. My sister’s a year older than me and she gave me my first drink. A shot of Southern Comfort from my grandma’s bottles. (Dutch laughs and picks nervously at the wart on his chin he says is a byproduct of nearly 40 years of alcoholism.) My sister drank it before Janis Joplin did.
Me: How did you like it?
Dutch: It was sweet and nasty. We drank two coffee mugs each, and I went into the woods with the dogs and stayed for hours. Nobody thought anything of it. I was always in the woods with the dogs. That’s what 12-year-old boys were expected to do.
Me: Are you comfortable? Want to go outside now?
Dutch: (Shakes his head.) Let’s do another few minutes. I’m fine. I’ve lost the shakes, so I can shave, see? It’s the first time I’ve been clean-shaven since the ‘80s. How ‘bout that? I done spent half my life lookin’ like that old TV mountain man. Damn, what’s his name?
Me: Grizzly Adams.
Dutch: Yeah, yeah. Good old Grizzly Adams.
Me: Dan Haggerty. He was the actor …
Dutch: Gotcha, slick. But you know, I hate the goddamned mountains. I’ve been up there three or four times, and it always wound up miserable for me.
Me: How so?
Dutch: Doesn’t matter. Most places ended up miserable for me. That’s why I live in the motorhome. Nobody’s wants to live with me, nobody wants to live near me. I can understand that. That’s understandable. I was wild. Like an animal. Like a dog. It’s just lucky for me I’m still here, you know? Damn lucky. I coulda ended up like my daddy and my grandma.
Me: What happened to them, Dutch?
Dutch: My daddy drowned fishing in the sound. It’s 40 degrees in the air, and the water’s like 50, and he’s so pissed drunk he falls outta the boat. They said he didn’t even have any fish in the well, even though he’d been out all day fishing. But mostly drinking, I guess. My grandma killed herself. But that’s not to talk about this time.
Me: Weren’t you married?
Dutch: Yeah, yeah. Wanna get that cigarette now?
(It’s cool out, now just after sunset, and there’s nobody at the tables on the patio. Dutch suggests we sit out here for a while, for as long as we can, so we can keep the flow going. He flags down our waitress through the window and orders two coffees. You’d never guess that Dutch had lived the past two decades in a worn-out motorhome behind the house he grew up in, drinking up to a half-gallon of whiskey a day when he was really going. He’s said he never has liked beer. Drinking wine reminds him of his mother. He hasn’t talked to me about her yet, other than in passing. I’m hoping he’ll talk about her tonight.)
Dutch: Shit! I left my coat inside. Hell, I don’t need it. I’ve slept hundreds of nights outside when it was colder than this. (He laughs.) You said you never did that. Slick, you really missed something. Alcohol must keep the blood from freezing, that’s why you won’t die, but when them eyes crack open and your beard is frozen with spittle and whatever, you wish you’d had the veins ice up. That’s a situation I won’t miss one bit.
Me: How long have you been sober?
Dutch: This is 104 days. I quit right in-between Thanksgiving and Christmas. They say that’s the hardest time, that you shouldn’t even consider going sober during the holidays, but that’s crap. For me it’s like someone finding the Lord. It happens when it happens. So it’s like them saying you can’t find the Lord on Halloween or the Fourth of July, just because it’s a bad time of year. That’s just crap, slick.
(Our waitress brings the coffee, steaming, and Dutch tells her he takes sugar but no cream.)
Me. Has it been hard?
Dutch: No. I don’t know why it hasn’t been hard, but it just hasn’t been. When you’ve been ready to do something for so long, and you finally make up your mind to getting around doing it, the hard part is over. The deciding and thinking about it. It ain’t like giving birth or getting married. (He’s been married twice, one son.) You don’t have this date set that you get all ready for, get prepared for some each day until you’re about to explode with nerves. It’s just one day you’re a drunk and the next day you’re off to stopping being a drunk. For me, each day is like that first day quitting. Each day is like my first day stopping to be a drunk. I don’t know if there’s a second day. If there is, you tell me, alright, slick?
Me: You got it.
Dutch: I could tell you stories … you know, this friend of mine, in high school, told me once … I guess it was our junior year … that he’d drunk enough to float a battleship. He come all out and told me like he was the world’s most experienced, hardcore drunk. But you know what, slick? I could float the moon with all the alcohol I’ve drunk. I could lay that baby on its bottom right on top of a lake of bourbon and beer and it would float, pretty as a picture. My guess is the moon’s gotta be a million times bigger than a battleship. But that’s a regret, not a brag. I wish all I had to float was that dude’s battleship. Oh well, woulda, shoulda, coulda, right?
Me: Will you ever start drinking again?
Dutch: Sure I will. Even if I don’t ever take a sip again, I keep thinking my next drunk is just around the corner. An hour away. That the night I start floating that moon again is this night, the one that’s coming up. That’s one of the first things I tell myself when I get up. Dutch, you’re gonna get back to drinking again tonight. What that does is pisses me off and I make all my plans for the day around staying sober. From how I’ll lay my cereal spoon next to my bowl, to how long I’ll blink my signal light when I’m turning in for the AA meeting at the church. I’ve don’t that 104 times. So far, so good.
Me: Your coffee is getting cold, Dutch.
Dutch: Damn if it ain’t! I think she gave me your cream even though I told her it was for you. (He pushes the two tiny cream containers across the table and sniffs at the rising vapors from his mug, smiling so that I can see the missing teeth. He raises his mug up.) Here’s to me and you, slick, and Day 105. How many is it for you?
Me: Tomorrow is 32.
Dutch: (His face becomes as soft as I’ve ever seen it, but he still looks tough.) Good for you. Here’s to 32, old O.J. Simpson’s number. Only thing is, slick, I’m not sure if we should be counting days that haven’t happened yet. I’ve never heard anybody say either way, to tell you the truth. Can’t be much harm in it, though. Here’s to jumping the gun, to that being the worst thing we do from here on out.
Interview 1:
Dutch: You on?
Me: All plugged in and ready to go. Begin anywhere you want to.
Dutch: My grandma named me “Dutch.” As a boy, I played all about the yard around my daddy’s farm, and his mamma lived with us. I always was doing things in the ditches: floating paper boats, plastic toy battleships, playing cards, those old-timey wooden blocks, Legos, rubber balls, my sister’s dolls, everything you could think of. And I said “ditch” wrong, so my grandma called me Dutch.
(Dutch rolls up one of his sleeves a little bit and fusses that we can’t smoke in this restaurant. He says we’ll go outside in a few minutes so he can smoke. That’s fine with me, because I smoke, too. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and he’s shaved clean, missing the Vandyck I’ve known him to wear every since that first AA meet-up. He even smells like cologne.)
Dutch: My daddy was a drinker, and so was my grandma. And all my uncles and my aunt on my daddy’s side. Momma drank wine on occasion, but I never saw her drunk. My sister’s a year older than me and she gave me my first drink. A shot of Southern Comfort from my grandma’s bottles. (Dutch laughs and picks nervously at the wart on his chin he says is a byproduct of nearly 40 years of alcoholism.) My sister drank it before Janis Joplin did.
Me: How did you like it?
Dutch: It was sweet and nasty. We drank two coffee mugs each, and I went into the woods with the dogs and stayed for hours. Nobody thought anything of it. I was always in the woods with the dogs. That’s what 12-year-old boys were expected to do.
Me: Are you comfortable? Want to go outside now?
Dutch: (Shakes his head.) Let’s do another few minutes. I’m fine. I’ve lost the shakes, so I can shave, see? It’s the first time I’ve been clean-shaven since the ‘80s. How ‘bout that? I done spent half my life lookin’ like that old TV mountain man. Damn, what’s his name?
Me: Grizzly Adams.
Dutch: Yeah, yeah. Good old Grizzly Adams.
Me: Dan Haggerty. He was the actor …
Dutch: Gotcha, slick. But you know, I hate the goddamned mountains. I’ve been up there three or four times, and it always wound up miserable for me.
Me: How so?
Dutch: Doesn’t matter. Most places ended up miserable for me. That’s why I live in the motorhome. Nobody’s wants to live with me, nobody wants to live near me. I can understand that. That’s understandable. I was wild. Like an animal. Like a dog. It’s just lucky for me I’m still here, you know? Damn lucky. I coulda ended up like my daddy and my grandma.
Me: What happened to them, Dutch?
Dutch: My daddy drowned fishing in the sound. It’s 40 degrees in the air, and the water’s like 50, and he’s so pissed drunk he falls outta the boat. They said he didn’t even have any fish in the well, even though he’d been out all day fishing. But mostly drinking, I guess. My grandma killed herself. But that’s not to talk about this time.
Me: Weren’t you married?
Dutch: Yeah, yeah. Wanna get that cigarette now?
(It’s cool out, now just after sunset, and there’s nobody at the tables on the patio. Dutch suggests we sit out here for a while, for as long as we can, so we can keep the flow going. He flags down our waitress through the window and orders two coffees. You’d never guess that Dutch had lived the past two decades in a worn-out motorhome behind the house he grew up in, drinking up to a half-gallon of whiskey a day when he was really going. He’s said he never has liked beer. Drinking wine reminds him of his mother. He hasn’t talked to me about her yet, other than in passing. I’m hoping he’ll talk about her tonight.)
Dutch: Shit! I left my coat inside. Hell, I don’t need it. I’ve slept hundreds of nights outside when it was colder than this. (He laughs.) You said you never did that. Slick, you really missed something. Alcohol must keep the blood from freezing, that’s why you won’t die, but when them eyes crack open and your beard is frozen with spittle and whatever, you wish you’d had the veins ice up. That’s a situation I won’t miss one bit.
Me: How long have you been sober?
Dutch: This is 104 days. I quit right in-between Thanksgiving and Christmas. They say that’s the hardest time, that you shouldn’t even consider going sober during the holidays, but that’s crap. For me it’s like someone finding the Lord. It happens when it happens. So it’s like them saying you can’t find the Lord on Halloween or the Fourth of July, just because it’s a bad time of year. That’s just crap, slick.
(Our waitress brings the coffee, steaming, and Dutch tells her he takes sugar but no cream.)
Me. Has it been hard?
Dutch: No. I don’t know why it hasn’t been hard, but it just hasn’t been. When you’ve been ready to do something for so long, and you finally make up your mind to getting around doing it, the hard part is over. The deciding and thinking about it. It ain’t like giving birth or getting married. (He’s been married twice, one son.) You don’t have this date set that you get all ready for, get prepared for some each day until you’re about to explode with nerves. It’s just one day you’re a drunk and the next day you’re off to stopping being a drunk. For me, each day is like that first day quitting. Each day is like my first day stopping to be a drunk. I don’t know if there’s a second day. If there is, you tell me, alright, slick?
Me: You got it.
Dutch: I could tell you stories … you know, this friend of mine, in high school, told me once … I guess it was our junior year … that he’d drunk enough to float a battleship. He come all out and told me like he was the world’s most experienced, hardcore drunk. But you know what, slick? I could float the moon with all the alcohol I’ve drunk. I could lay that baby on its bottom right on top of a lake of bourbon and beer and it would float, pretty as a picture. My guess is the moon’s gotta be a million times bigger than a battleship. But that’s a regret, not a brag. I wish all I had to float was that dude’s battleship. Oh well, woulda, shoulda, coulda, right?
Me: Will you ever start drinking again?
Dutch: Sure I will. Even if I don’t ever take a sip again, I keep thinking my next drunk is just around the corner. An hour away. That the night I start floating that moon again is this night, the one that’s coming up. That’s one of the first things I tell myself when I get up. Dutch, you’re gonna get back to drinking again tonight. What that does is pisses me off and I make all my plans for the day around staying sober. From how I’ll lay my cereal spoon next to my bowl, to how long I’ll blink my signal light when I’m turning in for the AA meeting at the church. I’ve don’t that 104 times. So far, so good.
Me: Your coffee is getting cold, Dutch.
Dutch: Damn if it ain’t! I think she gave me your cream even though I told her it was for you. (He pushes the two tiny cream containers across the table and sniffs at the rising vapors from his mug, smiling so that I can see the missing teeth. He raises his mug up.) Here’s to me and you, slick, and Day 105. How many is it for you?
Me: Tomorrow is 32.
Dutch: (His face becomes as soft as I’ve ever seen it, but he still looks tough.) Good for you. Here’s to 32, old O.J. Simpson’s number. Only thing is, slick, I’m not sure if we should be counting days that haven’t happened yet. I’ve never heard anybody say either way, to tell you the truth. Can’t be much harm in it, though. Here’s to jumping the gun, to that being the worst thing we do from here on out.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Leaving the Barn (an exerpt from "Matilda")
They were an older couple and they were looking for a hotel room. They had left their home near the coast because of the hurricane. Now it was the two of them and their Chihuahua, Mimi, scouring for Vacancy signs in Greenville.
“I’m not staying in a motel room,” Nolan snapped at Prudence.
There are 132 hotels and motels in Greenville, with a total of 1,183 rooms, and the Lopps (and dear Mimi) were getting shut out at every turn. They should take in pets considering everything, Prudence argued. The storm, Matilda, was going to breach close, and she wielded a history of ruin.
“My little baby won’t make no fuss,” Prudence huffed as Nolan peered through the streaked windshield, pulling right up to the lobby of an Econo Lodge. She knew right off he didn’t want to stay there. He was in no shape to drive on, either to Kinston or Rocky Mount. His nerves were shot.
Prudence darted out of the car, clasping her heirloom raincoat to her bosom. The heat surprised her every time. It was near midnight but the rain and wind had done nothing to dull the stifle from a searing August day. Her mother’s birthday was a day away, the 23rd. The lord rest her soul, Prudence was thinking as she stood at a counter and waited for the concierge to check the computer for cancellations.
CNN was scrawling about the storm’s hours-away landfall: the tidal surge, the rainfall amounts, threat of tornadoes, and why people should evacuate now if they haven’t already. She watched the yellow words stream through a black background and listened to canned music coming from somewhere overhead. Sarah Vaughan singing “Lush Life.”
“Two double beds OK?” the concierge said through enormously bucked teeth.
Prudence said it was, but said nothing this time about Mimi. She was tired of playing around with these people. If they didn’t get a room soon Nolan was going to blow.
Her husband laid on the bed, rubbing one old knee, as she scooted in with the last bags and Mimi. The dog was nestled in a duffle bag Prudence had bought online just that spring. It was too small for Mimi to sleep in, but Mimi was going to sleep on the spare bed.
“C’mere, sugar,” Nolan drawled. “We’re going to be alright.”
Prudence knew that was so. They’d be fine as long as the roof didn’t blow off the Econo Lodge and the Tar River didn’t flood like Revelations. What concerned her was the house they’d left behind, what they’d all long called “the barn.”
She hadn’t had time to do anything to protect the antiques. They hadn’t even boarded up any windows, which meant there were at least two pricey and irreplaceable buffets that could catch a soaking if the windows burst out.
“Watch out, baby,” she told Mimi as the dog hopped off the bed to follow Prudence to the bathroom mirror. Prudence looked at the fading makeup and wished she hadn’t even put any on. None of the riffraff working at these hotels could have cared if she’d had walked in with a Kabuki face on.
Her mother had always told Prudence that most folks don’t care what your face looks like, as long as it don’t look angry. A kindly smile goes a long way. A pretty face might get you in the door, mother’d said, but the smile keeps you inside.
Prudence cut on the TV and sat at Nolan’s feet, stroking Mimi in her lap. The local news was showing where Matilda was, and the storm looked like it was actually rearing back an arm, like an octopus arm, and was going to smack the coast with it.
“God help us,” Nolan moaned. “We might be here for days.”
“There might not be anything to go back to,” Prudence said, smiling as best she could down at the dog, then puckering her lips.
“We might lose everything,” Prudence announced, close to tears. “Everything my family’s ever had is back there, Nolan. And it could get smashed like a dollhouse, just ripped to pieces, before this is all over with.”
Nolan thought about that for a second. After all his years with the IRS he still tended to see material things in the form of dollars. It was all taxable value, and he’d already told her this. Them making it out safe was the important thing.
“It’s all insured very nicely,” he said, still trying to rub the pain from his knee. “I have the papers with us, Prudence.”
She nodded, but she was crying a little already.
“Anything could happen to it,” she sniffled. “Somebody could break in and steal it, for all we know.”
Mimi hopped down to run into the bathroom and have the first sip from the toilet. Typically, Prudence and Nolan didn’t tolerate this. The only time Nolan had ever spanked the little thing was when Mimi took a swig from a neighbor’s downstairs bathroom, during a visit that past Christmas. This time the owners didn’t even notice.
Nolan didn’t think thieves would be out during a hurricane, and he told Prudence so. Besides, he said, the Barn was six feet off the ground, so if the creek flooded it wouldn’t come in the house. And all the pecans were far enough away from the house to cause any worry.
“I don’t know,” Prudence countered, getting up to put away their clothes. The first thing she noticed was that the handles on the knee-high dressers were greasy. Normally this would have driven her up the walls. Now she just tucked their things into separate drawers without saying a word. She even put the two thin, little sweaters of Mimi’s into its own drawer. Her parents’ antique armoire was causing Prudence distress. It was 18th Century French as worth thousands. Prudence used to hide in it when she was little and playing with her sisters. Of course she’d mashed her fingers in its doors once, but it had always been a beloved piece.
“You know I ain’t one for being superstitious,” she said to Nolan, evenly, with precision, “but my grandmother always said to cover old furniture with clean sheets when you left home for more than one night.”
Nolan yelped softly as Mimi hopped onto him, nuzzling his chest with a damp nose. They were all suddenly started by a thump on the ceiling, but it didn’t repeat itself. Within a few seconds the muffled beats of rap music oozed into the room from above.
“Figures,” Nolan groused. “We’ll have to turn the TV up. This is why I didn’t want to stay in a cheap motel. This is exactly why.”
Prudence was looking at him as he stroked Mimi into a nap. She was worried about him, too. Nolan’s doctors said his shallow breathing of late could be sign of heart trouble. He was 72 and his father was already dead from a heart attack by that age. There was just a lot for her to worry about at the moment.
“I’m not staying in a motel room,” Nolan snapped at Prudence.
There are 132 hotels and motels in Greenville, with a total of 1,183 rooms, and the Lopps (and dear Mimi) were getting shut out at every turn. They should take in pets considering everything, Prudence argued. The storm, Matilda, was going to breach close, and she wielded a history of ruin.
“My little baby won’t make no fuss,” Prudence huffed as Nolan peered through the streaked windshield, pulling right up to the lobby of an Econo Lodge. She knew right off he didn’t want to stay there. He was in no shape to drive on, either to Kinston or Rocky Mount. His nerves were shot.
Prudence darted out of the car, clasping her heirloom raincoat to her bosom. The heat surprised her every time. It was near midnight but the rain and wind had done nothing to dull the stifle from a searing August day. Her mother’s birthday was a day away, the 23rd. The lord rest her soul, Prudence was thinking as she stood at a counter and waited for the concierge to check the computer for cancellations.
CNN was scrawling about the storm’s hours-away landfall: the tidal surge, the rainfall amounts, threat of tornadoes, and why people should evacuate now if they haven’t already. She watched the yellow words stream through a black background and listened to canned music coming from somewhere overhead. Sarah Vaughan singing “Lush Life.”
“Two double beds OK?” the concierge said through enormously bucked teeth.
Prudence said it was, but said nothing this time about Mimi. She was tired of playing around with these people. If they didn’t get a room soon Nolan was going to blow.
Her husband laid on the bed, rubbing one old knee, as she scooted in with the last bags and Mimi. The dog was nestled in a duffle bag Prudence had bought online just that spring. It was too small for Mimi to sleep in, but Mimi was going to sleep on the spare bed.
“C’mere, sugar,” Nolan drawled. “We’re going to be alright.”
Prudence knew that was so. They’d be fine as long as the roof didn’t blow off the Econo Lodge and the Tar River didn’t flood like Revelations. What concerned her was the house they’d left behind, what they’d all long called “the barn.”
She hadn’t had time to do anything to protect the antiques. They hadn’t even boarded up any windows, which meant there were at least two pricey and irreplaceable buffets that could catch a soaking if the windows burst out.
“Watch out, baby,” she told Mimi as the dog hopped off the bed to follow Prudence to the bathroom mirror. Prudence looked at the fading makeup and wished she hadn’t even put any on. None of the riffraff working at these hotels could have cared if she’d had walked in with a Kabuki face on.
Her mother had always told Prudence that most folks don’t care what your face looks like, as long as it don’t look angry. A kindly smile goes a long way. A pretty face might get you in the door, mother’d said, but the smile keeps you inside.
Prudence cut on the TV and sat at Nolan’s feet, stroking Mimi in her lap. The local news was showing where Matilda was, and the storm looked like it was actually rearing back an arm, like an octopus arm, and was going to smack the coast with it.
“God help us,” Nolan moaned. “We might be here for days.”
“There might not be anything to go back to,” Prudence said, smiling as best she could down at the dog, then puckering her lips.
“We might lose everything,” Prudence announced, close to tears. “Everything my family’s ever had is back there, Nolan. And it could get smashed like a dollhouse, just ripped to pieces, before this is all over with.”
Nolan thought about that for a second. After all his years with the IRS he still tended to see material things in the form of dollars. It was all taxable value, and he’d already told her this. Them making it out safe was the important thing.
“It’s all insured very nicely,” he said, still trying to rub the pain from his knee. “I have the papers with us, Prudence.”
She nodded, but she was crying a little already.
“Anything could happen to it,” she sniffled. “Somebody could break in and steal it, for all we know.”
Mimi hopped down to run into the bathroom and have the first sip from the toilet. Typically, Prudence and Nolan didn’t tolerate this. The only time Nolan had ever spanked the little thing was when Mimi took a swig from a neighbor’s downstairs bathroom, during a visit that past Christmas. This time the owners didn’t even notice.
Nolan didn’t think thieves would be out during a hurricane, and he told Prudence so. Besides, he said, the Barn was six feet off the ground, so if the creek flooded it wouldn’t come in the house. And all the pecans were far enough away from the house to cause any worry.
“I don’t know,” Prudence countered, getting up to put away their clothes. The first thing she noticed was that the handles on the knee-high dressers were greasy. Normally this would have driven her up the walls. Now she just tucked their things into separate drawers without saying a word. She even put the two thin, little sweaters of Mimi’s into its own drawer. Her parents’ antique armoire was causing Prudence distress. It was 18th Century French as worth thousands. Prudence used to hide in it when she was little and playing with her sisters. Of course she’d mashed her fingers in its doors once, but it had always been a beloved piece.
“You know I ain’t one for being superstitious,” she said to Nolan, evenly, with precision, “but my grandmother always said to cover old furniture with clean sheets when you left home for more than one night.”
Nolan yelped softly as Mimi hopped onto him, nuzzling his chest with a damp nose. They were all suddenly started by a thump on the ceiling, but it didn’t repeat itself. Within a few seconds the muffled beats of rap music oozed into the room from above.
“Figures,” Nolan groused. “We’ll have to turn the TV up. This is why I didn’t want to stay in a cheap motel. This is exactly why.”
Prudence was looking at him as he stroked Mimi into a nap. She was worried about him, too. Nolan’s doctors said his shallow breathing of late could be sign of heart trouble. He was 72 and his father was already dead from a heart attack by that age. There was just a lot for her to worry about at the moment.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Eating Southern
My grandmother never ate out much. Mamma would hit a Hardee's from time to time, and mostly the one she knew best: on that certain street in Clinton, North
Carolina.So I didn't really know her dining-out habits. But I grew up in the South when Hardee's and other chain restaurants were coming into vogue. I've always eaten out,
without giving it much thought. And almost always in the South.And the experiences vary. And I'm not talking about those chain eateries with the neon logos and laminated menus with professional photos of the entrees and
desserts. What I'm talking about is the mom and pop joint, the places where people dine with a purpose. The places where they go after church.
Eastern North Carolina is know for its vinegar-based pork barbecue. It should also be know for its picnic-quality eateries. Homespun cooking. The clientele that
isn't out for cuisine; they're out to eat and "catch up" with folks.They're used to paper napkins, an ice water and hush puppy kickoff to the meal, some silverware tucked in a waxpaper sleeve. It's even money on who's going to
get down to business pretty quick, and who's going to socialize for a half-hour before even ordering the first sweet tea.The person who waits on your table is most likely to be female, and there's no way to guess from the parking lot if she'll be old enough to be your daughter, your
mother, or your grandmother. You might even see a combination of all three working the dining room. If it's a guy, he's going to be young. (Note: the Parker's
Barbecue phenomenon in Eastern North Carolina seems only to hire younger fellas to wait tables. Nothing, as they say, is impossible.)
After you've given your order, it's time to look around (if you haven't already) and see who's in there along with you that you can talk about. The food you've
ordered is typically fried, so you've got a good 15 minutes to gossip, update tabs on folks, critique the other guests. This has always been the most uncomfortable
part for me. And I'm from the South. If you happen to make eye contact with a stranger, they're going to look away. That's because they were either talking about
you, or planning on talking about you. It's easy to feel left out in this situation when you're not a regular. Even if you look like them, talk like them, stroll around
with your hands in your pockets like they do, you're still not one of them unless they "know your folks."
The food isn't tricky. Fried chicken is always on the menu in the South. And fried fish. If there's barbecue, and there will be, it will go right along with the coleslaw
and potatoes (fried, stewed, or mashed) and green beans. On Sundays there will be an extra meat on the menu. (Another note: buffet-style joints will be
addressed later on.) Pies'll be served by the slice, and will always be touted as homemade. Only thing is, that could be somebody's "home" in Wisconsin, which is
actually a factory, but it's home to these pies.God help the vegetarians in the South. I hope they like potatoes, green beans, and pie.Double bless the folks who are dieting. They're stuck with potatoes and green beans.You'll also be given a double gift of breads. Both hush puppies and rolls. And there will be butter to put on the rolls. And the hush puppies. There's tabs of butter
flowing out the back doors of these places, so don't feel like you're being greedy with it. It's polite to have as many as you can.The tea also flows like there's no tomorrow. Try to order sweet, but unsweetened is OK. Coffee on the other hand is always a roll of the dice. If it's not breakfast
you're having (and we're not having it right now, as you can see), there's probably not going to be a pot on the burner. Southern folks drink tea after breakfast.
Maybe a cup of coffee in the afternoon, but definitely not at lunch. And if you are lucky enough to get your daughter/mother/grandmother waitress to fetch you a
cup, it's just going to be that one cup. Take all the butter you want, but there's something weird about you if you want more than one cup of coffee.
Now that you're done and you've had your pie, it's either time to talk or stare at folks some more, or beat a path out the door. You'll pay on the way out. They
don't take cash or credit at the table, stuffed into those big-billfold-sized leather flaps. The lady at the register wants to know how your meal was. She really does.
She'll have no way of knowing if you enjoyed your experience if you just tuck money or plastic into an impersonal billfold. Besides, they sell candy bars next to the
register.
Carolina.So I didn't really know her dining-out habits. But I grew up in the South when Hardee's and other chain restaurants were coming into vogue. I've always eaten out,
without giving it much thought. And almost always in the South.And the experiences vary. And I'm not talking about those chain eateries with the neon logos and laminated menus with professional photos of the entrees and
desserts. What I'm talking about is the mom and pop joint, the places where people dine with a purpose. The places where they go after church.
Eastern North Carolina is know for its vinegar-based pork barbecue. It should also be know for its picnic-quality eateries. Homespun cooking. The clientele that
isn't out for cuisine; they're out to eat and "catch up" with folks.They're used to paper napkins, an ice water and hush puppy kickoff to the meal, some silverware tucked in a waxpaper sleeve. It's even money on who's going to
get down to business pretty quick, and who's going to socialize for a half-hour before even ordering the first sweet tea.The person who waits on your table is most likely to be female, and there's no way to guess from the parking lot if she'll be old enough to be your daughter, your
mother, or your grandmother. You might even see a combination of all three working the dining room. If it's a guy, he's going to be young. (Note: the Parker's
Barbecue phenomenon in Eastern North Carolina seems only to hire younger fellas to wait tables. Nothing, as they say, is impossible.)
After you've given your order, it's time to look around (if you haven't already) and see who's in there along with you that you can talk about. The food you've
ordered is typically fried, so you've got a good 15 minutes to gossip, update tabs on folks, critique the other guests. This has always been the most uncomfortable
part for me. And I'm from the South. If you happen to make eye contact with a stranger, they're going to look away. That's because they were either talking about
you, or planning on talking about you. It's easy to feel left out in this situation when you're not a regular. Even if you look like them, talk like them, stroll around
with your hands in your pockets like they do, you're still not one of them unless they "know your folks."
The food isn't tricky. Fried chicken is always on the menu in the South. And fried fish. If there's barbecue, and there will be, it will go right along with the coleslaw
and potatoes (fried, stewed, or mashed) and green beans. On Sundays there will be an extra meat on the menu. (Another note: buffet-style joints will be
addressed later on.) Pies'll be served by the slice, and will always be touted as homemade. Only thing is, that could be somebody's "home" in Wisconsin, which is
actually a factory, but it's home to these pies.God help the vegetarians in the South. I hope they like potatoes, green beans, and pie.Double bless the folks who are dieting. They're stuck with potatoes and green beans.You'll also be given a double gift of breads. Both hush puppies and rolls. And there will be butter to put on the rolls. And the hush puppies. There's tabs of butter
flowing out the back doors of these places, so don't feel like you're being greedy with it. It's polite to have as many as you can.The tea also flows like there's no tomorrow. Try to order sweet, but unsweetened is OK. Coffee on the other hand is always a roll of the dice. If it's not breakfast
you're having (and we're not having it right now, as you can see), there's probably not going to be a pot on the burner. Southern folks drink tea after breakfast.
Maybe a cup of coffee in the afternoon, but definitely not at lunch. And if you are lucky enough to get your daughter/mother/grandmother waitress to fetch you a
cup, it's just going to be that one cup. Take all the butter you want, but there's something weird about you if you want more than one cup of coffee.
Now that you're done and you've had your pie, it's either time to talk or stare at folks some more, or beat a path out the door. You'll pay on the way out. They
don't take cash or credit at the table, stuffed into those big-billfold-sized leather flaps. The lady at the register wants to know how your meal was. She really does.
She'll have no way of knowing if you enjoyed your experience if you just tuck money or plastic into an impersonal billfold. Besides, they sell candy bars next to the
register.
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