One of the great things about my new job is that I get to travel occasionally throughout Alabama. Monday night I had the privilege of attending a county commission meeting in Chatom. If you've never heard of Chatom, don't feel bad. I've lived in Alabama most of my life and I hadn't either until I had to go there.
Chatom is a nice little south Alabama town. Live oaks around the courthouse square, couple of gas stations, one traffic light. About two hundred people attended the meeting, and I suspect everyone knew everyone else there but me. I was prepared to speak if necessary, but thankfully I didn't have to. I'm sure the words of a stranger from North Alabama would have been received with all the credibility of a hippie at a Young Republican rally.
The meeting adjourned too late to drive all the way back home, so I decided to spend the night in one of my favorite little towns. Monroeville is a place I try to stop every time I get the chance. So many great writers have spent time there: Harper Lee, Capote, Rheta Grimsley-Johnson. I visit in hope that the secret of being able to arrange words on paper so beautifully might somehow be able to be "caught" there, like a cold or the flu. I always take deep breaths and drink plenty of water. A man can always hope.
I ate breakfast at the Monroeville Huddle House the next morning. As a true Southerner, I prefer the Waffle House, but sometimes you have to settle for what is available. Waffles are waffles, after all. The Gospel at the Methodist church should be the same as that at the Baptist church, and whether you are sprinkled or dunked, you leave just as baptized. You're just a little wetter in the latter case.
The Huddle House is a blue collar establishment. I arrive thirty minutes after sun rise, so most of the real working folks are long gone. Farmers, loggers, and truck drivers won't be caught lolly gagging over coffee at that late hour. There are only a few patrons still present: Mike (I know that from the name patch on his uniform shirt), an elderly couple, and a middle-aged supervisor from the cement factory who bears a striking resemblance to the late Country Music star Conway Twitty.
Conway talks on his cell phone in a voice so loud that we all know his business. At first I think he's rude, but then I realize that he's probably lost a lot of his hearing from years spent working around noisy equipment. He is not happy this morning. "You tell that sumbitch to bring my mixer back today. That'll be the last time I loan him anything, you can bet on that." He finishes his call and turns to the old couple seated at the next table. They obviously know each other. "How's my brother? Oh, he's fine. He's been beat, cut, shot, and stabbed over the years, but he's doing pretty good at the moment." They share a laugh.
My waitress is young and pretty and more than just a little bit pregnant. She eats her own breakfast at the counter while constantly glancing over to make sure my coffee cup stays full. She asks "Is everything alright?" several times, as if I might somehow be displeased with a simple waffle.
As I eat, I ponder her future. I wonder how she will be able to afford the medical bills she will soon incur on a Huddle House salary and tips. I consider the politics of her situation. The Right would no doubt say she should wait until she could afford it before having a baby. The Left would say that we should all pay for her medical bills.
I say nothing. I leave a ten dollar tip for a four dollar breakfast.
I'm hoping for a healthy little girl with a pretty smile like her mother.
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