yellow trash pity party

My last night down in North Carolina, and still no barbecue. My coworkers try to convince me to dine with them, as they are being taken out by a high level partner, but I refuse. A girl’s gotta have some standards.


After the cab driver drops them off downtown, I ask him to drive us to a barbecue restaurant that the hotel has recommended, the Old Smokehouse.

It looks disappointingly suburban, as though someone has just painted the roof of a Pizza Hut a dull khaki and slapped a neon sign of a pig in the window. Mysteriously, the petite, sixtyish woman serving me speaks with a slight accent, but not a Southern accent. It is...unidentifiable.
They are out of collard greens and lima beans, so I settle for fried squash and beet salad with my takeout order of barbecue: sliced beef and minced pork. I also order a side of hush puppies, a slice of pecan pie, and my favorite item of the evening: a can of Miller Lite.

The small woman whispers to another, equally small, foreign woman:

"Can she order beer to go?"

"Sure! Just don't open it."

Miller Lite, in a white paper bag. I have arrived.

Some other customers pay, and I hear one say to the woman, "Parakalo," which is "Thank you" in Greek. Hm.

Back in the cab, the driver and I munch on hush puppies, as we drive back toward the mansion-cum-luxury hotel.

In my fancy room, with my styrofoam container open on the delicate side table, I feast. The hush puppies, a rich brown crust surrounding salty soft bread crumbs, are perfect. The pork is tender and mushy and delicious. Surprisingly, the fried squash is delicious- still crispy, but with a definite vegetable taste. And the beer is cold and perfect.

Afterwards, I sink into a hot, foamy bubble bath with a book of Anthony Lane essays. My cell phone sits on the sink, and the half-empty beer is on the floor next to the tub. I read for a while, enjoying the heat of the water and the effect of the beer. After a few minutes, I start eyeing my phone.

Emboldened by the wine and Miller Lite, and the sight of my slim, brown arm dangling over the side of the white bathtub (damnit, I’m fit, I’m tan, and I look good), I dial Clerk.

I really enjoy talking with him. He is self-deprecating, in a way that makes it easy for me to tease him. He asks me about my week and tells me funny stories about his. When he asks me about my next project, I hope that he will ask me to visit. He doesn't. But the conversation flows easily from one topic to the next, and eventually the water gets cold. I get out of the tub, and get into the white bathrobe, and go lie on the grand brass bed.

Forty-five minutes later, at a pause in the conversation, I say, Well, I should let you get back to baseball, and we joke some more about his Red Sox DVDs.

Thanks for calling, he says. Good luck finishing your project.

Sure, I say, I just wanted to...see how you are doing. Good luck getting your stuff done, too, and I'll talk to you sometime this weekend.

I hang up, a goofy smile on my face. But then I frown. When do we stop thanking each other for calling?