Austin Remembered - From September 9, 2005

(Note: I apologize for taking so long posting this. I saved this in my Drafts folder, and just couldn't finish it. I guess I am trying not to remember that I am back in Georgia - land of chicanery and carpetbaggers)

Austin Remembered - September 9, 2005

By the time our plane landed at Dallas-Fort Worth, and I had regained my luggage, it was almost noon (Eastern Time) and we were starving. After driving around in circles on the outskirts of Dallas, searching for a phantom breakfast spot called La Peepe, the decision was made to stop at a restaurant that just wouldn't get out of the corner of our eyes. You see, the restaurant carried my last name. Granted, my last name isn't uncommon, but it definitely isn't a 'Smith' or a 'James' or a 'Thompson'. I had a little background on the Texas origins of my paternal ancestry, which kind of ruined the surprise. My last name also is the name of a town just outside of Lubbock, once the homestead of another ancestor.

Still, it seemed like some kind of welcome home to find this cutesy country diner, well appointed in middle-class kitsch (country blue and baby pink come to mind), on the corner of a busy access road next to the freeway. The food was country and decent, and I was grateful to have a thermos of coffee plopped down in front of me. I knew something was amiss when Z got into a bit of a quarrel with the 60-something waitress. He was ecstatic to find a breakfast dish with no eggs, and had immediately chosen it.

When his plate arrived, the look of dismay on his face made me want to give him a huge hug. Underneath the onions, bellpeppers, sausage, bacon, hash browns and cheese was an enormous omelet. Upon returning to our table to refill our drinks, Z asked the waitress to take his dish back; he had not asked for eggs with his breakfast. The waitress, in a rather solemn, perfunctory manner, grabbed a menu out of her apron pocket, placed it in front of Z, and, standing over his shoulder, physically pointed out the fine print that stated the presence of eggs in poor Z's plate.

I feel I must describe this scene a bit more candidly. Z was ashen and furry-faced, having had stayed up all night due to his excitement about coming home to Texas. He had not eaten since 8 PM the evening prior, and had begun to have that spinny disco ball of insanity start revolving in his eyes - the true sign of complete exhaustion coupled with hunger and adrenaline-fueled energy.

The waitress, we'll call her Ruth, was a tall, solid woman. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a thick, braided bun on the back of her noble head. Ruth was one of those women who probably raised her 13 siblings during the height of WWII, while her daddy was behind a cannon in Lombard, and her momma was working a huge industrial machine that punched bolt holes into portions of aircraft. Ruth was serious about everything, in a practical, hardworking manner. She lost her appetite for nonsense early. When she was five, she helped her momma deliver her stillborn baby brother Charlie in the back of the family's '32 Ford Model T. Her daddy had run into town looking for help, and Ruth was left alone by her mother's side. Ruth never forgot that moment - a 23 year old Texas cowboy's wife, turning purple in the face while she sweat, the sweet, brackish scent of her body fluids soaking into the canvas upholstery. Her momma's teeth were clenched so tight Ruth worried that she might have bitten her lips off already.

In this present day scene, Ruth definitely negated the common restaurant anthem, "The customer is always right." Ruth didn't need to ass-kiss or apologize. Her damn menu said eggs were on the plate. By god, there were eggs on that raspy-voiced knucklehead's plate. He seemed a bit flighty and high-strung. Maybe he should have read the menu a bit more carefully, and his goddamn eggs wouldn't have made it on his plate.

MY ANALYSIS OF TEXAS: As always, you all can accuse me of "reading too much into it". Ruth was a good example of what folks in Texas are like. While I believe they are fun-loving (Blues is really a celebration, don't let anyone fool you. If you were that pissed off and mournful about the world, you certainly wouldn't be up on some stage singing an American dirge about it) I also believe that Texans have a seriousness to them that is different. Please keep in mind I am from the plasticky day-glo confines of California, the most shallow place on Earth. However, I think I have a bit of experience in reality, having had lived in bum fu&% Northwest Georgia for over 10 years (interspersed with sojourns into South Carolina, Florida, Tennessee and Alabama. About six years ago, during a state of crisis, I almost moved to Maryland. Anyway, back to the story).
You see, if I didn't have this entry into the real world to contrast with the fluorescent pink upbringing, I would be unable to give some unbiased opinion. We'll take a stab at it.

I think Texas is the first state on the border of the West. I can only remember having had waitresses in California, Arizona or Nevada approach their customers with such blunt honesty. There is something different there - you don't find natives with such candid honesty in other places, other than maybe the midwest. (I'm thinking Iowa - Grandma was from there and she could make you pee your pants with her diatribe). Maybe it's a Dustbowl-immigrant thing. Perhaps it's the humongous rattlesnakes, and life without tall trees around to shade you from the blistering sun. Whatever. I like it. Somehow my own ruthless honesty - that which normally shocks people and repels them - doesn't seem all that extreme. I'm just one of the bunch, you see. I don't want a life where I don't say what I think. I don't want to have to put the editing tab on my inner voice. And I certainly don't want some waitress kissing my ass. If the print says eggs, dammit, there are eggs.