©Patrick McDonnell 2021
THE PAN HANDLE of FLORIDA
In the Red neck Riviera, far from the pristine white beaches of the Gulf of Mexico, is the endless inland forest, where Crackers live. I know, I am one of them. I was born there years ago.
We are trapped on the intestate 10, greenery engulfing us, half swamp half scrub on the sides of the road, all wild and dreary and hot. At lunch time we look for civilization or at least a MacDonald’s golden arches where they sell burgers, but we end up taking a turn into the darkness. We spot a decent looking place, a shiny white metal dinner, with cars parked outside; a good sign.
The place isn’t filled with flies, but the denizens give me the creeps. The two waitresses, one young and half pretty is trying hard to keep up with the older one who is sun baked and wizened, like the apples you let rot slowly while carving features into them, so they end up as shrunken heads. At least her head is on her shoulders. The younger one is there to attract the two legged male flies, the cowboys, the truck drivers, and what nots. A few of those I will describe later or now.
The black dude is just staring around as he sits on a stool at the counter, he looks lost in this white bastion of crackerness. After half an hour he asks if his order is ready, I mean molasses would run faster, then he leaves. But the table full of people must be family, hicks and married, dig into food that is mostly grease. We get the young waitress who could be trying out for a wet t shirt contest, with her flouncy bursting breasts and her sprayed on jeans that don’t need holes to reveal that she isn’t wearing much under neath. As my friend Dave from Dallas would say, “you could see her Tampon string, her jeans were so tight.” She is amazed that we only order a BLT, not taking any chances, and yells at the short order cook. He is fat, his belly showing under his t shirt. Our waitress has a better job of showing under boobs; his male boobs are hairy and his nipples hard. Oh god, I don’t want to remember. The food comes and we consume quickly.
Other clients saunter in; a bow legged cowboy with the hat. A trucker with long greasy hair with an attitude. At the end, a homeless gent slips in, smelling up the joint (he looks like he hasn’t had a bath in a month). At least he wasn’t there when we arrived. Our waitress isn’t the sharpest knife in the tool box, has trouble using the cash register.
The cook is the king, he runs the joint, and probably rolls in the hay with the blond; I can imagine them like sea lions on the beach the huge buck squishing her beneath him as they mate. The old waitress is doing her time looking daggers at the young one as if she was once like her, but now is a dried up raisin, all the juice drained out of her. We skedaddled out of there. Glad we made it out alive.
But the day is not over, as the 10 is under construction. Long slow process of following trucks that drives me crazy. The state road is parallel and we take it the next exit. Now we are in cracker country, farms and towns, all hit by the hurricane, with trees pulled up by the roots laying down on the ground like huge dolls thrown there by an angry child. Tarps on roofs, roofers advertising, and buildings smashed to kindling wood, are all witness to the destructive force of nature. The road is clear, not much traffic, and now I step on it, as if I am Willy Nelson, singing as he smokes his weed, ‘on the road again’.
We round a bend, to find our way blocked by flashing lights. Red, yellow, and blue. Ambulances, fire trucks and police are huddled around, blocking our way. On the side of the road a car is embracing a tree, wrapped around it, the engine in the passenger side, the windshield a smashed maze of broken glass. No one could survive that. Like a bucket of cold water to the face, I am brought down to earth, and I slow down. I have seen death and I wonder if I am next?
Night falls and we arrive at the motel next to a McDonalds and Love truck stop. The motel is rated as an outstanding place and we are still under the shock of the accident and to rest. But hunger wakes us up. We walk over to the trucker place to find a line of people ordering big macs and salty fries. The young man who takes our order is a handsome mulatto, staid and dignified, non fazed by the red neck trucker who looks and acts like he is on amphetamines or caffeine pills. “Hurry it up, I am on a schedule” he shouts and then shares the intimate details of his life to his captive audience, how time is money, how his wife died of cancer while he was on the road, and he has not time to wait because he is gassing up his rig with diesel. I am tempted to tell him of the accident, but hesitate. He might be the devil himself. He is going to go out in a big rid and God knows who he could kill if he is a mind to do it. Let him jabber on, he isn’t hurting anyone, yet.
A family of Spanish speakers takes up one booth, fresh from a day at the beach. Then two bimbos walk in (do I sound misogynist?). They wear cut offs, t shirts also missing the bottom half, so their belly rings can show, and they are also fresh from the beach. One reason I wanted to avoid going along the coast, with its Spring Break crowd of frenetic young men and women trying to mate, while drawing around drunk, showing off skin, yelling obscenities. I wouldn’t see the water, and if I did, it would be covered with an oil slick of sun tan lotion.
Another trucker wanders in, he says he is from Beaumont Texas - to the 2 bimbos - and I overhear their conversation. I smile at the way he is trying to impress them, and laugh at their silly questions. “How can you carry 2000 gallons of oil in your car?” I am driving a tanker. “Where do you sleep?” In my cab, would you care to see… and so on and so forth. I don’t wait to see if he gets lucky, between the three of them, they don’t have half a brain. But then we are still under the shock of seeing the accident. I only want to make it to New Orleans.
