Highway 31—a gas station. I buy one sweet tea, two scratch-off lotto tickets. The first ticket is a loser. The second: I win a hundred stinking bucks.
I almost hyperventilate. This has only happened one other time in my life—the hundred bucks, not the hyperventilating.
The cashier hands me a hundred-dollar-bill. I don't usually carry paper money anymore. This represents all the cash I have. And it's enough to buy breakfast.
So, I drive a few miles down the road.
My waitress is a nine-year-old. She’s all smiles, and her yellow apron is too big.
“Two eggs over medium, please,” I tell her.
“Two. Eggs. Oh. Ver. Mee. Dee. Yum,” says Tiny, writing on a notepad.
I order a biscuit, too. She needs help spelling.
Tiny runs to the kitchen. I see her older sister at the grill—twelve, maybe thirteen years old. They’re discussing the confusing nuances of my order.
Tiny's mother brings her to my table. “Sir," says Tiny. "What exactly does ‘over medium’ mean?”
I explain—soft yellow, hard white. She yessirs me and I feel like Methusela's uncle.
in a good mood. Just yesterday, I stopped at an antique store near Greenville, Alabama. They had everything from old Jimmy Carter campaign posters, to Depression-era fishing reels.
The lady behind the counter asked me, “You like Indians?" Then she showed me a collection of miniature hand-carved wooden chiefs.
She handed me one. The brave wore Sunday feathers and held a tomahawk.
"My granddaddy carved this," she said. "You can have it.”
"Yeah, I got a million of'em. I give'em away sometimes. It's what he would've wanted."
I had a granddaddy who carved.
A few minutes later: my friend called. He said he's expecting his first child. This is big news. Five years ago, the doc told his wife she was barren. He cried on the phone.
Then, this morning: a hundred-dollar bill for a man who…