[dropcap]T[/dropcap]uesdays are fried catfish night in DeFuniak Springs, Florida. Whole catfish. Tails and all. Maclain’s buffet has everything. Mediocre hushpuppies, an iceberg lettuce bar, and tattooed waitresses who can lift Buicks over their heads.

I ate so much catfish I forgot my wife’s name.

Through the front door walked a herd of Mexican boys, wearing filthy clothes. They looked like they’d earned their suppers. Each piled his plate high. One boy balanced two plates, a soda, and a bowl of ice cream.

A little later, a crew of loud teenagers walked in. Boys of privilege, with new trucks, clean boots, and camouflage ball caps.

And girlfriends.

The tableful of Latinos noticed the brunettes in hot pants. And while the girls didn’t mind the attention, their boyfriends did. One of the boyfriends – let’s call him Bo Duke – didn’t care for the way Don Juan gawked at Daisy.

Bo glared at the Mexican boy.

“What’re you lookin’ at moron?” Bo confronted.

Don Juan didn’t answer.

Bo laughed. “’S’what I thunk.”

Bo’s sidekicks snickered, they appreciated his no-nonsense command of the English language. The Mexican boys gave no response. They kept their heads down and finished their meals in silence.

And then they left.

After I paid our bill, Jamie and I walked outside. We were both sick from eating too much catfish. I had to loosen my belt so that I could breath without getting all sweaty.

Then, I noticed something unusual in the parking lot.

Three shiny monster trucks, sitting pretty.

With tires as flat as pancakes.

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