Cracker Barrel. Somewhere in Louisiana. It was late. Approaching closing time. Cracker Barrel officially closes at 9 p.m. But it wasn’t 9 yet.
So they let us in.
They were apparently short staffed. The employees were in the weeds. They had a bunch of grumpy customers, most of whom kept demanding more ranch.
Nevertheless, the waitresses treated each person in the dining room like they were one of the Kennedys.
My wife and I had been on the road since 5 a.m. We’d crossed three state-lines, and survived on gas-station fare. Earlier that day, in Mississippi, I ate a gas-station hotdog that will remain in my lower intestinal tract for the following 62 years.
I was road weary. Starting to see double. I had done a performance in Florida that morning, and we were on our way to Texas where I would make a speech for a roomful of people who sold tires.
The waitress came to our table. I ordered the catfish. Cracker Barrel’s catfish is heaven. The most underrated dish on the
menu. You get two cornmeal crusted U.S. farm-raised filets, three hushpuppies, tartar, and a King James Bible.
I was busy eating cornbread when I noticed the guy sitting next to our table.
He wasn’t elderly, but he moved like an old man. Careful and slow. He was wearing a chewed-up ballcap. His face was unshaven. His plaid had holes in it. His shoes were Velcro.
He could have been 60. Could have been 80. Hard to tell. Each time he took a bite, he shook so badly that food fell off his fork. He wore a bib of many colors.
A stroke maybe? Multiple sclerosis? Perhaps Parkinson’s. Every time he tried to eat, it wasn’t working out. He wasn’t getting any food into his mouth.
There was a young woman sitting nearby. With her friends. She was maybe 16.
She was a typical teen of our…