If any of you are familiar with that cinema classic, “Deliverance,” well I have a somewhat similar story,
but it did not take place in the backwoods and no one got molested, …just
almost molested.
My story takes place in a local watering hole. It would be considered a bit out of the way
since it is not in town, but it is easily located on a state highway. I am going to name the place “Junior’s.” I
changed the name because I don’t want to
make "Junior’s" a tourist attraction. It really is for local’s only and when you
hear my story, you will know why. I
would have called it," Bubba’s" (since the place is owned by someone’s brother) but
that too relates to another well-known cinema classic, “Forest Gump.”
Now
Junior’s has a history. This double-wide
trailer- Yes, I said double-wide trailer, which most people live in, or have
car lot offices out of, or have as a luxury home on the lake, well in this
instance this large sardine can lined with paneling started off as a eat’n
place. I don't remember the name, it was Someth'n Someth'n Grill or what not. They had the biggest and the best grilled
hamburgers and were the first eat’n place once you crossed the state line,
unless you count the new Race Track gas station on the other highway, which I don’t
believe made hamburgers, but if you were hungry you could get a pizza or fried
chicken or those hot dogs that got a nice tan spinning around under heat
lamps.
Most people know not to grill indoors, and this may not be
the case of what happened there, maybe they grilled outdoors and a spark flew
over and lit that mobile home ablaze, or
perhaps the grease from frying French fries to eat with those delicious burgers
caught fire. I don’t know the details
because at the time of the incident I was unfamiliar with the place. To make this story shorter, the original place
caught fire, someone restored it to its glory- minus the kitchen and turned the
place into a bar. Several pool tables
were added and a stage.
If you are
hungry when you go there, even though there isn’t a kitchen, they offer free beer dogs. For those of you not southern, a beer dog is
a hot dog that is cooked in a crock pot with beer. The crock pot is positioned on a tiny table by the door and I don’t know if it is a gimmick to bring in the crowd when the
beer dogs are just right, perhaps those who find them mouth-watering, know the
smell as well as one might know a turkey is just right by the way the smell of it fills
the house; the aroma must bring patrons in.
I have never had a beer dog, so I can’t say one way or the other. I have witnessed people eating them and they
were not taken to the hospital. A
hospital visit is my gauge if food is dangerous or not. Hospital = danger / no hospital = fine to
eat.
Please do not confuse this place with the barn further down the
highway, this is a double-wide trailer.
I have been to the barn establishment.
On the particular night I was there, there was to be a bikini contest
and apparently grandma’s and grandpa’s came out to watch. One nice woman in a moo –moo (today it’s
called a caftan, a moo-moo is not as stylish) pointed out her granddaughter to me, after
she threw back a shot of whiskey, and told me that her tiny string bikini clad, oiled up, granddaughter was just
precious, while the grandpa in the overalls without a shirt on, was sleeping on the bar on
the other side of her, because the hour was well past 8 pm. No, now Junior’s is not the barn. If you need
to know more distinction Junior’s is on the right and the barn is on the left
of the highway, if you are going South.
I don’t like to brag or feel superior to anyone, but I do
kinda fall under the, looks like a librarian description not the lady standing
on the side of the street when it comes to looks. I have tried that standing on the side of the
street look, and I just can’t pull it off.
Perhaps it’s because I get road rash when I trip wearing high heel
shoes, and prefer to land on my face instead of breaking the high priced fake
nails I got to pull off the look; skin will grow back… I paid good money for those nails and I didn't want to mess them up. When properly painted, a good set of fake nails makes you look expensive. You can take that however you want.
At Junior’s watering hole, I guess the ladies dress code was
crop tops, tore up blue jean shorts and cowboy boots or less. And the men’s attire was, "just came in off the
field," or what we call casual in the south, our “this ain’t Sunday” clothes. I wasn’t dressed right, but close enough, I had a button down top and shorts and wedge
shoes. I stand out in a crowd of
Southern folks because I have dark hair and skin, and perhaps to the locals I
look a little exotic. With that being said, Likes attract Likes, it’s just
science. One time I was out, I attracted
the largest guy in the crowd, who might have played defense for the NFL, that's how big he was and I'm all of five - foot - nothing in height. The crazy linebacker wanted to cover me in hot sauce, and take me to his okra farm but that’s another story. I just wanted you
to know I attract the most visible person where ever I am.
Friday night at Junior’s, I attracted the person who had been
drinking there all week and never went home.
Perhaps that was his RV outside that had a friendly dog that greeted
patron’s in the parking lot in hopes for a pat on the head or a gentle caress. Junior’s did not adhere to the leash law or
was oblivious to it, because friendly dog was so friendly he wanted to get in
my car and go home with me. Friendly dog knew he probably didn’t fit in with
the crowd there at Junior’s either and wanted to be saved. I already have two dogs that like me at home
and I do not need another, so I left him behind. Sorry
friendly dog.
Mr. Magnetic personality, AKA known as very, very, very
drunk guy who must have been between the age of 75 or 80 yrs. old, said only a
few sentences to me, “Hey! I like you!” followed by a wink and a bearded grin
from underneath an Alabama football cap. “Is that your feller?” “You here with anybody?”
Normally these are generally questions anyone who wants to get to know someone
would ask, but the kicker question was, “you got any friends in here?” Which
made me glance around the room and to my dismay; I didn’t have any friends in
there. He was drunk enough to keep asking the same questions with the same wink
and grin, over and over again, between swallows of his beer, sometimes he would
blow me a pouty kiss, to which I winced. I got the feeling he was interrogating me so
he could roofie me and drag me off to some undisclosed location where the
police would find me not in the same condition as I was at the moment.
I rudely ignored him and kept trying to watch the karaoke singer on the stage, who was a special needs kid. He had the voice of an angel, but his arms flailed about and he spun around. His free arm, not holding the microphone, punched sideways and his head spun around in a jerking motion that wasn't in a head banging fashion. It was such a mismatch, my ears heard this amazing voice and my eyes watched the boy wildly twist and turn in his own form of dancing that took up the whole stage. I found out later the boy's name is Peanut, and he has a music CD that a lot of people around these parts give as gifts. And Peanut is blind, but wow, he can sing karaoke!
My boyfriend was sitting right at the table across from the talkative lush as this was happening. I tried to discourage the guy and tell him that his Alabama cap did not make him attractive, an I wasn't interested because I’m an Auburn fan. Usually in
the South this division is as obvious, as the battle of the North and South in
the Civil War. But to no avail. The boyfriend had enough and said we were
leaving, and we did. On the way out he
said the most loving words a Southern girl could hope for, “I almost had to
kick his *ss!”
Ahhh, thank you for deliverance!
Happy South ya'll!
- Daily Panic
