We're switching off every 100 miles, giving the other a chance to sleep. We want to make it to the Upper West Side by noon.
I'd just finished my shift with a stop at Waffle House, with its usual brown-yellow interior and dead-eyed waitresses. Eyes dead, yes, but they're nice, nice, nice. Bambi took my triple order of hash browns smothered and covered with a smile, called me sweetheart, and Connie wished everyone she saw a blessed good night.
An older woman at the counter burned through three cigarettes in the time it took for me to order and visit the women's room, started on her fourth as she asked for a steak with baked potatoe, no baked potatoes. She changed her order over another two smokes.
Up north, the people here would be seen as slow, maybe plain ol' dumb. Here, you know it's just the south being southern. No rush, everything arrives with a twang and a slow late blooming smile. I hated this about the South growing up here. I have learned to appreciate it.
Now we're in the dark on 85, just by Billy Graham Parkway. I'm not sure I'm ready to match the New York City beat. Sureness, though, is irrelevant. We go where we go. Now, to sleep.
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