Interaction, the Sequel

As I headed back last month to Somewhere in West Alabama, down through Atlanta and Oxford and Talledega, I wanted more . . . I'd begun to scurry to those way-points along my journey and gobble them up.  Out in broad daylight:  check.  Interaction with another human being: check.  It had been a great couple of days but I, typically, wanted more.

So I get out my little camera, and my mini-tripod, and stop at the Welcome Center on I-20, just  inside the border of Alabama (motto: what we don't understand we beat the crap out of), and snap a couple of pics.  Well, more than a couple, actually ... but I don't go into the women's room, and I have to go, you understand, but see the motto above.

But I want more, more you understand, so -- and this is going to sound really silly for those of you for whom it's old hat -- I decide another drive-by interaction is in order, this time (gasp!) in broad daylight.  So I pull into a Burger King parking lot.  And dither.  And slather on a more makeup, trying in vain to hide the pores on my chin.  And then I dither some more.


Finally, I say "F--- it," and pull into the drive through, and using my best female voice, order a large un-sweet tea.  Even though, you understand, I still have to go.  But I've gotta order something . . . and my voice passes, I think, but my heart falls: an older-sounding black woman, sure as all get out,. They, next to teenage girls, I fear the most -- they tend to take no shit, especially from white males, so I could imagine the open scorn I was about to be subjected to.

But what the heck.  I round the corner, and stop at the first window, and I can see her leaning out of the second window, waving me forward with a big smile on her face, and when I get up there she says, still grinning: "Whew, it's hot in here, like I'm havin' hot flashes" and I return her grin, thoughts of sisterly solidarity leaping into my brain, and she says "A dollar fifteen."

I hand her what I had clutched in my sweaty hand, which is two dollars fifty, and she looks at me funny, and hands back one of the dollars, saying "A dollar fifteen," and I stammer -- again in a feminine register, I hope -- "Oops, I thought you said two," and as she hands me my change, she says, smile fading, "That's ok.  Have a nice day . . . ma'am."  And I swear  there is a hesitation, that she almost can't get that last word out, but as I drive off, I don't hear the expected whoop of laughter, she just says something to somebody about the job, maybe into her microphone to the next customer.

And I drive off, un-sweet tea in my cup-holder, another minor way-point reached.