what is your america?
title what is your america
summary a little ditty about texas and barbecue and home. no plot. second person.
there's a barbecue shack outside of san antonio- rudy's. there's not enough parking spaces and you can smell the smoke all the way down the block. you walk in, and it's a little hazy but it smells good, like home, you think, so you don't mind, and the man at the register looks at you and smiles and his drawl is slow like honey when he asks you "what'd you like tonight, miss?" and you smile back, slow like honey, and the drawl finds its way into your voice, too, when you ask for a side of pinto beans.
country music plays on the radio, loud enough to hear, and there's a beef cam set up in the corner, only showing shots of the guys cutting brisket, because these people care about their beef. and you think to yourself, if they care this much about their beef, imagine how much they care about everything else?
they give you your cuts of brisket -and a few ribs, a link of sausage, please, how about some chopped? don't forget the beans- on a piece of clean white butcher paper and you know it won't be clean for long. the man at the register throws in half a bag of wonderbread and tells you to have a nice day.
the bench scrapes against the backs of your thighs and you eat with plasticware and it is good, the tang of the sause hitting the back of your throat and the country music in the background and the sounds of your family talking, loud and slow, and the drawl is back in everyone's voice, and you think- maybe it doesn't just smell like home. maybe it is home.
summary a little ditty about texas and barbecue and home. no plot. second person.
there's a barbecue shack outside of san antonio- rudy's. there's not enough parking spaces and you can smell the smoke all the way down the block. you walk in, and it's a little hazy but it smells good, like home, you think, so you don't mind, and the man at the register looks at you and smiles and his drawl is slow like honey when he asks you "what'd you like tonight, miss?" and you smile back, slow like honey, and the drawl finds its way into your voice, too, when you ask for a side of pinto beans.
country music plays on the radio, loud enough to hear, and there's a beef cam set up in the corner, only showing shots of the guys cutting brisket, because these people care about their beef. and you think to yourself, if they care this much about their beef, imagine how much they care about everything else?
they give you your cuts of brisket -and a few ribs, a link of sausage, please, how about some chopped? don't forget the beans- on a piece of clean white butcher paper and you know it won't be clean for long. the man at the register throws in half a bag of wonderbread and tells you to have a nice day.
the bench scrapes against the backs of your thighs and you eat with plasticware and it is good, the tang of the sause hitting the back of your throat and the country music in the background and the sounds of your family talking, loud and slow, and the drawl is back in everyone's voice, and you think- maybe it doesn't just smell like home. maybe it is home.