Soodhalter’s Informagoriam

The backwater directions given to me by Mark cut out a great deal of distance in getting back to I-10. Once on I-10, I headed towards Jacksonville, Florida. In Jacksonville, I would be taking the loop around the city and connecting into I-95, which would take me all the way to Philadelphia. Back on I-10, new signs began to pop up, alerting me and other drivers to the presence of yet another Café Risqué in the area. One of the signs even made sure that truckers understood that this place also had showers. I don’t even want to begin to delve into the implications of such a development. I did not eat breakfast at Mark and Liz’s, so once I got back on I-10, I began looking for a place to eat. I had a hankering for some Waffle House goodness, so I kept my eyes peeled for a blue sign telling me about a Waffle House in the area. When one finally appeared, I exited the highway. As I drove took the appropriate cross road, I noticed that the signs for Café Risqué were pointing me in the same direction as the restaurant. Sure enough, about the length of a city block away from the Waffle House was yet another Café Risqué, the nakedest restaurant chain ever. Unlike the one outside of Ft. Walton, this Café Risqué was much large, what appeared to be two stories. However, it still had aluminum siding covering its outer walls. Quite classy.

I parked in the Waffle House parking lot and went inside. Two women tended the counter. One was a girl that was younger than me, a senior in high school it turns out. She was a Katrina transplant from Mississippi. The other woman was likely in her late forties or early fifties with an inappropriately long ponytail that stretched halfway down her back and was tamed by five scrunchies. The short order cook was a man with prematurely gray hair and a smug look relating to his abilities to prepare foods quickly. He hid in the back for most of my visit. As was the case with the Denny’s I visited prior to arriving in Gainesville, there seemed to be a great deal of tension between the two women. On top of this tension was a layer of racism that would not rear its ugly head until a bit later in my visit. When I first sat down, the two women were having a discussion that was just ending, and the older woman turned to me intimated that I was in trouble because they were two women and I was a man, since I would probably interject something into their conversation that would insult them.

Whenever I visit a Waffle House, I like to order two softly poached eggs, plain hash browns, and wheat toast. I like coffee to drink. This visit was no different from any other. Gray-haired Johnson set about to preparing my food while the two waitresses talked. It was a friendly discussion that clearly had a subtext of enmity, specifically directed from the older woman to the young lady. For whatever reason, they began comparing notes about medical maladies. The younger waitress was describing her mother’s maladies while the older woman described her own maladies. The young woman’s mother had apparently had all manner of surgeries and she stated that practically everyone knew her mother’s name, obviously referring to everyone at the hospital not everybody in the universe. The older woman seized on the ambiguity of this statement, however, by asking the young woman what her mother’s name was. Upon hearing the answer, the older woman snidely responded with an air of triumph she did not know the young woman’s mother, and had thereby won that round of discussion. The younger girl sheepishly modified her initial statement to specify that she was referring to the hospital employees and not everyone in town. The older lady went on to describe a litany of medical conditions from which had suffered or was currently suffering including a description of bone fragments in her neck. She then went on to describe her impending hysterectomy in gruesome detail.

They continued their conversation with superficial amity. Then, a group of black people pulled up in a car, and the older woman trailed off as her face darkened. These five new customers came into the restaurant, and the older lady gave them a harsh greeting. They seated themselves, and the older waitress continued speaking to the younger woman under her breath. After a few minutes, the five black people got up and left without ordering. The older waitress grumbled that they must not have been hungry. Her mood improved markedly once the black people had pulled away from the restaurant.

While this spectacle was going on Gray-haired Johnson was preparing my food. Contrary to usual Waffle House protocol, he was poaching my eggs in a frying pan with a little bit of water rather than a pot filled with water. I made note of this though I did not register any sort of disapproval with regard to this breach of protocol. I did not want to disillusion the cook as to his skill in the kitchen area. About the time those other customers felt the need to leave, my food was brought to me. The younger waitress engaged me in conversation about her plans for college in England or Ireland. She intimated that her parents were from some place that was not the United States. I finished my meal and quickly paid. I left this haven of anger and continued on the road to Jacksonville. I had nine hours of driving to do, and nothing would stand in my way.

The only other thing of consequence that I encountered on this drive was a third Café Risqué in North Carolina. The signs highway intimated that this particular establishment featured only a topless dining experience, leading me to believe that the laws on naked restaurants must be different in North Carolina.

I arrived in Fayetteville tired and ready to relax for the evening. I pulled up to the Ramada inn at which I would be staying and entered. The desk attendant was on the phone and seemed frantic. He ignored me for about five minutes. He then dealt with two hotel guests that asked him questions while I was standing there. Finally he came to me and asked if he could help me. I told him I had made a reservation through AAA and that I wanted to check in. He was clearly unnerved and angrily told me the system was down and to come back in fifteen minutes or so after the problem was fixed. I asked what restaurants were around; and, based on the information he gave me, I chose to go to Ruby Tuesday’s for some dinner.

I had been unaware that Ruby Tuesday still existed since my only encounter with it was when it briefly entered the Houston market in the form of a satellite in a shopping center anchored by an ailing Toys R US/Kids R Us/Babies R Us/Elderly People R Us store. It took over the building once occupied by a restaurant called Marie Callender’s. I believe that Ruby Tuesday lasted about six months before it became Chilis. Something about the brand did not play well with the Houston crowd, at least at that location. I looked over the menu and ordered what turned out to be some mediocre food. I ordered it to go and drove back to the Ramada. The computer problems at the front desk were resolved, but the attendant was still quite unfriendly. It turns out he had some personal problems. I checked in and asked whether my car would be safe in the parking lot since it contained all my worldly possessions. He told me that there had been frequent robberies of cars in that lot, especially cars with out of state plates. He further explained that the hotel had some cameras trained on the lot that the attendant might be watching, but Ramada was not responsible if tragedy struck my car. I figured I did not have many options at that point, so I simply attempted to find the parking spot that was most visible from one of the security cameras. I parked in fourteen different places before I found the sweet spot that was in the best view of the cameras. A group of Spanish speaking nuns stopped unpacking their nun-van and watched me with amusement.

I went to my room and quickly ate my mediocre Ruby Tuesday food. I called my mother to let he know I was alive. I called my friend Jonathan, with whom I would be staying in Washington DC. He had just gotten back from Dubai, where he spent a significant portion of time trying not to look American while selling used submarines. He had to forgo wearing makeup, which I am sure was difficult for him. I called my friend Hap on whose couch I would be crashing in Philadelphia until I found an apartment. He was on his way out to a Dixie Chicks concert but confirmed that he knew when I would be arriving. When he told me about the Dixie Chicks concert, he mentioned it as if it were some normal thing to do; something that he was even accustomed to doing. When I interrogated further, he tried to play it off as something he was doing with his friends on a whim. He was acting a little suspicious about it, but I let him off the hook because I was tired. I would undertake further investigation at a later date. I then watched about five hours of television while not moving an inch. Sleep came quickly at 10:00 PM. Nine hours of driving is not a fun thing to be endeavorin’ to do.

Previously in “The Road to Philadelphia”:  Kirk left Mary Esther, Florida, but not before discovering the truth of the nasty strip club eatery. Nearing I-75, he encountered a dangerously surly waitress at a Denny’s who ruled the restaurant through fear. The food was not good. Not long after that, he arrived at the house of Mark and Liz. Meanwhile, Andrea finally discovered Lucas’ infidelity with Henrietta, and a confrontation is inevitable. Can Father Miguel Hinojosa intervene before it is too late? Keep reading to find out.

Mark and Liz’s rental house was located near the edge of the area where college students generally live. The roof had a patched hole, courtesy of one of Katrina’s siblings from the prior year. The house was pinkish or orangeish color, though I cannot remember which. I pulled my fully loaded Civic into their driveway behind Mark’s black explorer. I got out and stretched my dirt and gravel legs for a few moments as Mark came out to greet me. It appeared that had grown even taller and lankier since our prior meeting. He also seemed more angular, and his hair was also much shaggier, a change which received my wholehearted approval. After exchanging the usual pleasantries for a few minutes, we retrieved the necessary items from my car and took them into the house, where Liz was waiting for us while eating crackers. Their cat, with which I am already familiar, was skulking about. After greetings, Mark and Liz introduced me to the latest addition to their household, a dog named Nola. This was a dog that had been rescued from an abusive household and was therefore was scared of most people, particularly men. They tried to introduce her to me, but she merely assumed a defensive posture and began growling and barking. Being that I had recently extricated myself from a different abusive situation in the Denny’s restaurant, I also assumed a defensive posture and tried to puff up my shoulders to present a more imposing figure. I eventually ran into the bathroom, and it took Mark and Liz about forty-five minutes to coax me out of there.

Liz offered me some crackers with cheese, and we sat and chatted, catching up on the events of the last two years. Mark’s brother Chad recently wedded his longtime associate, Kendal Kindlington in a Superman themed ceremony. There apparently was some controversy over the nature of Chad’s cape, but that did not get in the way of the ceremony being carried out in an orderly fashion. I was the best man in Mark and Liz’s wedding, and according to Mark, I executed my best-manular duties with ruthless efficiency. My counterpart, the maid of honor, just finished her second year of med school at Columbia, and had recently told Mark and Liz that she had done quite well on her second year boards. I related that my friend Jose had achieved similar results on his second year board scores. All the other family members were reported to be doing well, though Liz’s father tragically lost his mustache according to some pictures I saw. I did not want to ask how it happened, though, because that would be rude. Mark had also recently gotten back from Austria, presenting his research on space maps. I don’t pretend to understand what they are exactly, but according to Mark, it has something to do with the fourth dimension. I brought Mark and Liz up to date on my doings over the last two years in terms of being a medical writer, retiring from the lightweight boxing circuit, and engaging in alchemy.

Mark and Liz wanted to go out to dinner that evening to celebrate my visit. This was completely understandable. Sometimes, when I walk in front of a mirror, I have the urge to celebrate at the thought of my “arrival”. At times, I am also overwhelmed with sadness at the sight of my departure when I am forced to walk away from a mirror. In this light, their emotional exuberance was appropriate. Until it was time to eat, however, we had to find some way to occupy ourselves. Liz suggested a board game. I liked this idea because it harkened back to our board game antics in the Willow dormitories and at the McKenney Beaumontian Compound. Our two most frequent games were Balderdash and Taboo. These two games were not available, however, so we decided that Trivial Pursuit would be a good substitute. We could have played with the Lord of the Rings question set, but then Liz would have wiped the floor with us (particularly Mark, with his mop-like hair arrangement). Instead, we played with the set asking questions from the latter part of the twentieth century. Liz still won the game, but there were a couple of strange occurrences. Mark got three different questions that all had “Viagra” as an answer. I got three questions that had “Drew Carey” as an answer. The only possible explanation is that this Trivial Pursuit board was manufactured from a discarded Ouija board and was merely displaying its superior clairvoyance. I am not sure what the game was trying to tell Mark or myself, though.

As it got closer to dinner, Mark and Liz led me to the guest room, with a bed made up with many doilies, frilly things, and fancy pillows. The bed arrangement just shows how well these two know me. I have always insisted on sleeping in luxury. I changed into clean clothing, placing my soiled clothing behind my suitcase. We exited the house and boarded Liz’s new automobile, a Mercury Cougar. Apparently Liz’s previous car, a Honda Civic, had undergone numerous unscheduled body modifications as a result of an attempt at a quick exit from the driveway. It was a sensitive subject that was seldom broached. A quick five-minute drive took us to the parking lot of the Carrabbas. As an appetizer we had deep fried cheese. I had minestrone as my main course because I had not quite recovered from my unappetizing Denny’s salad.

Back at the house, Mark and I first took Nola the dog for a long walk through the neighborhood. There was one guy who was always sitting in a lawn chair when we would walk the dog. Mark and I would say hi to him, but he never gave more than a simple answer. After the dog walkin’, I got a chance to look at the picture albums showing the major events these two had experienced in the last two years, including a trip to Ireland and a couple of weddings. Mark and I then set about trying to figure out what was wrong with my computer. This was accomplished by opening up my computer and one of his, and connecting wires from his computer to mine. This strategy was just what the doctor ordered, and my computer problems were diagnosed. Mark’s computer also owes mine a dinner. Liz had long since gone to sleep, but Mark and I stayed up chatting for a while longer. We also played Xbox briefly before it was finally time to hit hay.

The next day we had Life cereals for breakfast under the watchful eye of the television. Liz made tasty coffee. Mark and I cleaned up and drove to University of Florida campus so he could give me a tour and show me the computer science department in which he is working to get his PhD. Since it was summer, not too many people were around. The only other researcher from Mark’s program I met was a girl that laughed consistently. Mark showed me his cubical with his computer. We walked through the rest of the campus and made our way to the hallowed football stadium, which apparently overflows on game days. Mark and Liz used to have season tickets to the home games, but with the advent of Urban Meyer, ticket prices were raised an exorbitant amount. Mark was quite bitter about this development, which was surprising, since Mark is rarely bitter about anything.

There are a few exceptions to this rule. Mark continuously grouses about the time I stole a sum of money from him to gamble on illegal cockfights in Louisiana. The odds seemed so greatly in my favor at the time, though, that I did not think he would mind. Unfortunately, I could not have predicted the injury to the heavily favored cock, Delicious Aloysius, early in the match. I still maintain he took a dive, especially since it turns out his manager was Julius Porteau, the “Don King” of Louisiana’s illegal cockfighting ring. Mark is also still angry about the time I instructed Liz to incapacitate him by hitting him in the genitals with a large bag of laundry in Nice, France. To be fair, Mark #1 (the other Mark) was the one who assured Liz that Mark #2 (this Mark) would be okay with it; yet, Mark #2 still places the full blame on me. Nobody ever thinks to mention that it was Liz who hit him with the laundry. He can be so self-righteous sometimes. He brings up these incidents and harps on the fact that he would never steal money from me or instruct my female companions to attack my genitals with laundry. However, I contend he would have done the same things in my position. In fact, while we are on the subject, he never gives me any credit for the good things I have done. When I was his best man in his wedding two years ago, I resisted the temptation to eat those wedding rings; and, believe me, the temptation was there. I held them in my pocket for multiple hours without ever taking them out or putting them near my mouth. Instead, all I ever hear about are bad things I have done, such as eat a Subway barbecue beef sandwich at his desk and somehow manage to get some of the barbecue sauce into his computer. That could have happened to anyone. Oh, and lets not forget the time when we were in Germany and I was unknowingly using a racial slur against East Germans, repeatedly. That was not even my fault. How was I supposed to know? Yet I get blamed when we get chased out of a monastery. I also am the one to receive blame for instigating the “love custard” incident in France. That was simply a cultural misunderstanding based on the literal translation of the name of a dessert dish. I just don’t get why he is obsessed with all of these things I have allegedly done. I could bring up things he did, but I am a better man than that. If weren’t a better man, I would recount the time when we lived together and he snuck into my room at four in the morning and woke me up looking for nondairy coffee creamer. Or I could talk about the time I loaned him one of my math books for a class he was taking. He later sold the book without telling me. Then he has the gall to come back and wave the money in my face. I don’t bring these things up, though, because I am the good guy in this situation.

I apologize for getting off topic, but sometimes it just gets my breeches in a bunch. After finishing the campus tour, we went back to the house and had faux ground beef tacos. The ground beef was actually fashioned from tofu. It was pretty good. It may have been at this time that we actually played trivial pursuit, but I can’t quite remember. Nonetheless, we did something after lunch and then watched some television. Liz put instant lasagna in the oven for the dinner at some point. Fargo was on TV so we watched that. The instant lasagna was quite tasty, and it seemed to compliment Fargo perfectly. After dinner, we decided to have flavored iced cream for desert. We went to a Scandinavian themed iced cream store run by an Indian family. Afterward, we went back to the house and watched Fight Club, a good dessert movie. Liz eventually went to sleep and Mark and I battled as robots in an Xbox video game, working out the years of aggression relating to the various problems our friendship has yet to overcome.

The next day, everybody slept late. The morning was leisurely. We watched some television and then broke out the game of Clue, which I have not played in a long time. Since I had not played Clue since I was a child, I did not really know the strategy to playing this fascinating game. Apparently, in each turn, a player is supposed to conjecture that a character committed the murder in a certain room with a certain item, all of these from preordained lists. I always though one was supposed to engage in random supposition. When I was young, I was always able to beat my parents, and now I am beginning to think they may have been throwing the game to protect my feelings. One thing I do wonder about this game, though, is why players need to guess the weapon used. I presume all the characters have seen the body; so if the victim has a gun shot wound, why would anyone guess the candlestick was used. I think there needs to be another set of cards with cartoonish pictures of gruesomely posed murder victims to tie up this loose end. Needless to say, I did not play so well in that first game. Mark was the winner. Some might say I threw a tantrum after losing, but that would be an exaggeration. After the game, we discussed what to do with the rest of our day and decided to see the new Kevin Smith movie, Clerks II, which had recently come out in theatres. The showing we decided to attend was not until later, so we had plenty of time to eat lunch and lounge some more. Mark and I had leftover lasagna while Liz had leftover tofu tacos. We then played another game of clue. I learned a great deal from that first game, and I was more able to accurately uncover the infernal machinations of my two opponents. I successfully outted a woman named Ms. Scarlet as the killer. I was quite happy to be the house Clue champion. It was time to get ready and go to the movie, so we ended our trivial pursuits for the time being.

There were parts of Clerks II that were pretty raunchy, but I thought the movie, overall, was funny, if not a bit disturbing. We went back to the house and decided to order in Chinese food. Unfortunately, Mark and Liz’s house sits right outside the radius of where the restaurant will deliver to, so we had to pick up the food. In the intervening time before we left, we began playing Clue again so that I could defend my house title. Ten minutes into the game, we paused to go pick up the food. I ordered General Tso’s chicken because the eponymous military tactician has yet to fail me. When we arrived back home, a terrible discovery was made. NOLA the dog had consumed a good portion of the Clue board game. This was terribly distressing for Mark and Liz because that game was part of a set that was given to them as a wedding gift (since marriage gets boring after a while and you need something to do). Mark swatted NOLA on the nose and made her look at the destruction she had visited upon the Clue mansion board and its disemboweled denizens, as he said “No!” and “Bad!” repeatedly. NOLA ran to her cage after that. I helped clean up the pieces and was outwardly disappointed. Secretly, though, I could not help but remind myself that this latest development allowed me to retain the title of house Clue champion, a distinction I still hold today. We ate our dinner in virtual silence as the game’s destruction weighed heavily on the next hour.

After some family related phone calls were taken care of, I suggested we play another game to take our minds off the Clue situation. I proffered the game of Scrabble as an alternative. The McKenneys agreed. This is a game that I am pretty good at, although I am no Phillip Tinsley. The last time I played Mark in the game, I was fortunate enough to be able to lay all my letters down on the first turn as one big word, and it went downhill for my opponent after that point. I was not quite so fortunate this time; however, I still did pretty well and was able to claim victory. It is my understanding that I am still the house Scrabble champion, three player game division.

I decided to retire for the evening as champion of two board games, so we turned the television on and found, to our delight, that Executive Decision, starring Kurt Russell and some other actors, was showing. I put my laundry in the machine to wash while we watched this great action movie. It was about this plane that Kurt Russell is on with some terrorists. There is a pretty lady, some gunfire, and explosions, and the President of the United States has to make an “executive decision” just like the title of the movie. Someone even says those words referring to the President’s need to contemplate a course of action regarding this rogue jet. That course of action, of course, was the executive decision to which the movie title is referring. The President almost makes a choice, but then Kurt Russell finds a remote control that changes everything, and some guy on a stretcher tells another guy how to put a straw in a machine, so in the end, it all works out. This movie is also notable because it is the only movie in which a character played by Steven Segal has ever died. In my book, this makes Executive Decision a cinematic masterpiece.

After that movie was over with, we watched Law and Order: SVU. Multiple episodes of a show about sexually based murders felt like the right way to end the evening. Eventually, Liz went to bed, and Mark and I played Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic II, reliving some of the fun moments of our college experience. It was cathartic. I used the Internet to reserve a hotel in Fayetteville, North Carolina through the AAA website to get a discount. We chatted a bit more and then headed off to bed, since I needed to get up fairly early to leave the following morning.

Liz knocked on the door to wake me up at 8 so I could shower and bust a move. I showered and packed my personal effects. As per the usual Mark McKenney protocol, he was only vaguely coherent that morning. It usually takes him a good two hours to come to his senses after a night of sleep. Since I had to leave my blue jeans in the dryer longer than my other clothing the night before, I accidentally left my blue jeans at the McKenney house. As of the retelling of these events, the pants have not been returned to me. That transgression is going on my list of infractions to use the next time Mark gets after me about the iniquity I have supposedly visited upon him. I bid them farewell and left their driveway in the correct fashion to avoid unscheduled automobile body modification. The previous evening, Mark had given me backwater directions to avoid wasting time trying to get to I-75 the way I initially came. I enjoyed my time in Gainesville and look forward to seeing my friends again at some point in the near but indeterminate future.

Today, as I was shopping for furniture, I came a across a post on Craigslist that was included in some search results at which I was looking. I cannot quite interpret what this person is offering, but I do get the gist of what he wants in return. The posting has since been removed from Craigslist, but I printed it to PDF prior to that and have attached the PDF to this posting for your viewing pleasure.

I need to backtrack a bit before I discuss my drive to Gainesville. The moment I entered the eastern panhandle on Florida on I-10, there were signs every so often advertising a place known as Café Risqué. According to the signs, the premise of this eatery is that one can sit down for a nice meal while topless or nude women prance about, moving to and fro all the live long day. The signs implied that the women “bared all.” I suppose this is a level above the strip club buffet, but it is still nasty. I have had people try to explain to me why this is not gross, and I remain unconvinced that eating at one of these places can be clean. I refer back to my statement from Part 2 of this story: there is something about a shirtless person that does not mesh with the consumption of food in an enclosed structure being used for the purpose of commercial food service. Anyway, the signs on the highway all described this place as one huge awesome place to be. The directions April gave me took me along some country roads to get to I-10 without backtracking. By coincidence, these directions also took me past Café Risqué. It turns out that this restaurant, where one can dine on steaks in the presence of nudity, is nothing more than an oversized shack with aluminum siding; quite a dump. Totally grody, Jody. As it turns out, this would be the first of many encounters, as Café Risqué is a chain of nasty naked restaurants in Florida and along the East Coast.

Anyhow, I proceeded past this aluminum sided bacterial culture and got back on I-10 heading east. Supposedly, according to the word on the street, Gainesville is about five hours from Mary Esther, Florida. It turns out this is a common misconception that first arose in the 1700s due to a charting mistake made by a Spanish Viceroy. After about five hours, I had not even reached I-75 to head south Gainesville. I was getting hungry, so I decided that it was time to stop. The first few exits featuring restaurants all offered unsavory options such as Arby’s and something called the Huddle House. Finally, an oasis appeared in the form of a Denny’s restaurant. I was not in the mood for breakfast food, and Denny’s has been known to serve some lunch and dinner dishes of inferior quality, depending on the location. I guess it was not as much of an oasis as some sort of option of last resort. However, my hunger could not be denied at this point, so I exited the highway and pulled into the easily accessible Denny’s parking lot.

It had started raining rather hard as I arrived, so I ran into the restaurant. This Denny’s was virtually deserted except for a table of seemingly high school aged people. Tension inside the restaurant was so thick that it was getting all over my clothes. The hostess had her arm in a sling meant to immobilize it against her side. She told me she had fallen down the stairs, resulting in a possible dislocation of the shoulder. She was scheduled to go to Tallahassee the following week to get it examined. I was suspicious, though, as to the origin of this supposed accidental injury. The hostess asked me without a smile whether I would like a booth or table. I did not really care, but I said booth so that I could look out the window while I ate. Rather than lead me to the table, she rustled around for a bit until a waitress, who was probably in her forties, walked over to get the menu and take me to her table. As she approached, she was staring a hole through me that was so filled with contempt that I was actually a bit frightened. I am pretty sure this woman wanted nothing better that to attack me.

I have had only a few encounters that ever resulted in fisticuffs, and they were mostly in elementary and middle school. The most prominent would be when I enraged a young boy named Miguel by pointing out an inconsistency in a lie he had repeatedly been telling. He tackled me and hit me a few times before someone dragged him away. The look in this woman’s eyes told me that if I were to piss her off, there would be hell to pay, worse than any fight in which I have been involved. I could almost feel physical heat from the intensity of her stare.

She took the menu and led me to a booth that was caddy corner from the entrance of the restaurant. The high school kids all gave me the once over, and all the boys tried to put up macho facades. Since this was a booth made for six people, I thought that the waitress might be mad that I was taking up a larger table; but the restaurant was almost empty, so that did not make any sense. Then again, neither did her irrational angers. She took my drink order with contempt and I studied the menu. I did not want breakfast, and since I had been eating so much junk on the road thus far, I decided to order a grilled chicken salad. I figured it would be difficult to ruin such a dish.

While I waited for my meal, I telephoned my friend Megan, since I had not been able to contact her while I was in New Orleans. She answered and briefly told me that she was in New York City visiting friends and that she was out of cell phone minutes. She promised to call back over the weekend. I spent the rest of my waiting time watching the employs amble about the restaurant, carrying out what seemed to be unnecessary tasks. Then, out of nowhere, an argument blew up between the hostess with the arm sling and my waitress. Apparently, the hostess had moved a group of menus from one place to another, and my waitress considered the group of menus in question “her turf.” She yelled at the hostess for having committed this offense repeatedly in the past along with some other offenses. The hostess attempted to evade the accusations without engaging in the yelling, but it was to no avail, so she retreated back to her podium up front. I would not be surprised if she mysteriously fell down some stairs again, dislocating her other shoulder.

It either turns out I was wrong about the ease with which chicken salad can be ruined or the cook was just talented at ruining dishes. The lettuce was soggy and old tasting and the chicken was not warm and had left funny aftertaste. I picked at the salad a bit, considering my options. I could have sent the salad back, in full view of the large chef, who was a big question mark in this equation. However, that would have meant complaining to the scary waitress. This just did not seem like a smart move. This woman was big boned and toned. She would have beaten the crap out of me, as well as the tar, the stuffing, the snot, and any other foreign substances that may be inside me. So, contrary to my usual habit of having courage, I just tried to eat what I could of the salad so that I could pay my bill and get out of this place. Even though I was dissatisfied with every aspect of this dining experience, I left a normal tip because I did not want to wake up in the middle of the night to find my waitress standing over me with fists of fury.

I phoned Mark and Liz to let them know of my progress and tell them that I was not sure how much further I had to go before getting to I-75. It turns out, though, that I was quite close. I exited I-10 and began heading south to Gainesville. This part of the journey was much shorter and more efficient; and before I knew it, I was seeing many signs celebrating the awesomeness of the University of Florida Alligator Teams. I followed Mark’s driving instructions precisely and arrived at the McKenney household in the early afternoon. What surprises would await me inside? Stay tuned for part 3.2 to read more about this leg of my journey to Philadelphia.

Well, unfortunately, due to some unscheduled employee departures at work, April could no longer take days off from her jobs to focus her time solely on me. I was devastated at this development, but I recovered and adjusted my plans slightly. On my way out of New Orleans, I got my first view of New Orleans East since Katrina. There was a great deal of destruction and missing roofs; however, none of what I saw was surprising based on the many descriptions of the destruction and what I saw during my previous visit near the lake where the levee broke. Someone told me of a blighted trail through a neighborhood in New Orleans East where a tornado had torn its way through some abandoned houses months after Katrina, but I could not see this phenomenon as I drove out of the city.

I quickly exited Louisiana, the last time I would cross a Louisiana border for a long time, and officially entered what might be called the Deep South. I tried to make it all the way to Fort Walton before lunch so that April and I might grab a late lunch, but I eventually succumbed to some severe pangs of hunger. I called April to inform her of my pang-related situation, and she approved of my intentions to have some lunch on the road instead of waiting until I met her. April suggested I dine at the fine establishment known as the Cracker Barrel, with its fine Southern Cuisine and complex peg puzzle. I had only visited the Barrel once, at which time I managed to solve the peg puzzle with only one peg remaining. April was right; it was time to return to once again conquer the peg puzzle.

I believe I was still in Mississippi when I first attempted to visit the Barrel. The blue signs told me that the subsequent exit would lead to the restaurant. Sure enough, there it was, right at the side of the highway, seemingly placed to facilitate easy access for weary travelers. I took the exit ramp and made a right onto the crossroad. I figured I could then take another right and I would be in a parking lot or on a street that would lead to this fabled Cracker Barrel. The first right off the crossroad took me into the parking lot of a gas station and truck stop. I got to the back of the parking lot, but there was no way to get to the parking lot behind, which by my calculations was the Cracker Barrel parking lot. Then I noticed that the inaccessible lot was not to that of the Cracker Barrel and that I could no longer see the Cracker Barrel from that vantage point. I tried to go into different parking lots that would lead me further back so that I might get to the restaurant, but no lot or street would allow this. I could no longer see the restaurant and there were no signs indicating it was in the area. Finally, I figured no more time could be wasted, and I went back to the highway. I looked to the left once more before turning onto the feeder. I still could not see the restaurant. The instincts I gained watching horror movies told me that it must of have been some sort of optical illusion or holographic projections created by the townspeople to lure unwitting travelers in to be robbed and murdered. It is probably a good thing that I did not get out of my car to ask for directions, or I probably would not be writing about my experiences.

Anyhow, I got back on the highway and entered the state of Alabama. After a while, a blue sign again informed me of the presence of the Cracker Barrel near an exit. This time, however, I would not be denied. I exited and again made a right onto the crossroad. This restaurant situated as the satellite to an anchoring mall complex. I entered the mall complex, expecting to make my way through the parking area to the restaurant, but apparently, each parking area had one entrance/exit and patrons could not simple get from establishment to establishment. I had to follow a maze of parking lot roads to find the one entrance/exit to the Cracker Barrel parking lot. Apparently, in the Deep South, there is a concerted effort to make Cracker Barrel restaurants as inaccessible as possible to outsiders. Fortunately, I defeated this system and parked in the lot. Outside of the restaurant was a large older woman rocking slowly in the chair and not smiling. I walked into the restaurant, oblivious to the fact that I was wearing a shirt from an restaurant called the “Bronx City Diner.” I bought this shirt from Thrift City. I later found out it actually referred to a restaurant that briefly existed in New Orleans. When I walked into the restaurant, there was a burly man with a goatee looking through the souvenirs. He immediately saw my Bronx diner shirt. He turned and read the words aloud and asked if I was from New York. I tried to explain that it was actually a defunct restaurant in New Orleans, and then, to further distance myself from any stigma of the North, told him that I bought it at a thrift store. I also omitted the fact that I was on my way to Philadelphia. For some reason, the more I tried to explain, the more my voice sounded as if I was engaging in provoked confabulation. In a deeply suspicious Southern accent, the man said, “Well me and my family been to New Orleans many times, and we never seen no Bronx City Diner.” I responded to his statement by telling him he should look into my claims and get back to me. Then I realized that I did not even know this guy, and I needed to end this conversation, which I did, abruptly.

As I was being seated, I noticed that a chalkboard advertised that the chicken and dumplings was the dish for people in a hurry on the road, so I ordered that dish and a cola. Sitting at the table directly in front of me was a woman with a huge Southern hairdo next to her man. I glanced at her for a moment as I surveyed the people in the eating area. Her man quickly gave me the “don’t be gazin’ at my big-haired woman” look. At another tables were a couple of men with holstered guns. I assume they were plain clothes police officers, but they could have just been two dudes with guns. I don’t know what the laws are concerning guns in Mississippi. My chicken and dumplings arrived and they were tasty. They came with macaroni and cheese and nasty boiled potatoes. There was also a piece of corn bread. Afterward, I stood in line to pay. A lady tried to cut in line, but somebody behind me yelled at her to explain that the line started at the end.

The rest of the drive was uneventful except for a missed Bagdad exit. I arrived to find April on the phone, smoking. The neighborhood was very efficient and reminded me of a small community where all the officers might live in an old movie about the military fighting alien vampires from Pluto. I pulled in and waited for her to get off the phone. We then chatted for a few minutes as I moved my belongings into her house. She has a tabby named Ms. Kitty that acts like a friendly dog. One shocking discovery I made on first arriving is that April has been engaging in an elaborate subterfuge to trick me into believing she lives in Ft. Walton Beach. In actuality, she lives in Mary Esther. Needless to say, I was shocked. When I confronted her, she tried to obstruct my quest for the truth with a verbal barrage of insults and rhyming couplets before finally relenting and admitting that she was embarrassed to not be from Ft. Walton. I accepted her humble apologies and we moved on to better things. Unfortunately, not long after I arrived, April had to leave to work at her aunt’s restaurant, Ocean Municipality, for a couple of hours as a hostess. This worked well for me because it gave me a chance to wash my soiled clothing and plan future legs of my journey. When April returned, we decided to have a late dinner at TGI Friday’s. She called one of her friends who was in town for two weeks before moving to Figi for eight years, but this friend could not make it out with us.

As with any establishment that basketball superstar Magic Johnson is involved with, TGI Fridays was quite excellent. We got some spinach and artichoke dip and I had the Jack Daniels chicken for my main course. I spilled the sauce on my fresh shirt, which was quite embarrassing, but April told me we could just use a product called Spray and Wash which apparently keeps stains in a state of stasis until the clothing item can be subsequently washed. I have never heard of such a thing. I wish I had known about it before that day, as it could have saved the forty or so shirts I have disposed of after similar situations arose. Come to think of it, if I had known about this Spray and Wash, I could have avoided the embarrassing situations where I took the shirt off at the time of soiling in the restaurant for disposal without considering the consequences of my actions (i.e. no shirt for the rest of the meal). Nothing like me without a shirt to spoil the appetites of thirty or forty restaurant patrons. There is something about a shirtless person that does not mesh with the consumption of food in an enclosed structure being used for the purpose of commercial food service. After dinner, April and I went home and watched some television before crashing. I slept on an air mattress in the office, which was quite comfortable.

The next day, April had to go to work at her daytime job programming computers for the Army. One of my old coworkers called me in the morning to ask about a work assignment I had not been able to finish prior to leaving. I called Triple A to get driving directions from Gainesville to Washington D.C. including a good stopping point in the middle. Since a possible hurricane was brewing at the time, I also got help planning an alternate route on various state highways that would take me inland and away from danger. This route turned out to be unnecessary since Beryl never made hurricane status and traveled north, hitting Massachusetts.

Since Destin is about fifteen minutes from April’s house, I decided that I deserved some beach time. I took a quick drive to a beach called the Boardwalk and sat out reading in my gym shorts, since I did not know where my swimming trunks were located at the time. The beach sand was as white as remembered it from when I was younger. I had half a burger left over from TGI Fridays, and I ate that for lunch. April gave me this foamy sunscreen and a large beach towel from Polo Ralph Lauren. When it comes to beach towels, April spares no expense. Even with the sun block, however, I could not take the suns intensity for very long. I am quite wimpy when it comes to intense ultraviolet radiation.

I went back to April’s and washed off before settling on the couch to watch television. There was this program meant for mature audiences about various serial killers, such as a man named Ed Gein, who was the model for the serial killer in Silence of the Lambs. April called to say she had to go straight from the programming computers job to the Ocean Municipality hostessing job. In response, I ate her leftover pasta dish as an act of grief and defiance. I just wanted attention. When she finally returned, I had quite a headache, so we decided to lay low for the evening and simply dine at the local Waffle House. Recently, Waffle House started taking credit cards, which is an excellent development.

The next day, April told me that she would not have to hostess at Ocean Municipality. As such, she really wanted to take me to the Fish Bone Cafe, a popular chain of nice restaurants in Florida. During the day, I decided to go back to the beach. I made an effort to arrive much earlier to avoid the intense sunrays. I continued reading the book on the beach and took a nice long swim in the ocean that was quite nice. I went home and cleaned up before doing some reading while waiting for April to get back. April came home from a work related going-away party. We ran some errands before driving over to Destin to meet with her coworker for a sumptuous Fish Bone Cafe meal.

The ladies immediately ordered martinis while I ordered an iced cola. We had some coconut shrimp for an appetizer. April’s coworker recommended I order an “off the menu” dish that she liked, grilled swordfish topped with cream sauce with mushrooms, blue cheese, vegetables, fried shrimp, clams, crawfish, rice, fried catfish, a lobster, three poached eggs, and another sword fish. It came with a side of mashed potatoes. To quote an old roommate, it was “tasters”. Many topics were discussed during the meal. April and I explained to her coworker about how we dated for five minutes in 2002. Basically, April was using me for my meal points that I earned while working for Tulane Student Affairs. April likes to use people for their things, whether it be for my food points or somebody else’s books. Anyway, we started dating in the food court area. Everything was going well until we were going up the stairwell to get back to work. After April exited the stair well, I had an affair with a girl named Beatrice, I believe. April found out back in the office and we broke up. The relationship was so intense that we fit three years worth of dating emotions into those five minutes. I think that is a record. The coworker found that this gave her insight into April, as it finally explained some of her angers. For desert, we ordered one humongous, tasty crème brûlée. We were stuffed and went right home. I packed up and we both crashed.

April woke me up early the next morning so we could go to her favorite place for breakfast foods. I don’t remember what it was called, but it was full of old people. April ordered me to get the eggs benedict, and I complied out of fear. These Benedictine eggs were spectacular. We chatted for a bit as we at, summarizing the events of the three previous days. After leaving the cafe, April went on to work, and I went back to her house to pack my things and bust a move. April gave me the code to her garage so I can get in any time I want to steal things. I left the house and began my drive to Gainesville and the wonderful world of Mark #2 and his wife Liz #1.

It should be noted in the interest of full disclosure that Mark #2 is, in reality, Mark #3. However, since I rarely see of hear from the real Mark #1 any more, everybody shifted up by 1. Liz is probably, in reality, Liz #26, but she is #1 in my book so I gave her special dispensation to be #1.

I am in Philadelphia and just got internet in my new apartment. I will post the rest of the story of my travels in the next few days. I just want to make sure everyone knows that I wasn’t captured by any nefarious ne’er-do-wells.