https://www.angelfire.com/zine2/letters/index.html
melindaedison@hotmail.com
Running the Border
copyright 2002 by Melinda Edison
On Wednesday I was taxigirl. I took my pal the Z-man over to the beautiful county seat of Winnebago County, a town called Rockford. It’s an ancient town of crumbling architecture and lots of Girls! Girls! Girls! clubs that straddles the glittery Rock River.
I dropped Z off at the steps to the courthouse and tried to find a parking space somewhere between the derelicts, wife beaters, felons, welfarites, and a swarm of scaggy-ass pro bono lawyers. All Z needed was a copy of a license for his insurance company. In and out, I guessed, so I waited in the car watching the stairs for his reappearance.
Al Capp used the people of Woodstock, Illinois as templates for his Dick Tracy characters. Rockford is the same way. Actually I think any county capitol is a hang out for interesting characters.
Eminem is grinning crazy, carrying his baby. Everything must have gone well. His really straight cubiclegirl wife opens the car door for him.
There must be invisible people here. The man walking down the street toward my car is waving and talking to nonexistent people on both sides of him.
Some rumpled, brown-suited, briefcase- holding junior lawyer is doing the same thing. Or is he running through his plea?
A woman in black legging is holding hands with her fella. Her butt and thighs are enormous, every cellulite bump showing. I love the idea that there is someone for everyone. I am always beating myself up about sticking to some American magazine ideal. It’s nice to know that even if my face melts off and I gain 12 pounds I will still be able to find someone to love me.
A parking meter person pulls up alongside me. I am in a 15-minute parking space. The toothless guy smiles at me and marks my tire. He would be perfect in a painting.
Really all of the people of Rockford are interesting. Most of them look like they walked straight out of the 1940s, or the 50s at the latest. They have texture, complexity, and an earnestness that I don’t often see. Of course I am a vapid suburbanite straight out of a catalog. I fit into almost any social situation without standing out. These folks have trouble with that, they demure. Even the cop talking to the three chubby black girls at the Mobil had a problem looking at me like he was nervous. Oh damn, maybe I am a bold, forceful bitch. Nah, just another neurotic fake intellectual.
Anyway, attention all movie studios: Use Rockford! It is very authentic! The people here need the influx of Hollywood dollars. Come One! Come All!
Z and I zipped out of town on business 20. This is the strip…malls, restaurants, and car dealerships. We wanted food. Z has an extremely narrow palate, which I respect but don’t comprehend. He says no to at least eight places. Then I spied Ryan’s Steak Buffet.
“How about that place?” I said as I zoomed by.
“Well, okay.” He answered about a mile later. I swung the car around and rocketed back west on 20.
WheeeeeeeeeOooooooo! It was indeed a buffet, a buffet mainly of soul food! $5.39 all- you-can-eat.
Thankfully the name of each food was written on the Plexiglas sneezeguard with a grease pen, I would have been lost.
I didn’t see anything for Z, but suggested the beef stew. He took the huge beef chunks out of the stew and added a dab of mashed potatoes and gravy to his plate.
Me? I started with a tablespoon of lots of stuff. Hey it’s buffet! Which translates to “try everything” to me.
Collards taste like bitter spinach, looks like that too. I wonder if collards are the bitter herbs mentioned in the bible? Z tells me he thinks it is an actual plant.
I had barbequed chicken, a fried chicken wing, pork hock and cabbage, okra that is battered and deep-fried (looks like tater tots, tastes like okra), chicken pot pie, black-eyed peas, lima beans, and a sweet potato thing topped with browned Fluff that is incredible, yet it is soooooo very sweet your mouth can’t undertake more than two bites.
Damn this was fun.
A waitress immediately came over with three empty plates for each of us and some gigantic honey buns.
They did have pizza and baked potatoes and a vast salad bar but I wanted to taste the soul food, all of it.
On my third trip back to our Formica table Z’s face looked all scrunchy and glum.
“You are too much responsibility for me.”
“What?”
“All of the men are staring at you. I am too old to protect you.”
“Z, no biggie. They probably think I am a funny skinny girl acting like a glutton or maybe it’s my “True Love” T-shirt.”
“No. They are staring at your ass.”
“All men stare at all women’s asses. Relax Z. I am fine. How’s the beef?”
“Yes, it’s good. If you need anything else, I’ll get it.”
Z finished with a hot fudge sundae.
I spied a little girl in pigtails skipping over to the restroom. A man in a raincoat followed a few moments later. The door says “restrooms.” I am confused and concerned. It isn’t raining out.
I guess I am a bold bitch cause I bolted out of my chair. Beyond the main restroom entrance there were two separate man/woman restrooms. The girl was fine. I wouldn’t let my little girl go to a public bathroom alone. Even my 12 year-old nephew asks me to wait by the man’s restroom door when we travel together. Safety, dammit!
Z is finished. I need to drive him home. As we leave I see a huge yellow and black poster: Every Friday/ All-You- Can-Eat Catfish/$5.79.
“Hey Z! Let’s do that some Friday.”
