Welcome to Braggsville

I thought, Okay, Southerners are like Chinese. We have pig’s feet and ears, and even the ovaries. A collective groan issued forth. Louis raised his hands. I don’t write the news. I just deliver the paper. Whole point is if we even got the ovaries, you know we don’t waste nothing. We eat everything but the oink or, sometimes in our case, the bark.

A hush fell over the crowd. That’s a joke, you all, Louis added, and the crowd went into an uproar, clapping and stomping their feet.

Louis paused, savoring the moment. He was much better than Daron expected.

Louis began speaking, but in the corner, Uncle Roy whispered in Aunt Chester’s ear, a mite too loudly, I think he mean they eat dogs. See! and the crowd went wild again.

Daron’s father was red in the face, as was his mother, who clapped both hands over her mouth as she often did when laughing against her will. His cousins held their sides as if in pain, and tears streamed down Quint’s face. After the crowd finally settled down, Louis continued.

And vegetarians? Who would willingly give up meat? I saw a menu in Cali with vegetarian beef stew. That’s going too far. If it’s vegetarian, why does it need a meat name? It just can’t be good. It’s got to be like sexing a blow-up doll. It’ll do the trick for a minute, but you won’t feel good about it afterwards, and you keep it to yourself, and you hide it when company comes over. He bowed to thunderous applause.

For the rest of the night, Louis was the star. Daron had wanted to invite Jo-Jo but knew he wouldn’t fit in. The last time he’d seen Jo-Jo was over winter break. They’d spent the afternoon on the hill above Old Man Donner’s land drinking Old Grand-Dad, sitting Indian-style on a ledge of rock that gun-sighted dead right over downtown, a meager allotment of buildings cupped in a gentle swale, Main Street stitching through like a scar. Once more, Jo-Jo had called him early, asked him to take a ride. Once more, they had ridden in silence.

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