23 August, 2024 10:25

December 22, 1996, Atmore, Alabama

Just think though I could be stuck in Atmore, Alabama listening to the refrigerator hum. How does anyone end up in Atmore? A steady buzz from the refrigerator filled the small cafe. Underneath its constant hum, the voices of the tired plastic waitress could be heard. Customers would walk in and for a moment interrupt the staff’s break. The three women could have been my grandmothers they were that old. What the hell where they doing working here? I had several hours to kill. The male worker, Oliver was in his forties. Perhaps he owned this dive. It was a twenty four-hour restaurant next to the bus/train station in Atmore, Alabama. Me? I was just passing through like perhaps maybe a couple of thousand strangers before me. This place survived on strangers and maybe made money off the locals. Either way it was there and so was I. The women spoke to each other in authentic southern drawl. Understandable–but their conversation was boring, not worth detailing. It is enough to note that television had not affected their speech, as each one of them spoke I could not help but wonder: how does one end up in Atmore? Couldn’t they make enough money and move to a city; heck Mobile isn’t that far away…Oliver spoke to me. Surprisingly his voice was very soft. It was almost indistinguishable from the hum of the refrigerator. "Where are you from?" "Atlanta." "Where are you headed?" "West Palm Beach to visit my granny." I wanted the conversation to end. I hate talking with people from nowhere. Call it conceit; but I don’t like coming off as an educated person-especially to good kind folk like Oliver. He whispered that he lived here in Atmore. I asked him if he owned this place. No, he does not, Mr. Sutton was the owner. A few more soft words left his lips. I nodded my head even though I could not hear a single thing he said. Oliver had to go back to the kitchen. I immediately began to write what had transpired. What caught my attention the most was the lie I was going to make up if Oliver and I had continued to speak to each other. You see, when I tell people who have little education in the formal sense, I hate coming across as the educated snob I am, so I make up the following tale: I grew up in Tampa (truth) but wanted to go out of state for college (truth)however, my parents couldn’t afford it, and my grades were poor (untruth). So, I ran track and got a full scholarship to a small private university. I consider myself fortunate I continue, and usually the conversation turns to lost hopes. It gets me down, but helps the person I am speaking with feel better—knowing that really I am one of them, just lucky. I always emphasize the element of luck in my life. Simple folk live and die on luck, so therefore it works well in the story. The story is so believable that sometimes, I wish it were all true. Alas, the truth is I am a product of two college educated upper middle class parents. My parents paid for my entire education. Not only that, but the school I went to doesn’t even give athletic scholarships. Oh well. A little lie can get one through the rough parts of life.