Road Trip

The waitress plops a crafted wooden object down on our table. "I'm expecting a phone call," she says. "Will you watch it for me?" She smiles and reveals a set of seriously rotted bottom teeth.

The thing she has put down consists of a couple of pieces of wood glued together - a half-round piece about 10 inches long, with two thin rounds glued at either end. Handwritten in marker on it are the words, "Hillbilly cell phone. Instructions: go to the top of the hill and holler. If nobody answers, holler again."

She is waiting to see our reaction. Nicola and I laugh at her joke, but I feel slightly uncomfortable. We are having breakfast in a Waffle House, somewhere off the highway in Arkansas. The yellow sign advertising the Waffle House from the highway turned out to be about as big as the actual restaurant. Any lack of auspiciousness of the venue, however, was made up for by the lovely smiles and warm greetings from all the waitresses as we walked in. They are all wearing t-shirts that proudly announce "Arkansas".

Is it just my insecurity, my self-consciousness of having more means and opportunity, that makes me imagine an edge in her voice, a challenge in her joke, "Go ahead, laugh at us hillbillies, you city slicker." I try extra hard to be friendly and appreciative to the Waffle House staff.

"Where are you kids from?" she asks, as she deposits our plates of eggs.

"New York," Nicola says. With a hint of apology?

As we leave Waffle House, one of the other waitresses opens the door for me. "So you're from New York?" she says. "That's nice." She has none of the edge of the other waitress. She is looking at me with admiration and perhaps a little wistfulness.

"It's ok," I say. "It very big, hectic. None of this nice nature you have down here," and I think what am I doing? "Its good, though," I add. "Lots of energy, lots going on."

"Expensive up there, huh? What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a graphic designer," I say.

"Oh, there's money in that," she says instantly as if that explains everything.

I am perplexed, never having thought of graphic design as something with money in it. "Not so much," I say. "I mean... I guess enough to get by." We smile at each other awkwardly.

"Thanks so much for breakfast," I say.

"Ok, have a good drive," she says.

I drive away from Waffle House contemplating the possibility of not being able to drive away from Waffle House - the invisible barriers of money and class that keep us so well in our place in the world.