Cheyenne wanted the subject changed. “Serge has offered to take us to lunch.”
“Damn straight!” said Serge. “It’s the least I can do for your service to the nation. The only condition is I get to pick the place. I’ve been dying to try one of Okeechobee’s famous steak houses.
A loud crash on the other side of the wall, followed by a scream and a thud.
Serge pointed. “I’ll go get Coleman.”
A gold Plymouth pulled into a parking lot.
Kyle looked up at the sign. “I thought you wanted to go to one of our famous steak houses.”
“I do. This is it!” Serge slammed down an empty coffee mug. “No finer choice!”
“Golden Corral? But you can eat at these anywhere in the country.”
“Accept no substitutes!” said Serge. “Golden Corral is the pulse of America, where the Forgotten Fly-Over-Country People dine, and I mean that as a compliment. Pundits mention the Forgotten People like they genuinely care, but there’s an unmistakable subtext of condescension. This is why the elitists can never get their predictions right. Whether it’s elections, consumer confidence, shifting social tectonics, just chuck your fancy algorithms and scientific polls. Golden Corral is the Rosetta stone, the Oracle of Menestheus and the Magic Eight Ball rolled into one. The reasons are myriad, but one rises above all others: They have a chocolate fountain. There can be no greater symbol of straight-shootin’, salt-of-the-earth integrity. As the pinnacle of the Corral’s ziggurat, the chocolate fountain cannot be surpassed or even questioned.”
The Plymouth slowly crawled through the gridlocked parking lot. “Wow, is this place jammed! Their food must be extra popular in these parts.”
“It’s veteran appreciation day,” said Kyle.
“What’s that mean?” asked Serge.
“Across the country, all veterans eat free today.”
“The chocolate fountain has just been eclipsed.”
An old man in a USS Iowa baseball cap suddenly jumped in front of the Plymouth with hands urgently raised for them to stop. At several other nearby points, more vets halted other cars.
“World War Two vet pulling out!”
Others were positioned behind a Buick Regal, using hand signals to help the driver inch backward like a snail. Serge jumped from his car and joined the flag-less semaphore team directing the vehicle. “God, I love these people! . . .”
Inside the restaurant, a color guard and a small contingent from the high school band. Most of the people at the tables wore some kind of hat or vest commemorating their service.
Serge grabbed a plate. “I’ve inadvertently entered an overkill of positive vibes.” He led his group along the salad bar. “Let me show you how to make a salad. Most people simply throw a salad together because it’s just a salad. But it’s actually a statement. Please stand back . . .” They gave him space as he became a windmill of motion. Ingredients filled his plate, first in meticulous layers, then quadrants. “. . . A true salad is about architecture and engineering. I’m borrowing from the Romans for my potato salad basilica, and now for the victory arch . . .”
The packed dining room was a southern aroma symphony. Catfish, barbecued chicken, roast beef, okra, hush puppies, popcorn shrimp, three kinds of gravy.
Kyle pointed with a fork. “Serge, aren’t you hungry?”
Serge sat back in his chair with his head tilted sideways. “This salad is way too damn big.” His fork hovered over the single cherry tomato on top. “How does one even approach eating this without an avalanche?”
Cheyenne took a bite of beef. “So, Serge, what are you up to next?”
“Communing with these fine folks and learning their ways.” He leaned toward the next table, where four old guys in suspenders and U.S. Navy caps were cutting steak. “Excuse me! Yoo-hoo! You know my new motto? Remember the Forgotten People! I think it’s got legs. Don’t pay no mind to the New York–L.A. cultural axis. There’s an untapped reservoir of values and enlightenment in this room.”
“Are you okay?” asked one of the guys.
“Fantastic, except for this ridiculous salad. But I’ve learned to accept what I can’t change.” A grin. “So tell me, what does Golden Corral have that those pointy-headed ivory tower types don’t understand?”
One of the old guys continued chewing. “A chocolate fountain.”
“Bingo!” said Serge. “It looks like an ordinary chocolate fountain, but you and I know what it really means.” Wink. “All across the country there’s an economic Mendoza Line, below which the middle and lower classes are secretly viewed by our oligarchs as the livestock class. How else can it be explained? Our paycheck-to-paycheck toil created their staggering fortunes. In return, all our safety nets are under siege in the name of corporate greed that won’t be quenched until our lives are reduced to perpetual white-knuckled freak-outs hurtling toward premature, pre-existing-condition death. Who could do that in good conscience to another human being? On the other hand, if they see us as livestock instead of people, then it all makes sense: A political consultant stands at the front of a conference room with a projector. ‘Our research shows we can easily convince the beef cattle to vote for the owners of the slaughterhouse. First we get them pissed off at the dairy cows—’”
“Quick,” Kyle told his sister. “Grab his coffee.”
“Just talkin’ ’bout the chocolate fountain,” said Serge. “It’s the secret symbol of recognition among our people, like that creepy eyeball atop the pyramid on the back of a one-dollar bill.”
Cheyenne smiled. “When I asked what you were up to next, I meant where are you going?”
“Oh, that’s different.” Serge stuck his fork in the salad, triggering a rockslide of croutons. “You’re all witnesses. Not my fault . . . Anyway, I’m continuing my Florida odyssey of sweeping ramifications, but aren’t they all? This one involves connective tissue that is pulling us in a tractor beam toward the lost town of Ortona, then Clewiston, before whipping under the bottom of Lake Okeechobee and visiting Belle Glade and Pahokee, collectively known as The Muck, for its rich earth. The welcome sign to Belle Glade says ‘Her Soil Is Her Fortune.’ The sign to Pahokee just says ‘Pahokee.’ It’s hard to figure people out.”
“I know all those places,” said Kyle.
“Me too,” said Cheyenne.
“How so?” asked Serge. “You’re from the north side of the lake.”
“But I played football,” said Kyle. “We had away games. My father was one of the coaches in Okeechobee, and around the lake, all the coaches pretty much knew each other. From the time I was a little kid, we were always having dinner at someone’s house in another small town.”
“I was a cheerleader,” said Cheyenne. “It’s hard to believe now with the way many of those towns are boarded up, but I heard that back in the 1930s the whole area was called the ‘winter vegetable capital of America.’ It was a twenty-four-hour operation with refrigerated warehouses and trains constantly coming and going to rush the produce north while still fresh, not to mention thousands of workers filling the juke joints and gambling houses at all hours near the shantytowns that sprang up.”