Excerpt: DINO

The Waffle House in Batesville, Mississippi looked like any other Waffle House; a yellow shoebox surrounded by an entangled mess of power lines, gas stations, and budget motels. Though an outsider, it seemed to me the South had traded the uniqueness of its charm for the monotony of convenience, making it difficult to identify the subtle yet crucial distinctions within the deeply revered and equally monotonous restaurant chain. I placed my trust in my friend Caleb, who had lived throughout the Deep South and was well-versed to Waffle House culture. He was able to distinguish the good ones from the bad ones from the scary ones. I followed him into the bustling diner and watched him casually approach an empty stool along the countertop, where he sat down like a Saturday morning regular. I couldn’t match Caleb’s composure because I was struck by several surprising observations. When I grabbed the handle on the front door and held it open, no syrupy gunk clung to my hand, and as I walked inside, the soles of my shoes did not cling to any mysterious spills. Instead of the anticipated greasy aroma mixed with traces of body odor, the Waffle House in Batesville smelled of bacon, waffles, and coffee. Also, Caleb and I happened to be the only two white people in the place. 

In this regard, I must ask for understanding. I was raised on a remote ranch and graduated high school with 14 other people who looked just like me. My first meaningful conversation with an African American didn’t occur until I attended a small college, where I played baseball with a politically minded African American teammate. He introduced me to politics, and we joined the campus Democrats together. Though there were only seven of us total, it was an enlightening experience that taught me the value of diversity and of equity and of my whiteness within these contexts.

So, I was ashamed of my visceral reaction to the demographics inside the Batesville Waffle House, but again, forgive me, I am simply not used to such environments. Until we crossed the state line earlier this morning, I had never stepped foot in the state of Mississippi. Therefore, my understanding of the state was shaped by its history, racial, and political infamy. The legacy of figures like Medgar Evers and James Meredith, and Mississippi Burning weighed heavy on my mind, standing in the foyer of the Waffle House, where I became hyperaware of this privilege and saddened for reasons I cannot fully explain.

Despite my inner turmoil, none of the black patrons in the Waffle House paid me any attention. Quickly, I took a seat next to Caleb at the countertop and awkwardly studied a menu. 

The front door opened and shut behind us and someone gently said, “War Eagle.” A family of Auburn fans had walked in and huddled together near the doorway. The man of the family looked about my age, 30-something, but he was dressed in Under Armour branded Auburn gear from his orange and blue shoes right up to the low-rise visor on his head. His son wore a #2 Cam Newton jersey and his young daughter dressed like a cheerleader with temporary Auburn tattoos on her face. His wife removed an orange and blue pom-pom from her purse and shook it when our eyes met. “War Eagle!” she repeated, louder this time.

Caleb remained inconspicuous and pretended like he didn’t see them. His gameday outfit – blue jeans, plain navy-blue sweater, and a navy-blue interlocking AU cap - were understated in comparison. He thought wearing three or more pieces of Auburn flare was tasteless, which was a truly absurd standard on the road versus a rival from the West division within the Southeastern Conference. To counteract his snobbish fashion ideals and his discreet Auburn fanfare, I liked to embarrass my friend with exuberance for all things Auburn, most especially the ubiquitous War Eagle exchanged on this occasion as a greeting between Auburn people.

“War Eagle!” I shouted back, matching the family’s sartorial enthusiasm, and I smiled and tipped my own Auburn cap.

“War Eagle!” the family replied in cloying unison before a passing waitress cut them off.

“It’ll be just a minute,” the waitress said, “We really busy and most of ‘em just sat down.”

The Auburn man smiled wide and nodded and apologized like it was his fault the restaurant was full. He kindly indicated they were in a hurry and would have to try a drive-thru. Though polite, his accent sounded coarse, more country than Southern, more straight ticket Republican than folksy or poignant. I was always in search of that elusive, soft accent, and always disappointed when I heard generic redneck instead.

But before he left, the Auburn man approached us. “The food here tasted better when they only accepted cash,” he said.

I had no clue what he meant, so I just smiled and laughed cordially.

“You boys headed to the ball game?” the man asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I answered enthusiastically.

The man raised his eyebrows. “I sure hope Gus is ready to go today.”

SEC fans always referred to their head coaches in this manner, as if Auburn’s Gus Malzahn was a demigod through which the outcome of the game would be solely decided.

“That’s a hot seat he’s sitting on,” I added. “But he’s used to it by now. He’ll have the boys ready.”

“Say, do y’all need tickets to the game?” the man asked through another wide smile. “I had a buddy cancel and we’ve got two seats on our row. They ain’t too good but they’re in an Auburn section and they’re on the house if you want them.”

I spoke up quickly and rejected the offer before Caleb had time to contemplate the idea. “Awfully generous, sir, but we’ve already got tickets,” I said.

This wasn’t exactly true, because we didn’t have tickets. Caleb’s cousin had the actual tickets in his possession. We were scheduled to meet with him sometime before the game, but in all the years I had known Caleb, on the rare occasion he mentioned his extended family, it was always in a derogatory manner. ‘Fractured, white trash, back dealing rednecks,’he called them. It seemed prudent to accept the Auburn stranger’s gift of tickets in hand, just in case Caleb’s cousin lived up to the family name and either let us down or tried charging us a fortune for them.

However, there was an extenuating circumstance that outweighed Caleb’s usual impression of his family, introduced to me by his own mother. She called Caleb first, telling him that she had secured tickets on our behalf. All we had to do was meetup with the cousin. Then, she called me and revealed the truth after I swore on Caleb’s father’s grave to take the conversation to my own final resting place.

The cousin indeed had the tickets and agreed to let us have them, but he also had vital news about the family. The details remained a mystery, as Caleb’s mother either would not or could not divulge them, other than to suggest that the secret would be a revelation for her son. She insisted that I steer Caleb toward the cousin because she believed that if Caleb knew there was more than just football tickets involved, he would avoid the cousin at all costs. I agreed with her assessment. It was my opinion that Caleb should donate his body to science, because if his chest was opened and examined during an autopsy, they’d find a circuit board and wires before they ever found a beating heart. So, I accepted this mission from Caleb’s mother, and intended to carry it out with commitment and fervor.

“War Eagle!” the Auburn Man added after we thanked him for the offer.

“War Eagle,” Caleb mumbled.

“War Eagle!” I said.

When I spun back around in the stool, a waitress hovered over us. She had thin braids pulled taut against her head, and she wore bright eye shadow that matched the neon green fingernails clicking against each other when she tossed the yellow order pad on the counter and wrapped her chubby fingers around a pen.

“Mornin’” she said. She leaned against the counter with her attention on us generally, but with her eyes elsewhere. “We havin’ coffee?”

“Yes ma’am,” Caleb answered. His own mutt of a Southern accent drawled a little more when he was back in this part of the world, but as always, he spoke low, just enough volume to be heard by his audience, and not a tick louder.

I nodded, yes.

“Y’all want cream?”

“Yes ma’am,” Caleb repeated.

I nodded again.

“I’m gonna bring y’all a water, too,” she said and finally trained her eyes on me, then my Auburn windbreaker. “I can tell by that ugly orange y’all are up to no good today.”

“Yes ma’am, it is an obnoxious color,” Caleb said without skipping a beat.

The waitress pulled two ceramic mugs from a drying rack and set them down, then poured coffee out of a glass pot. She placed the mugs in front of us along with a small dish of Half & Half pods, then poured ice water into two clear cups. When she returned to us, she had a twisted, confused look on her face.

“I got a question for y’all.”

“Let’s hear it,” I said.

“I get that Ole Miss people have a reputation for being kind of snobby. You know, preppy. And I get that Mississippi State people are more like the country type, but what are Auburn people supposed to be?”

I laughed, knowing I was incapable of defining it, so I let Caleb take a stab at it.

“Take 60% of a State person,” he began, “Forty percent of an Ole Miss person, add 10% extra credit to account for Alabama, and that’s what an Auburn person is supposed to be. Make sense?”

It certainly didn’t make much sense to me, but our waitress seemed to understand. She nodded, then said, “Makes sense. ‘Cept for the part about Alabama. But, why do Auburn folks say War Eagle? Ain’t y’all the Tigers?”

I looked at Caleb and grinned. “Remind me, why do the Auburn Tigers say War Eagle, Caleb?” Of all Auburn fans, especially Auburn fans who graduated from the university, Caleb was in the running for least inspired when it came to the school’s traditions.

“You want the long, corny version? Or the short answer?” Caleb asked, dry as ever.

“Short answer,” the waitress shot back, then quickly added, “Y’all know what you want to eat?”

Caleb answered instinctually. “All-Star. Over-easy. Grits. Add hash browns - smothered, covered, diced. Bacon times two. Wheat toast, please.”

I scanned over the menu, same as it ever was, but for once I felt the urge to try something new. I just couldn’t seem to zero in on anything. Steak & Eggs, maybe. I sensed an impatient frown from the waitress, so I pointed at Caleb with my thumb. “Tell the War Eagle story,” I said without averting my eyes from the menu. I wanted to hear him struggle through an explanation in the meantime.

Caleb took a quick breath and spoke fast. “A long time ago, one Auburn person said War Eagle to another Auburn person. Who the hell knows why? But the second person said War Eagle back to the first person and a third person heard it, and so on. Now it’s like shaking hands and saying ‘peace be with’ you in church. You have to say it. You don’t always mean it.”

That amount of cynicism, so thickly applied, made me burst out loud with laughter. The waitress, too. Saucy and bobbing her head, she cackled and said, “Don’t always mean it, huh? Kinda like me saying ‘Go Rebels!’” She looked back to see if anyone in the kitchen heard her, and she shared a laugh with a waiter.

I found her humor confusing. The University of Mississippi’s awful, racist Rebel nickname was certainly no joking matter for me. It was a cruel, offensive reference, and though my only physical connection to Mississippi was this very seat in this very Waffle House, I despised any Mississippian that accepted this traitorous rally cry, and I despised them for reasons far more essential than football colors. I inferred that the waitress was disguising some unfathomable truth within her joke, and laughter was the only solace she had left to deal with it.

I tossed the menu on the counter and said, “I’ll have the same as him, but now I have a question for you, ma’am, because I know precisely what you mean when you mock the expression Go Rebels.”

The waitress evidently recognized my seriousness, as her laughter halted, and her face resumed the static expression with which she first greeted us.

I asked her, “How can the state University of Mississippi continue to associate itself with such an offensive nickname? It’s appalling. Embarrassing, really. And worst of all oppressive, don’t you think?”

She angled her head so both me and the kitchen could hear her, and a little smile broke on the corner of her mouth when she said, “It could always be worse, mister. We could have to say Roll Tide!” and this time the cackle turned into a belly laugh and she slapped a cook on the shoulder…CLICK HERE TO READ MORE