Post by zeb on Oct 3, 2020 20:13:27 GMT -5
Fast food was not a convenience that had yet been afforded to Comer, Georgia.
The closest they’d gotten was a franchise dubbed Chicken Express in nearby Lexington. Those who knew about it often lit up when divulging its big secret: however many tenders you ordered in a meal, they’d throw an extra one in there for you without cost. If you had the appetite for a five-piece, just order four and you’d be all set.
Their competitors who were a thirty-minute drive away were no match for their hospitality. No, not even the friendly demeanor of the Colonel could hold a cock-a-doodle candle to them. Not only were their chicken strips bigger, but they had a couple of other aces up their greasy sleeve. And while they may not have been quite as world-renowned as Chick-Fil-A’s, there was always a giant container of complimentary gravy included with every meal. And let’s not forget the sides. The sheer innovation of the Express was highlighted by a treat they had called the “corn nugget.” Instead of just a bland half-cup of whole kernel corn, they had deep-fried it into tasty morsels. No utensils necessary, mother fucker. Just good eatin’.
Unfortunately, thanks to the temporary peace treaty formed by the ganglike Zaxby’s and Bojangles to unify and rough up their competition out of the southeastern United States, the Chicken Express was forced to close up shop. Oglethorpe County had lost their only drive-through window offering and had not had a replacement since.
The saddest part of this incredibly depressing tale? Even when Chicken Express was around, they didn’t serve breakfast. So, when you had an itch for a bacon and egg biscuit in the morning, you only had a few options. The quaint little doublewide known as Granny’s Kitchen was always a good pick, but the line out the door was often a little too long when you were in a hurry. However, if you wanted quality and convenience, there was no better option than the Bread Basket.
Here’s the thing, though: while it wasn’t necessarily a well-kept secret for the locals, you’d have driven right by this place without giving it a second glance if you were only passing through. The Bread Basket was actually a Chevron-branded gas station across the street from an old train depot in the town of Colbert. Travelers unfamiliar to the area would normally take one look at the twenty-five cent gouge in fuel prices and opt to find a cheaper stop down the road. The residents also knew better than to fill up here, but the allure of the place was most certainly on the inside.
At first glance when you walk in, it didn’t appear to be much more than your average convenience store. Of course, since it was plopped right in the heart of the southeastern United States, the only noticeable difference was the overabundance of Mountain Dew. Not only could you grab a can or a bottle in the beverage cooler in the back, the Basket had an additional display to head up the candy aisle.
Once you caught the aroma over in the far left corner, though, you unearthed the secret. The smell of succulent sustenance drenched in a metric ton of margarine wafted from within the silver tins that sat within a glass-lined display. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, smoked sausage, chicken-fried steak, chicken-fried chicken, pork tenderloin, and a valley of golden biscuits just within striking distance of several metal tongs awaited you.
You never imagined heaven to have steam lines coming off its floor, but here it was.
Clad in typical Wrangler Five-Stars, chocolate-colored layaway boots and a gray Gwinnett Stripers T-shirt, Zeb Martin had a grin on his face like he was first laying eyes on a newborn. His pride and joy, and the only thing he had touted as the place “you gotta go to” to his companion from out of town.
Milly Clydesdale seemed less enthralled.
The sphere of professional wrestling camaraderie stretched far and wide, and it only seemed natural that these two would eventually cross paths. The Georgia International Horse Park was more or less a mecca of equestrian sports, and one of the many places on Milly’s bucket list to visit. Her contractual obligation with APEX Wrestling had put her in the state, so now was as good of a time as any to check it off. However, most of the roster had already returned home. Thankfully, an acquaintance had borne a friendship with a fellow grappler who just so happened to know the surrounding area pretty well.
It was a roll of the dice for her, as she’d only been provided word of mouth endorsement as to Zeb’s general character and good nature. He could very well have been a complete creep, but figured that if it’d been the case, she could easily bolt out of sight without so much as a text goodbye. The Watson Mill Kid had his own reservations. He was mindful himself of making any enemies in the business, regardless of whether or not they’d ever cross paths in the same promotion. He was well aware that Milly was presently spoken for, and was hesitant to make sure that any boundaries weren’t crossed when presenting the invite to chauffeur her around the state.
Luckily for the two of them, it had been a carefree weekend. A horse girl and a country boy doing horse and country things had kept them comfortable in their own skin. So much to the point that she had zero misgivings when he’d suggested a thirty-minute ride in the opposite direction of the Atlanta airport to grab “the best breakfast you done ever go’n eat.”
Not to say that she didn’t appreciate a quaint little eatery now and then, but a convenience store?
“What you gettin’?” Zeb asks, tilting the brim of his Levi Garrett Racing hat with one hand and instinctively hooking his thumb through a belt loop with the other.
Milly shrugs, looking back up at him. “What do you recommend?”
“Dern,” he replies, “tough ‘un tuh say.” They slowly amble over to the serving area, past the numerous displays of gas station kitsch and traditional snack items. Behind the food display was a portly woman, torso draped in a plain white apron that reached just down to thigh level. A regulation hair net covered a graying perm, and a wart the size of a moon crater accentuated the right side of her cleft chin.
Milly giggles at an embroidered cloth sign on the wood-paneled wall behind the server, pointing an index finger and slightly nudging Martin. “Fat people have more fun,” she recited aloud. “So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all these years.”
The Bread Basket employee smiles. It had been a couple of years since someone had acknowledged that, but she was ready at the helm with her rehearsed response. “‘Cept when yer workin’,” she bellows with cheer in her voice. “Hey there, young man: been a while since I seen’t you ‘round here!”
Zeb beams back at her. “Yes ma’am. Been up mostly in Chicago, ‘side from comin’ tuh see momma an them. This here’s Milly, she’s a friend uh mine.”
“Awww, I love that name! And I shore do adore that accent! Milly, good tuh meet you. What y’all eatin’ this mornin’?”
The leader of the Stable twinkles back at her, flattered by the compliment. “Nice to meet you, too! I don’t know what I want. I tried to get him to tell me, but he’s no help.”
“Honey child,” the woman replies with a shake of her head, “you ever met ANY man before? No offense, this un here’s a real nice boy, but you know what I’m sayin’.”
“Ain’t go’n debate that,” Zeb agrees. “But go on add a side uh tater boats too with whatever biscuit she gets.”
“Wouldn’t let no first-timer not get ‘em,” the server acknowledges.
Milly glances over to Zeb. “‘Tater boats’?”
“Trust me,” he reassures. “If you o’nt like ‘em, I’ll eat ‘em.”
“Fine. Let’s sail away on the tater boats,” Milly smirks, peering into the glass to make a decision on the rest of her meal. “And I think I’ll do a sausage and egg biscuit, too? I’ve had that on a muffin before at a Dunkin Donuts and it was pretty tasty.”
Both Martin and the Bread Basket employee exchange a knowing look to one another. “This go’n change yore life, Milly,” he proclaims. “I’ll get a chicken egg’n cheese, please and thankya.”
Zeb took a passing glance over to the front entrance of the convenience store as the woman began to prepare their orders. Sure, this wasn’t the only gas station on the planet that could fix you up with a quick meal. Wawa, Sheetz, and QuikTrip were arguably leading the charge in this concept on a nationwide basis.
What did seem to be an anomaly here was that people actually sat in the booths that had been set up inside the store itself.
Although he’d only been inside the Bread Basket one other time in the past eight months, one thing still remained consistent. It was around 8:30, and the same crew of old men, like clockwork, had occupied the space of two of these tables. It was a ritual for all of them, seven days a week except for holidays. In about thirty minutes or so, they’d all disperse back to their homes and get ready for the Sunday service. Half to the First Baptist Church, half to the First Methodist Church, both of which being less than a mile from one another right there in Colbert.
Weekdays, they tended to linger around a little longer. People had often joked how they’d avoided running out of things to talk about. The undisclosed reason to everyone else was that they’d typically recycle the same subjects. How the liberals were ruining this once great nation. How the kids around here didn’t understand what it was like to put in an honest day’s labor. Unbeknownst to Zeb, when the news hit that a local boy would be a featured television wrestler, he ended up as a topic for discussion for a couple of weeks. (Oddly enough, while the men were usually in agreement on most everything, the jury was a bit split on the Watson Mill Kid. The rural South tended to be a bit more sympathetic when it came to “rasslin.”)
Growing up, Zeb always carried a bit of resentment toward that group. Partially because his grandfather had long touted them as “a bunch of fuckin’ hens thinkin’ they roosters,” but mostly it was just due to their resistance to see the world from a thirty-thousand foot view. Hell, when this very place had decided to offer turkey bacon as a substitute for the pork product, it was treated as if they’d built a mosque next to the Coca-Cola fountain.
Now, a little more to the wise, Zeb just felt sorry for them. The routine and complacency was simply an invisible security blanket that shielded their fear of change. Instead of being able to drop their guard and embrace it, they just weren’t equipped enough to accept any inclination of something new treading on their property.
While flimsy at best, these men at least had an excuse. They’d never had the exposure to anything different than what they were used to. There would never be a crop of spry youngsters looking to have a seat at their tables.
Wrestling had its own breakfast crew, arguably on a much larger scale.
Milly Clydesdale exited the doors of the Bread Basket a changed person.
I mean, not really substantially. Very rarely in life has food ever caused someone to begin speaking in tongues and immediately devote their entire life to serving the one true Basket, acknowledging that a pig not only died for their sins but magically transformed into a delectable meal for their followers to fry and serve in between two pieces of buttery flaky goodness.
“I will never be able to eat chips...fries...whatever...again.”
The tater boats on the other hand may someday get their own gospel.
“I may not be able to eat anything else again, Zeb. I’m so full,” she winces, gently patting the belly area of her navy blue Been There, Jumped That! T-shirt featuring a white outline of a thoroughbred leaping over a brush fence.
“Me too.” A slight sense of worry began to set in for the young Martin. The two had been about five minutes down the road towards what would be an hour and thirty minute drive to Hartsfield-Jackson. Milly would be there in plenty of time for her flight back home. That wasn’t the concern.
Being nineteen, Zeb had still never cut the cheese in front of a woman: not even in the presence of his younger teenage sisters. This would be a pretty long ride, and the unintended consequence of a breakfast like this one was the high likelihood of flatulence.
“Anyway, mind if we roll the windows down a little? It’s so nice outside.”
After noticing a barely audible rumble in her stomach, Milly silently shared the same concern herself. Fortunately she was much more proactive in her approach to problem-solving.
“Yeah, sounds good tuh me,” he agrees, hitting the buttons on the side console to set the windows down to about half mast. The wind that entered was sufficient enough to drown out any brass orchestra that might have went off-sync from the sheet music, but still allowed them to carry on conversation without yelling. “You ‘cited ‘bout gettin’ home?”
“I suppose so. I miss my boys, but it was nice to take a little time out for myself, you know? I mean, aside from having to catch a booking.”
Zeb nods in acknowledgement, keeping his focus on the road. “Seems like you gotta lot on yer plate. I mean, I shore cain’t imagine havin’ a little un’, much less a better half. Reckon it ain’t nowhere near the same as gettin’ away from roommates.”
“Well, similar challenges,” Milly says, “but in your case, you can always just find new roommates? Or even get a place of your own?”
He laughs. “I’s raised up purty chintzy, so it’s a good way tuh save some money fer the time bein’. But, I’m startin’ tuh take some travelin’ work myself, so I’ll be gettin’ my own lil’ vacations more often now. Should be enough tuh keep me sane.”
Opting for a ponytail to keep the breeze from pushing it into her face, Milly reaches into her purse for a hair tie.
“So maybe more than HOW and Union on the horizon, huh?”
“We’ll see,” Zeb responds. “Right now ain’t too fulla piss’n vinegar ‘bout the decision tuh go out tuh Collar-Rada. Wonderin’ if I done bit off more’n I can chew. Dang big biscuit Guerrila Waw-fare is, sho’nuff. But, reckon my Pawpaw always told me: ain’t no sense in jus’ fishin’ the same lake over ‘n over.”
Milly smiles at the mention of the drawl-filled nickname of Zeb’s grandfather. “He sounds like a smart man, your paw-paw.”
“Yeah. Seventh grade education, but a Ph.D in redneck life s’perences,” Martin comments.
“He’s right, you know,” Milly continues. “I mean, for you and me both. I’m newer at this stuff than you are, man! This time last year, I’d never dreamed that I’d be seeing more of the inside of an airport terminal than my own son. But we just have to take every opportunity we can so early in our careers, you know? There’s so many people that’ll be knocking at your door wanting to bring their audience Zeb Martin live and in the flesh. And you have to answer it.”
Zeb gives Milly a side look and a raised eyebrow. “You reckon?”
“I more than reckon,” she affirms. “I know. And this time next year when you and I are hanging out, I can’t wait to share our experiences with each other.”
“Oh yeah? You deciding’ tuh make another pilgrimage tuh the horse park?”
“To heck with the horse park,” Milly cries. “I’m coming back for the Bread Basket!”
Martin chuckles, repositioning his left hand at twelve o’ clock on the steering wheel. “Told ya so.”
“Made a believer out of me, for sure,” she says. “Which, by the way, is it okay for me to address the elephant in this truck?”
“Uh, what you mean?” Zeb asks inquisitively.
“There’s another reason I asked for the windows to be down, and I’m so so so sorry if you’re about to find it out in the next few minutes…”
Those in the know referred to the little green can that Zeb retrieved from his jeans pocket as the Welfare Bear.
To the snuff layperson, it was simply Grizzly. It was the brand of long-cut dip that he’d first snuck some of when his grandfather wasn’t looking. It was while he was asleep during one of their fishing outings. Much like anyone’s first time with a tobacco product, a twelve-year old Martin didn’t really see the point. Despite the claim of its “real natural flavor,” it tasted like charcoal dust.
At fourteen, a few of his friends began to turn him on to Copenhagen. Or, “the ‘Hagen” as it was affectionately referred to in the back of a vocational elective class: welding, carpentry, drafting, what have you. Again, Zeb never really saw the point. He knew he’d be effectively booted off the wrestling team if he were ever caught, but coming off cool in the eyes of his peers was of the utmost importance at this age.
Now, only a couple of months away from beginning his twenties, he’d finally been roped in to the nicotine addiction. Apparently a love for the rod and reel just wasn’t enough to follow in his Pawpaw Martin’s footsteps. Seated on the tailgate of his Toyota Tundra, Zeb took a pinch from the cylindrical container and placed the dirt-like substance between his gum and lip. Finally, he could get his fix.
Painfully holding in a fart and hiding his unsavory habit wasn’t necessary in the presence of a new friend. It wasn’t exactly a secret to anyone that Zeb enjoyed the occasional horn -- it was actually revealed in the very first television segment he’d ever shot. Regardless of whether or not he harbored any attraction toward her, keeping up with appearances in front of women was still a part of his high school mentality. Despite his absorption into the real world, those threads of his personality still hung on loosely, like the tears in the legs of his denim.
“Ain’t too much tuh see here, y’all.”
Martin presents nothing more than a wistful gaze to reinforce his point. His surroundings offered plenty of pastoral imagery, though. It was the route that you’d take when your Google Maps caught wind of a wreck on the interstate or a much needed deviation from the same old lawyer billboards screaming their phone numbers in the event that you were a party to said wreck. Tonight, on this very road, a teenage girl would lose her driver’s side rear view mirror via the hardened horns of a buck.
“Reckon ain’t too much to hear, neither,” he adds. “Dunno if yew done did yer researchin’, yer YouTubin’ or what not, but if yew did, probably figger’d I’m not much the type fer flappin’ my gums ‘bout what I intend on doin’ or not doin’ at Guerrilla Warfare. And tuh be straight with ya, not a lotta sense in talkin’ ‘bout my resume.”
“Reason bein’ is ‘cause fer it to put any kind uh concern in y’alls minds, I’d have tuh inject a rodeo fulla bull shit into it. Purty unremarkable run in the Jawja in-duh-pendents that jus’ happened tuh catch a break over in High Octane ‘Rasslin,” Zeb recalls. For a brief instant, he pauses to push back his long brown locks and adjust the fit on the Ricky Rudd trucker hat.
“Dependin’ on who ya ask,” Martin continues, “you prolly go’n get a little difference uh opinion on whether ‘r not Lee Best and them made the right decision. Up an offered a kid whose done slept in a doublewide most his life a deal tuh be featured on one uh the most recognized ‘rasslin promotions in the country. Up to you on makin’ that decision as tuh if they struck gold with a boy who ain’t exactly got a ‘proper’ way of enunciatin’ his words.”
“And heck, might not make no difference no ways. The letters ‘H-O-W’ could jus’ be the spellin’ of an adverb to y’all. Union Battleground’s full on got thar reputation fer brangin’ in the best they is tuh offer when it comes tuh folks in this here sport, so I know y’all more concerned with that,” he reveals. “Them names don’t necessarily need repeatin’, but I’m dang shore go’n point the flashlight where it’s deserved, ‘specially when a good lot of ‘em was the ones I’s watchin’ be’fo I even bought my first pair uh trunks.”
“Artemis Kaiser done run through a bunch a coupla years back sumptin’ like this on the way tuh a 4C-Dubya championship. Prolly a good lookin’ pick on the bettin’ line tuh win the dern thang. And you’ll recall, one of the ones she whooped go’n be in this here match too. That ain’t takin’ nothin’ away from Anner Hayden neither. Sides winnin’ Guerilla Warfare, not a whole lot she ain’t ripped up in the rang. I know right well she wouldn’t so much skip a snore if she up and ended a rasslin’ career of some dumb youngin’ durin’ this match too.”
Mirroring the scenario that Abe Simpson encountered when he’d visited his grandson’s elementary school, there was not a spittoon to be found in this roadside pull off. Instead, Zeb opted for the next best thing: an empty can of Diet Rite that had already been inside of the bed of the truck. Attempting to be nonchalant in the discharge of the tobacco juice, he subtly brought the mouth of the can to his lips and spit.
“Reckon both uh them got side priorities lasered in on each other, from what I done heard,” he continues. “I ain’t puttin’ no rag tuh them patent leather shines too much, ‘cause they gots too much heart ‘n soul tuh not be goin’ towards the bigger trophy.”
“Not no doubt though that purty much e’rbody else headin’ into Denver ain’t jus’ comin’ fer the legal wacky tobaccy, either. I know it bears repeatin’, but the Grand Duchess ‘n the Momma of Monsters ain’t the only ones don’t need tuh gussie up their list uh accomplishments. Ben Everest ‘n ol’ ‘Merican Tommy I know fer a fact you cain’t take light. Them two prolly good uns tuh drank a colbeer ‘er five with afterwards, and I shore hope we kin make that happen, but won’t be no buddyin’ up when we out there scrappin’.”
“Same kin be said fer Kaelan Laughlin,” Zeb adds, “but truth be told, them dranks prolly would lead inta me fanboyin’ ‘bout that Irish Rose clover leaf. I like tuh thank my lockin’ and joint bendin’ one uh my better lures in the ol’ Zeb Martin rasslin’ tackle box, but Kaelan makes it a fuggin’ Van Gogh.”
“I could run ‘em names all down fer y’all honestly, but too in tune tuh what the folks wanna hear in these dang thangs, and it’s not fawnin’ compliments. Reckon I’ll make my peace with it down the road if yuh feel left out and give ya the attaboy on Twitter if ya end up hookin’ my leg fer three seconds.”
Taking a slight pause, Martin’s eyelids lower as he lifts an index finger to the air.
“Would be remiss though if I didn’t mention one mo specifically.”
“I’s crappin’ in Huggies ‘round the time Mr. Chris Madison was startin’ tuh pave his legacy with gritty asphalt and rawhide drive,” he recollects. “I know I said I got a lotta admiration fer what the Flyin’ Fox does, but fact is I’d be sellin’ Marlboros behind the counter of uh Golden Pantry if it weren’t fer seein’ Mayhem Madison tearin’ up jack ‘bout five years ago.”
“Round that time, wuddn’t nothin’ else important tuh me than grapplin’ on them gym mats fer the Ogle’thop Canny High School Patriots. I’s smart enough tuh know that there weren’t no money bein’ made as an amateur, but best I could hope for is that it might jus’ get me into college. Gettin’ my first glance at him, though? I know he wuddn’t the first rassler tuh throw in a submission game, but he’d been the only one I’d seen that made me a believer it’d work between some bouncy ropes.”
“Like e’r lil’ boy down heah grew up playin’ and tusslin’ in the woods,” Zeb continues, “I always liked tuh pretend I’s a famous rassler. Chris Madison was the man who made me get tuh thinkin’ I could. Now, I on’t try tuh claim I’m modelin’ a livelihood in tribute to ‘em. Got my own flavor uh Slush Puppy, and I never go’n intend tuh be like nobody but my own dang self. Still owe a big bill uh gratitude to him, and it’ll be all my pleasure tuh be able tuh look ‘em in the eye and tell him personally what his career’s meant tuh me.”
Using his palms to hoist himself off the truck, Martin arches his back in a bow-style stretch and shakes off the remaining cobwebs of the afternoon drive.
“All thangs considerin’,” he says, remaining standing with his hands in his pockets, “every soldier comin’ tuh town fer Guerilla Warfare means somethin’ tuh me.”
“All the folks I ever coller’n elbowed played a part in what I been and what I wanna become. So I’ll leave y’all with this.”
“Ain’t my intent that the only mem’ry fer Union Battleground I’ll leave is jus’ a body-shaped sweat stain on the canvas. I’m not exactly ridin’ high on the hog lately when it comes tuh gettin’ my arm raised, and I know I’mma have my hands sho’ nuff full if I’m makin’ a dent.”
Zeb prepares to wrap up his monologue. “But one thang I do know is that I’m at least comin’ to the table. And fer anyone don’t wanna make no room tuh sit a spell? I’ll just go pull up a chair myself. I ain’t keen on standin’ when I eat, so if you take a notion ‘bout my place at the booth?”
“I’m starvin tuh death,” he winks, tipping the bill of his cap.
“So you go’n have tuh pick me up and tote me out ya dang self.”
The closest they’d gotten was a franchise dubbed Chicken Express in nearby Lexington. Those who knew about it often lit up when divulging its big secret: however many tenders you ordered in a meal, they’d throw an extra one in there for you without cost. If you had the appetite for a five-piece, just order four and you’d be all set.
Their competitors who were a thirty-minute drive away were no match for their hospitality. No, not even the friendly demeanor of the Colonel could hold a cock-a-doodle candle to them. Not only were their chicken strips bigger, but they had a couple of other aces up their greasy sleeve. And while they may not have been quite as world-renowned as Chick-Fil-A’s, there was always a giant container of complimentary gravy included with every meal. And let’s not forget the sides. The sheer innovation of the Express was highlighted by a treat they had called the “corn nugget.” Instead of just a bland half-cup of whole kernel corn, they had deep-fried it into tasty morsels. No utensils necessary, mother fucker. Just good eatin’.
Unfortunately, thanks to the temporary peace treaty formed by the ganglike Zaxby’s and Bojangles to unify and rough up their competition out of the southeastern United States, the Chicken Express was forced to close up shop. Oglethorpe County had lost their only drive-through window offering and had not had a replacement since.
The saddest part of this incredibly depressing tale? Even when Chicken Express was around, they didn’t serve breakfast. So, when you had an itch for a bacon and egg biscuit in the morning, you only had a few options. The quaint little doublewide known as Granny’s Kitchen was always a good pick, but the line out the door was often a little too long when you were in a hurry. However, if you wanted quality and convenience, there was no better option than the Bread Basket.
Here’s the thing, though: while it wasn’t necessarily a well-kept secret for the locals, you’d have driven right by this place without giving it a second glance if you were only passing through. The Bread Basket was actually a Chevron-branded gas station across the street from an old train depot in the town of Colbert. Travelers unfamiliar to the area would normally take one look at the twenty-five cent gouge in fuel prices and opt to find a cheaper stop down the road. The residents also knew better than to fill up here, but the allure of the place was most certainly on the inside.
At first glance when you walk in, it didn’t appear to be much more than your average convenience store. Of course, since it was plopped right in the heart of the southeastern United States, the only noticeable difference was the overabundance of Mountain Dew. Not only could you grab a can or a bottle in the beverage cooler in the back, the Basket had an additional display to head up the candy aisle.
Once you caught the aroma over in the far left corner, though, you unearthed the secret. The smell of succulent sustenance drenched in a metric ton of margarine wafted from within the silver tins that sat within a glass-lined display. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, smoked sausage, chicken-fried steak, chicken-fried chicken, pork tenderloin, and a valley of golden biscuits just within striking distance of several metal tongs awaited you.
You never imagined heaven to have steam lines coming off its floor, but here it was.
Clad in typical Wrangler Five-Stars, chocolate-colored layaway boots and a gray Gwinnett Stripers T-shirt, Zeb Martin had a grin on his face like he was first laying eyes on a newborn. His pride and joy, and the only thing he had touted as the place “you gotta go to” to his companion from out of town.
Milly Clydesdale seemed less enthralled.
The sphere of professional wrestling camaraderie stretched far and wide, and it only seemed natural that these two would eventually cross paths. The Georgia International Horse Park was more or less a mecca of equestrian sports, and one of the many places on Milly’s bucket list to visit. Her contractual obligation with APEX Wrestling had put her in the state, so now was as good of a time as any to check it off. However, most of the roster had already returned home. Thankfully, an acquaintance had borne a friendship with a fellow grappler who just so happened to know the surrounding area pretty well.
It was a roll of the dice for her, as she’d only been provided word of mouth endorsement as to Zeb’s general character and good nature. He could very well have been a complete creep, but figured that if it’d been the case, she could easily bolt out of sight without so much as a text goodbye. The Watson Mill Kid had his own reservations. He was mindful himself of making any enemies in the business, regardless of whether or not they’d ever cross paths in the same promotion. He was well aware that Milly was presently spoken for, and was hesitant to make sure that any boundaries weren’t crossed when presenting the invite to chauffeur her around the state.
Luckily for the two of them, it had been a carefree weekend. A horse girl and a country boy doing horse and country things had kept them comfortable in their own skin. So much to the point that she had zero misgivings when he’d suggested a thirty-minute ride in the opposite direction of the Atlanta airport to grab “the best breakfast you done ever go’n eat.”
Not to say that she didn’t appreciate a quaint little eatery now and then, but a convenience store?
“What you gettin’?” Zeb asks, tilting the brim of his Levi Garrett Racing hat with one hand and instinctively hooking his thumb through a belt loop with the other.
Milly shrugs, looking back up at him. “What do you recommend?”
“Dern,” he replies, “tough ‘un tuh say.” They slowly amble over to the serving area, past the numerous displays of gas station kitsch and traditional snack items. Behind the food display was a portly woman, torso draped in a plain white apron that reached just down to thigh level. A regulation hair net covered a graying perm, and a wart the size of a moon crater accentuated the right side of her cleft chin.
Milly giggles at an embroidered cloth sign on the wood-paneled wall behind the server, pointing an index finger and slightly nudging Martin. “Fat people have more fun,” she recited aloud. “So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all these years.”
The Bread Basket employee smiles. It had been a couple of years since someone had acknowledged that, but she was ready at the helm with her rehearsed response. “‘Cept when yer workin’,” she bellows with cheer in her voice. “Hey there, young man: been a while since I seen’t you ‘round here!”
Zeb beams back at her. “Yes ma’am. Been up mostly in Chicago, ‘side from comin’ tuh see momma an them. This here’s Milly, she’s a friend uh mine.”
“Awww, I love that name! And I shore do adore that accent! Milly, good tuh meet you. What y’all eatin’ this mornin’?”
The leader of the Stable twinkles back at her, flattered by the compliment. “Nice to meet you, too! I don’t know what I want. I tried to get him to tell me, but he’s no help.”
“Honey child,” the woman replies with a shake of her head, “you ever met ANY man before? No offense, this un here’s a real nice boy, but you know what I’m sayin’.”
“Ain’t go’n debate that,” Zeb agrees. “But go on add a side uh tater boats too with whatever biscuit she gets.”
“Wouldn’t let no first-timer not get ‘em,” the server acknowledges.
Milly glances over to Zeb. “‘Tater boats’?”
“Trust me,” he reassures. “If you o’nt like ‘em, I’ll eat ‘em.”
“Fine. Let’s sail away on the tater boats,” Milly smirks, peering into the glass to make a decision on the rest of her meal. “And I think I’ll do a sausage and egg biscuit, too? I’ve had that on a muffin before at a Dunkin Donuts and it was pretty tasty.”
Both Martin and the Bread Basket employee exchange a knowing look to one another. “This go’n change yore life, Milly,” he proclaims. “I’ll get a chicken egg’n cheese, please and thankya.”
Zeb took a passing glance over to the front entrance of the convenience store as the woman began to prepare their orders. Sure, this wasn’t the only gas station on the planet that could fix you up with a quick meal. Wawa, Sheetz, and QuikTrip were arguably leading the charge in this concept on a nationwide basis.
What did seem to be an anomaly here was that people actually sat in the booths that had been set up inside the store itself.
Although he’d only been inside the Bread Basket one other time in the past eight months, one thing still remained consistent. It was around 8:30, and the same crew of old men, like clockwork, had occupied the space of two of these tables. It was a ritual for all of them, seven days a week except for holidays. In about thirty minutes or so, they’d all disperse back to their homes and get ready for the Sunday service. Half to the First Baptist Church, half to the First Methodist Church, both of which being less than a mile from one another right there in Colbert.
Weekdays, they tended to linger around a little longer. People had often joked how they’d avoided running out of things to talk about. The undisclosed reason to everyone else was that they’d typically recycle the same subjects. How the liberals were ruining this once great nation. How the kids around here didn’t understand what it was like to put in an honest day’s labor. Unbeknownst to Zeb, when the news hit that a local boy would be a featured television wrestler, he ended up as a topic for discussion for a couple of weeks. (Oddly enough, while the men were usually in agreement on most everything, the jury was a bit split on the Watson Mill Kid. The rural South tended to be a bit more sympathetic when it came to “rasslin.”)
Growing up, Zeb always carried a bit of resentment toward that group. Partially because his grandfather had long touted them as “a bunch of fuckin’ hens thinkin’ they roosters,” but mostly it was just due to their resistance to see the world from a thirty-thousand foot view. Hell, when this very place had decided to offer turkey bacon as a substitute for the pork product, it was treated as if they’d built a mosque next to the Coca-Cola fountain.
Now, a little more to the wise, Zeb just felt sorry for them. The routine and complacency was simply an invisible security blanket that shielded their fear of change. Instead of being able to drop their guard and embrace it, they just weren’t equipped enough to accept any inclination of something new treading on their property.
While flimsy at best, these men at least had an excuse. They’d never had the exposure to anything different than what they were used to. There would never be a crop of spry youngsters looking to have a seat at their tables.
Wrestling had its own breakfast crew, arguably on a much larger scale.
Milly Clydesdale exited the doors of the Bread Basket a changed person.
I mean, not really substantially. Very rarely in life has food ever caused someone to begin speaking in tongues and immediately devote their entire life to serving the one true Basket, acknowledging that a pig not only died for their sins but magically transformed into a delectable meal for their followers to fry and serve in between two pieces of buttery flaky goodness.
“I will never be able to eat chips...fries...whatever...again.”
The tater boats on the other hand may someday get their own gospel.
“I may not be able to eat anything else again, Zeb. I’m so full,” she winces, gently patting the belly area of her navy blue Been There, Jumped That! T-shirt featuring a white outline of a thoroughbred leaping over a brush fence.
“Me too.” A slight sense of worry began to set in for the young Martin. The two had been about five minutes down the road towards what would be an hour and thirty minute drive to Hartsfield-Jackson. Milly would be there in plenty of time for her flight back home. That wasn’t the concern.
Being nineteen, Zeb had still never cut the cheese in front of a woman: not even in the presence of his younger teenage sisters. This would be a pretty long ride, and the unintended consequence of a breakfast like this one was the high likelihood of flatulence.
“Anyway, mind if we roll the windows down a little? It’s so nice outside.”
After noticing a barely audible rumble in her stomach, Milly silently shared the same concern herself. Fortunately she was much more proactive in her approach to problem-solving.
“Yeah, sounds good tuh me,” he agrees, hitting the buttons on the side console to set the windows down to about half mast. The wind that entered was sufficient enough to drown out any brass orchestra that might have went off-sync from the sheet music, but still allowed them to carry on conversation without yelling. “You ‘cited ‘bout gettin’ home?”
“I suppose so. I miss my boys, but it was nice to take a little time out for myself, you know? I mean, aside from having to catch a booking.”
Zeb nods in acknowledgement, keeping his focus on the road. “Seems like you gotta lot on yer plate. I mean, I shore cain’t imagine havin’ a little un’, much less a better half. Reckon it ain’t nowhere near the same as gettin’ away from roommates.”
“Well, similar challenges,” Milly says, “but in your case, you can always just find new roommates? Or even get a place of your own?”
He laughs. “I’s raised up purty chintzy, so it’s a good way tuh save some money fer the time bein’. But, I’m startin’ tuh take some travelin’ work myself, so I’ll be gettin’ my own lil’ vacations more often now. Should be enough tuh keep me sane.”
Opting for a ponytail to keep the breeze from pushing it into her face, Milly reaches into her purse for a hair tie.
“So maybe more than HOW and Union on the horizon, huh?”
“We’ll see,” Zeb responds. “Right now ain’t too fulla piss’n vinegar ‘bout the decision tuh go out tuh Collar-Rada. Wonderin’ if I done bit off more’n I can chew. Dang big biscuit Guerrila Waw-fare is, sho’nuff. But, reckon my Pawpaw always told me: ain’t no sense in jus’ fishin’ the same lake over ‘n over.”
Milly smiles at the mention of the drawl-filled nickname of Zeb’s grandfather. “He sounds like a smart man, your paw-paw.”
“Yeah. Seventh grade education, but a Ph.D in redneck life s’perences,” Martin comments.
“He’s right, you know,” Milly continues. “I mean, for you and me both. I’m newer at this stuff than you are, man! This time last year, I’d never dreamed that I’d be seeing more of the inside of an airport terminal than my own son. But we just have to take every opportunity we can so early in our careers, you know? There’s so many people that’ll be knocking at your door wanting to bring their audience Zeb Martin live and in the flesh. And you have to answer it.”
Zeb gives Milly a side look and a raised eyebrow. “You reckon?”
“I more than reckon,” she affirms. “I know. And this time next year when you and I are hanging out, I can’t wait to share our experiences with each other.”
“Oh yeah? You deciding’ tuh make another pilgrimage tuh the horse park?”
“To heck with the horse park,” Milly cries. “I’m coming back for the Bread Basket!”
Martin chuckles, repositioning his left hand at twelve o’ clock on the steering wheel. “Told ya so.”
“Made a believer out of me, for sure,” she says. “Which, by the way, is it okay for me to address the elephant in this truck?”
“Uh, what you mean?” Zeb asks inquisitively.
“There’s another reason I asked for the windows to be down, and I’m so so so sorry if you’re about to find it out in the next few minutes…”
Those in the know referred to the little green can that Zeb retrieved from his jeans pocket as the Welfare Bear.
To the snuff layperson, it was simply Grizzly. It was the brand of long-cut dip that he’d first snuck some of when his grandfather wasn’t looking. It was while he was asleep during one of their fishing outings. Much like anyone’s first time with a tobacco product, a twelve-year old Martin didn’t really see the point. Despite the claim of its “real natural flavor,” it tasted like charcoal dust.
At fourteen, a few of his friends began to turn him on to Copenhagen. Or, “the ‘Hagen” as it was affectionately referred to in the back of a vocational elective class: welding, carpentry, drafting, what have you. Again, Zeb never really saw the point. He knew he’d be effectively booted off the wrestling team if he were ever caught, but coming off cool in the eyes of his peers was of the utmost importance at this age.
Now, only a couple of months away from beginning his twenties, he’d finally been roped in to the nicotine addiction. Apparently a love for the rod and reel just wasn’t enough to follow in his Pawpaw Martin’s footsteps. Seated on the tailgate of his Toyota Tundra, Zeb took a pinch from the cylindrical container and placed the dirt-like substance between his gum and lip. Finally, he could get his fix.
Painfully holding in a fart and hiding his unsavory habit wasn’t necessary in the presence of a new friend. It wasn’t exactly a secret to anyone that Zeb enjoyed the occasional horn -- it was actually revealed in the very first television segment he’d ever shot. Regardless of whether or not he harbored any attraction toward her, keeping up with appearances in front of women was still a part of his high school mentality. Despite his absorption into the real world, those threads of his personality still hung on loosely, like the tears in the legs of his denim.
“Ain’t too much tuh see here, y’all.”
Martin presents nothing more than a wistful gaze to reinforce his point. His surroundings offered plenty of pastoral imagery, though. It was the route that you’d take when your Google Maps caught wind of a wreck on the interstate or a much needed deviation from the same old lawyer billboards screaming their phone numbers in the event that you were a party to said wreck. Tonight, on this very road, a teenage girl would lose her driver’s side rear view mirror via the hardened horns of a buck.
“Reckon ain’t too much to hear, neither,” he adds. “Dunno if yew done did yer researchin’, yer YouTubin’ or what not, but if yew did, probably figger’d I’m not much the type fer flappin’ my gums ‘bout what I intend on doin’ or not doin’ at Guerrilla Warfare. And tuh be straight with ya, not a lotta sense in talkin’ ‘bout my resume.”
“Reason bein’ is ‘cause fer it to put any kind uh concern in y’alls minds, I’d have tuh inject a rodeo fulla bull shit into it. Purty unremarkable run in the Jawja in-duh-pendents that jus’ happened tuh catch a break over in High Octane ‘Rasslin,” Zeb recalls. For a brief instant, he pauses to push back his long brown locks and adjust the fit on the Ricky Rudd trucker hat.
“Dependin’ on who ya ask,” Martin continues, “you prolly go’n get a little difference uh opinion on whether ‘r not Lee Best and them made the right decision. Up an offered a kid whose done slept in a doublewide most his life a deal tuh be featured on one uh the most recognized ‘rasslin promotions in the country. Up to you on makin’ that decision as tuh if they struck gold with a boy who ain’t exactly got a ‘proper’ way of enunciatin’ his words.”
“And heck, might not make no difference no ways. The letters ‘H-O-W’ could jus’ be the spellin’ of an adverb to y’all. Union Battleground’s full on got thar reputation fer brangin’ in the best they is tuh offer when it comes tuh folks in this here sport, so I know y’all more concerned with that,” he reveals. “Them names don’t necessarily need repeatin’, but I’m dang shore go’n point the flashlight where it’s deserved, ‘specially when a good lot of ‘em was the ones I’s watchin’ be’fo I even bought my first pair uh trunks.”
“Artemis Kaiser done run through a bunch a coupla years back sumptin’ like this on the way tuh a 4C-Dubya championship. Prolly a good lookin’ pick on the bettin’ line tuh win the dern thang. And you’ll recall, one of the ones she whooped go’n be in this here match too. That ain’t takin’ nothin’ away from Anner Hayden neither. Sides winnin’ Guerilla Warfare, not a whole lot she ain’t ripped up in the rang. I know right well she wouldn’t so much skip a snore if she up and ended a rasslin’ career of some dumb youngin’ durin’ this match too.”
Mirroring the scenario that Abe Simpson encountered when he’d visited his grandson’s elementary school, there was not a spittoon to be found in this roadside pull off. Instead, Zeb opted for the next best thing: an empty can of Diet Rite that had already been inside of the bed of the truck. Attempting to be nonchalant in the discharge of the tobacco juice, he subtly brought the mouth of the can to his lips and spit.
“Reckon both uh them got side priorities lasered in on each other, from what I done heard,” he continues. “I ain’t puttin’ no rag tuh them patent leather shines too much, ‘cause they gots too much heart ‘n soul tuh not be goin’ towards the bigger trophy.”
“Not no doubt though that purty much e’rbody else headin’ into Denver ain’t jus’ comin’ fer the legal wacky tobaccy, either. I know it bears repeatin’, but the Grand Duchess ‘n the Momma of Monsters ain’t the only ones don’t need tuh gussie up their list uh accomplishments. Ben Everest ‘n ol’ ‘Merican Tommy I know fer a fact you cain’t take light. Them two prolly good uns tuh drank a colbeer ‘er five with afterwards, and I shore hope we kin make that happen, but won’t be no buddyin’ up when we out there scrappin’.”
“Same kin be said fer Kaelan Laughlin,” Zeb adds, “but truth be told, them dranks prolly would lead inta me fanboyin’ ‘bout that Irish Rose clover leaf. I like tuh thank my lockin’ and joint bendin’ one uh my better lures in the ol’ Zeb Martin rasslin’ tackle box, but Kaelan makes it a fuggin’ Van Gogh.”
“I could run ‘em names all down fer y’all honestly, but too in tune tuh what the folks wanna hear in these dang thangs, and it’s not fawnin’ compliments. Reckon I’ll make my peace with it down the road if yuh feel left out and give ya the attaboy on Twitter if ya end up hookin’ my leg fer three seconds.”
Taking a slight pause, Martin’s eyelids lower as he lifts an index finger to the air.
“Would be remiss though if I didn’t mention one mo specifically.”
“I’s crappin’ in Huggies ‘round the time Mr. Chris Madison was startin’ tuh pave his legacy with gritty asphalt and rawhide drive,” he recollects. “I know I said I got a lotta admiration fer what the Flyin’ Fox does, but fact is I’d be sellin’ Marlboros behind the counter of uh Golden Pantry if it weren’t fer seein’ Mayhem Madison tearin’ up jack ‘bout five years ago.”
“Round that time, wuddn’t nothin’ else important tuh me than grapplin’ on them gym mats fer the Ogle’thop Canny High School Patriots. I’s smart enough tuh know that there weren’t no money bein’ made as an amateur, but best I could hope for is that it might jus’ get me into college. Gettin’ my first glance at him, though? I know he wuddn’t the first rassler tuh throw in a submission game, but he’d been the only one I’d seen that made me a believer it’d work between some bouncy ropes.”
“Like e’r lil’ boy down heah grew up playin’ and tusslin’ in the woods,” Zeb continues, “I always liked tuh pretend I’s a famous rassler. Chris Madison was the man who made me get tuh thinkin’ I could. Now, I on’t try tuh claim I’m modelin’ a livelihood in tribute to ‘em. Got my own flavor uh Slush Puppy, and I never go’n intend tuh be like nobody but my own dang self. Still owe a big bill uh gratitude to him, and it’ll be all my pleasure tuh be able tuh look ‘em in the eye and tell him personally what his career’s meant tuh me.”
Using his palms to hoist himself off the truck, Martin arches his back in a bow-style stretch and shakes off the remaining cobwebs of the afternoon drive.
“All thangs considerin’,” he says, remaining standing with his hands in his pockets, “every soldier comin’ tuh town fer Guerilla Warfare means somethin’ tuh me.”
“All the folks I ever coller’n elbowed played a part in what I been and what I wanna become. So I’ll leave y’all with this.”
“Ain’t my intent that the only mem’ry fer Union Battleground I’ll leave is jus’ a body-shaped sweat stain on the canvas. I’m not exactly ridin’ high on the hog lately when it comes tuh gettin’ my arm raised, and I know I’mma have my hands sho’ nuff full if I’m makin’ a dent.”
Zeb prepares to wrap up his monologue. “But one thang I do know is that I’m at least comin’ to the table. And fer anyone don’t wanna make no room tuh sit a spell? I’ll just go pull up a chair myself. I ain’t keen on standin’ when I eat, so if you take a notion ‘bout my place at the booth?”
“I’m starvin tuh death,” he winks, tipping the bill of his cap.
“So you go’n have tuh pick me up and tote me out ya dang self.”