America Sneaks In...

Short shorts and long beers.

When you get into Chattanooga if you snif and sniff in you see a world of Indian wars and Civil Wars and insane mountains and houses dipping their sharp claws and very expensive cars into the side of the cliffs while flexing to the world that they are much better placed than the rest of us, who can only dream of viewslike that and who normally fear views like that. We who are not rich have different views of gravity.

The visitor’s center and “National Civil War Battlefield” at the tip of the peak above town reminded us that some went to war to keep others from a divorce. OK, that is controversial. But it is generally accepted these days that if you are in an abusive marriage it’s not a bad idea to get out, regardless of the circumstances. The South should have been allowed to leave and if the slaves rose up and slaughtered the owners in their sleep, well so be it. More power to them.

But who gives a shit about all that? Only we sentimentarians.

Wouldn’t want to make any readers uncomfortable. After all we are here to feel good and hear a good story, right?

So here’s the feel good story: Champy’s very near the University of Tennessee in Chattanooga on probably the least dangerous MLK street in the country. It is the best fried chicken restaurant in the US as far as I can see. Fried chicken is one of those things you will never actually make at home because it it a complicated multi-day process if you want to do it right. You have to marinate it in buttermilk or something like that and then do all those things to get it ready to drop in the hot fat. There are no short cuts if you want to do it right.

You arrive at Champy’s and a young gal most likely from the local university greets you. She is wearing very short jean shorts and inevitably she is attractive and appropriately proportioned physically. She looks like a clean country gal. She reminds you of the past in a dangerous way. And your wife immediately cross-eyes and black-stares and thinks you are thinking thoughts you really are not thinking. Mostly not. She is pissed in a subtle way that is really quite unfair but that women have mastered through time.

Fact is the age difference is so great at this stage in life that it is a purely aesthetic appreciation. Twenty years ago I perhaps would not have said that, even as back then I would also still not have harbored inappropriate views of the long long legs, supple skin, and milk cow fed smiles. I have never been like that, even as I am not yet blind.

“What can I get y’all?”

Well get me a 40 of Miller High Life.

Champy’s is known for stocking large bottles of in fact relatively innocuous beer, giving the impression of derring-do while keeping the actual alcohol content low. Who cares. Bring me a bottle the size of my shoulder and let me gulp it down

Ha ha here’s a glass with it.

What? I’ve been going here for seven years and never a glass. You lift that bottle up and pay the piper.

Nah, it seems easier with a sixteen ounce glass.

Nah, not interested. I’ll take a three piece dark meat meal.

In earlier times the liquor store on the bank of the river carried the local Chattanooga Whiskey which tasted like the train tracks and bridges of the town. The urban center. Tasted of Indian wars and gunpowder. Dirt and blood and lost causes. Disappointment. The things all authentic lives are made of.

It entered your understanding of history as a sip. Sip. Sip. Do you want ice you better not want ice. History is not like that.

At the time - four years ago - I poured a long draught in the hotel room into a plastic sanitary glass without ice while my wife and mother-in-law looked on. They tried a sip in a symbolic way but for me it was something more. Of course they never got it. Women seldom do get it.

I went back to the liquor store this time but I did not buy this railroad whiskey. Even though I loved it dearly. It was a mistress I had to avoid, even as she smiled and showed me some beautiful amber leg from atop a display case. I have something special for you don’t you remember me? Do you remember the river? The bricks around town? The old factories turned into something new? How dare you walk out without me you hypocritical bastard?

Yeah, I hear you and I hear the river.

Shaking, I met my wife in the other section of the store and confessed that I had avoided my beloved mistress who tormented me with railroad legs and the allure of the never-ending river.

Just as well, she said. Whatever. You drink too much anyway.