Dobbs Town
22-11-2004, 08:02
Another true story as told to me by my father:
My father once drove down to Florida to see my grandmother, who was in hospital for a brief spell. She'd moved down south as many Canadian seniors do, gotten remarried, and bought a house in Avon Park, which I once looked for on a map and discovered it to be about as close to the center of the state as you can get. I visited her there once, but all I can remember of Avon Park were all the old people roaring around in oversized sedans.
Anyway, she was sick, my Dad was already in the States on business (somewhere in the midwest), so he rented a car and drove down. On the way, he had a hankering for a piece of pie and a coffee, and found himself a likely place to pull over. Where was never made too clear, but I think it was actually in the state of Florida, perhaps in northern Florida.
Now, I'd been in the car with him on one or another of these occasions, when he'd want something particular. He wouldn't think twice about foregoing all the obvious, convenient choices - the roadside franchise restaurants - if he thought he might be able to find something local or independent instead. So when he went to go find a place to serve him some pie and a coffee, he went looking for a real 'Diner'-style restaurant. And he found it.
It was mostly booth seating, with a long lunch counter and an active hot grill. The people seemed mostly local, but there were one or two big rigs parked out back. My father sat at the counter and gave his order to the waitress. The somewhat-drunken fellow on the stool next to him was becoming progressively more drunk throughout, but not yet in any really intrusive or harmful way. Dad was sitting in deep thought, waiting for his pie as the guy next to him continuously blathered to no-one in particular.
It took him a moment to realize that the guy next to him had started talking to him. While he stared into space, the guy had been prompting him for some kind of response, getting increasingly agitated. He tried remembering what this drunk guy had been saying...something he was pissed off about...wait, he'd said 'coons'. Raccoons? Guy's pissed off about raccoons, or so my Dad thought. He furrowed his brow slightly and said to his liquored-up counter-mate, 'Yes, we've got problems with them, too. Especially up north at our cottage.' A pause, then the drunk asks him where he's from, why's his accent so funny. Ohhh, he says, you're Canadian? I didn't know you had 'em up there.
My Dad, warming up to the subject, said, 'yeah, they get into the garbage at night if you don't keep it locked down, and I'm not sure but I think one of them got inside through the eavestroughs a little while ago and is making himself at home in the attic.' His fellow diner patron looked in drunken disbelief. 'Jesus,' he said. 'You've got one living in your attic? Without your permission? Jesus.'
It was then that my Dad connected the missing dots and realized his blunder. The man wasn't talking about raccoons at all - he was a racist, and he'd been slagging black people while my father had sat there, oblivious to what he'd been saying. Dad looked the room over, again: mostly semi-drunk, entirely white patrons who seem nonplussed by this exchange at the lunch-counter. Hhhhhokay.
Realizing that his own actual liberal viewpoint wasn't going to win him friends in this neck of the woods, he knew nonetheless he'd be out of there and gone in a few minutes anyway. So he decided to...bullshit him a little bit. Have some fun with dinner. Kill an extra minute or two. Play with this guy's head a wee bit.
He said, 'Of course, I'd be perfectly within my rights to shoot the ones up north. On my land, that'd be considered hunting. But back home in town, I'd probably have to call the city to have the one in my attic removed. I'd shoot that coon if I could, but I'd probably have to pay a fine if I did.'
The drunk seemed dumbfounded, and said he'd never realized just how different a place Canada was. My Dad agreed with him, smilingly, then quickly settled his bill and split into the night. He made a point of curtailing his penchant for quirky dining and stuck to the main highways after that. He never did manage to keep himself from being oblivious, however. And unfortunately, that would seem to be an inherited family trait.
Slice of pie with a side order of bullshit, anyone?
My father once drove down to Florida to see my grandmother, who was in hospital for a brief spell. She'd moved down south as many Canadian seniors do, gotten remarried, and bought a house in Avon Park, which I once looked for on a map and discovered it to be about as close to the center of the state as you can get. I visited her there once, but all I can remember of Avon Park were all the old people roaring around in oversized sedans.
Anyway, she was sick, my Dad was already in the States on business (somewhere in the midwest), so he rented a car and drove down. On the way, he had a hankering for a piece of pie and a coffee, and found himself a likely place to pull over. Where was never made too clear, but I think it was actually in the state of Florida, perhaps in northern Florida.
Now, I'd been in the car with him on one or another of these occasions, when he'd want something particular. He wouldn't think twice about foregoing all the obvious, convenient choices - the roadside franchise restaurants - if he thought he might be able to find something local or independent instead. So when he went to go find a place to serve him some pie and a coffee, he went looking for a real 'Diner'-style restaurant. And he found it.
It was mostly booth seating, with a long lunch counter and an active hot grill. The people seemed mostly local, but there were one or two big rigs parked out back. My father sat at the counter and gave his order to the waitress. The somewhat-drunken fellow on the stool next to him was becoming progressively more drunk throughout, but not yet in any really intrusive or harmful way. Dad was sitting in deep thought, waiting for his pie as the guy next to him continuously blathered to no-one in particular.
It took him a moment to realize that the guy next to him had started talking to him. While he stared into space, the guy had been prompting him for some kind of response, getting increasingly agitated. He tried remembering what this drunk guy had been saying...something he was pissed off about...wait, he'd said 'coons'. Raccoons? Guy's pissed off about raccoons, or so my Dad thought. He furrowed his brow slightly and said to his liquored-up counter-mate, 'Yes, we've got problems with them, too. Especially up north at our cottage.' A pause, then the drunk asks him where he's from, why's his accent so funny. Ohhh, he says, you're Canadian? I didn't know you had 'em up there.
My Dad, warming up to the subject, said, 'yeah, they get into the garbage at night if you don't keep it locked down, and I'm not sure but I think one of them got inside through the eavestroughs a little while ago and is making himself at home in the attic.' His fellow diner patron looked in drunken disbelief. 'Jesus,' he said. 'You've got one living in your attic? Without your permission? Jesus.'
It was then that my Dad connected the missing dots and realized his blunder. The man wasn't talking about raccoons at all - he was a racist, and he'd been slagging black people while my father had sat there, oblivious to what he'd been saying. Dad looked the room over, again: mostly semi-drunk, entirely white patrons who seem nonplussed by this exchange at the lunch-counter. Hhhhhokay.
Realizing that his own actual liberal viewpoint wasn't going to win him friends in this neck of the woods, he knew nonetheless he'd be out of there and gone in a few minutes anyway. So he decided to...bullshit him a little bit. Have some fun with dinner. Kill an extra minute or two. Play with this guy's head a wee bit.
He said, 'Of course, I'd be perfectly within my rights to shoot the ones up north. On my land, that'd be considered hunting. But back home in town, I'd probably have to call the city to have the one in my attic removed. I'd shoot that coon if I could, but I'd probably have to pay a fine if I did.'
The drunk seemed dumbfounded, and said he'd never realized just how different a place Canada was. My Dad agreed with him, smilingly, then quickly settled his bill and split into the night. He made a point of curtailing his penchant for quirky dining and stuck to the main highways after that. He never did manage to keep himself from being oblivious, however. And unfortunately, that would seem to be an inherited family trait.
Slice of pie with a side order of bullshit, anyone?