Kookshow, Chapter 13: Breakfast

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

Sleeping on the couch was something I used to do occasionally as a child, when visiting relatives with limited bedroom capacity. Or later, during periods of marital discord, when my presence at home was not celebrated. After a forced retirement from regular work shattered my life routine, I sometimes landed in the living room out of sheer convenience. But in recent years, I had not engaged in this practice. Still, there was a measure of comfort in getting to embark on a vacation of sorts, and reviving such impulsive habits for fun.

 

On Sunday morning, I awakened to the aroma of fresh coffee, a sizzling of eggs and bacon in the skillet, and a warm glow of biscuits baking in the oven. Upon opening my eyes, it took a minute to get mentally focused. I was in California, at the abandoned drive-in, with a female host who knew much about southern traditions that had shaped my own childhood. As a son of Appalachia, I still sometimes yearned for church dinners, and the fellowship of like-minded neighbors, gathered to celebrate their unity. Though my own anti-social progression had put me far away from those pleasures. Yet the tasty tickling in my nose was invigorating. I sat up against an arm of the vintage sofa, scratched my shaggy facial hair, and yawned loudly.

 

“How long did we sort through your VHS stash, last night? I lost track of things after the first cycle chase in Outlaw Riders...”

 

Kookshow turned from her spot at the stove, and gestured with a metal spatula while grinning.

 

“Y’all are a damn candyass, Rawd! I coulda watched a couple more shows. But that’s alright, I reckon it was late enough to hit the hay. I covered yer beer belly with a saddle blanket. It seemed to keep ya comfy. I must say that it’s a privilege to have a gentleman in this trailer. I didn’t hear a peep out of y’all after we finished our TV party! Men like that don’t get born much, anymore! Not out here, anyway!”

 

I was still slightly disoriented.

 

“Gentleman? Well, yes. Thank you...”

 

The radio belle returned to her culinary projects, while chattering about chores on the property.

 

“I been up fer a spell, already. The cats needed fed over at Terry and Tiffany’s house. Not sure when they’ll be back. Then I took care of the strays outside, there are a few that hang around. I did some waterin’ too, they got flowers around the main building. Y’all might say I’m kinda the caretaker here, besides doin’ production tasks and maybe a program of my own, now and then, on the air.”

 

My face was burning as the blood flow returned.

 

“Wow, that sounds like a busy schedule! It’s good to stay in motion though. I try to maintain a similar routine, at home in Ohio. Being at Evergreen Estates is like residing in a junkyard. As if I pitched a tent in a pool of motor oil, in between stacks of wood pallets. The only way to maintain my sanity is to stay preoccupied with other things. If I linger on thoughts of my real-world plight, a thirst for alcohol and oblivion becomes overwhelming...”

 

While cooking, my host switched on a Radio Shack, 8-track player that had been installed under a cabinet by her kitchen window. She twisted the volume knob, and began to hum along with Johnny Cash.

 

“Well, I woke up Sunday morning

With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt

And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad

So I had one more for dessert

 

Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes

And found my cleanest dirty shirt

And I shaved my face and combed my hair

And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day

 

I’d smoked my brain the night before on

Cigarettes and songs that we were pickin’

But I lit my first and watched a small kid

Cussin’ at a can that he was kicking

 

Then I crossed the empty street

And caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin’ chicken

And it took me back to somethin’

That I’d lost somehow, somewhere along the way

 

On the Sunday morning sidewalks

Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned

‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday

Makes a body feel alone

 

And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’

Half as lonesome as the sound

On the sleepin’ city sidewalks

Sunday mornin’ comin’ down...”

 

I had to wipe a tear from my cheek.

 

“Yeah, that has always been a personal favorite. I sometimes play it on my phone while sitting outside with a mug of java, on the weekend. The version by Johnny Paycheck is my favorite, for whatever reason. Kris Kristofferson wrote it though...”

 

Kookshow reacted with surprise over my comment.

 

“Y’all are a Paycheck fan? I figured ya more for bein’ a Rock & Roll kinda dude. I mean, because of yer friendship with Davie Allan, and all that. I guess yer a little bit hillbilly at heart!”

 

I laughed and moved to a chair at her dinner table, thumping along with my cane.

 

“Something clicked years ago. I’ve always liked his melodies and vocal inflections, which reminded me of George Jones. I later discovered that they performed together as younger men. I have a solid collection of vinyl records from Mr. Lytle’s career. Even early LPs on the Little Darlin’ label. When I lived in New York, friends were amused that I listened to that kind of music. They considered it to be rather lowbrow and dirty...”

 

My pigtailed compadre stomped her foot and swore.

 

“THE HELL THEY DID! WELL THOSE KINDA FOLKS WITH THEIR NOSES IN THE AIR KIN KISS MY BUBBLE BUTT, TWO TIMES! CHEEK TO CHEEK!”

 

She poured a round of hot brew in my cup, and then fiddled with the outdated stereo, again.

 

“I inherited all of granny’s tapes when she passed. That woman drove a Chevy Suburban with bald tires, a gasoline leak, and a cracked windshield. But by God, it got us to Sunday services at the Pentecostal meetin’ house, and to school, and wherever else we needed to go. Every time I hear that chunk-chunk sound of an 8-track goin’ in the slot, I think of her! Yes, yes, yes I do! Amen, Rosa Dee!”