Free Decency by Rex Fuller Page B

together.”
    “Any recommendations?”
    “Yes, the most popular item we have is deep-fried catfish. We just haven’t changed the menus to add it. Most people say it’s the best they ever had. There is a secret to the coating. If you try it and like it, I’ll even tell you what it is.”
    This woman knows where to put her marketing efforts and how to sell.
    “It’s a deal.”
    “Fair enough. It’ll be $9.99 for two pieces, with french fries, and either green beans or a green salad. The green beans are a house specialty made with Vidalia onions, cream of mushroom soup and a little fil’e powder. I keep a big pot it’s so popular.”
    “Green beans, and if the fish is as good as advertised I might want a double order.”
    She let genuine warmth seep into her smile as she took the menu and turned for the kitchen.
    This was supposed to be a… what? A gathering of strength, or freshening of vision? A precious chance to see real people, to forget gamesters and the get-them-before-they-get-you mentality of the endless paper war of the courthouse…such as still exists for me.
    The poor souls here are, if anything, even more trapped in the down-spiral of forces beyond themselves than any litigant normally is. You would hope that the atmosphere in an out-of-the-way café would be…neighborly, maybe lilting laughter at the minor challenges of the day jumbled in with lyrics of a song playing on a jukebox in the background.
    Here, there’s no laughter. It’s deadly serious. Only an occasional murmur commenting on the latest, war-depressed, grain market news that lays another lash across the backs of these hard-working people. No different than the coal-mining towns of Appalachia where we worked the black lung cases.
    The owner returned with the table setting, a heavy beige plate, plain flatware, and paper napkin.
    “Your fish will be out in a jiffy.”
    “Say, is there any point in the day where folks lighten up a bit around here?”
    “After dark, when it’s a little dangerous to be doing some of the field work. Some more guys might come in. By that time the market news will be a little worn off and some will try to laugh about it.”
    She said this with the slightest smile and a little more resignation than made you comfortable.
    “But not you?”
    She was either surprised that someone would be interested, or embarrassed that her demeanor was so transparent. She hesitated, started to say something, then turned away and hurried back to her kitchen.
    Glancing around, the jukebox in the back corner appeared to be lit. One of the men seemed to make fleeting eye contact.
    “You fellahs mind if I put something on the jukebox?”
    No one objected. The one man gestured mildly as an invitation to do whatever one damn well pleases.
    “Anyone got any preferences?”
    Exchange of looks rippled among the men. The question seemed so foreign to their focus of attention that no one could quite assess it properly. One might as well have asked a convent of novitiates what their favorite dance would be. The same man who had gestured it was okay, stirred. He was in his late sixties or more. Wind-burn embossed his skin the way the patina on an antique does, layered in, textured by years.
    “Thanks for askin.’ It’d be a kindness if you’d play Hank Williams’ Jambalaya with whatever you want.”
    “It would be my pleasure, Sir.”
    At least he kind of hit the nail on the head. What they could use was a little reminder, like Hank’s masterpiece does. Celebration of life is not only more important than its hardships, it is the essence of life itself.
    To keep faith with the old man’s suggestion, and the locale, she added Kenny and Dollie’s duet of the Bee Gees’ Islands in the Stream and Tennessee Ernie Ford’s Precious Lord to the play list.
    The woman brought the steaming catfish and placed it on the table with detectable pride.
    But this time there was a difference. Her eyes were red and her movements quickened. She