Turkey Day in the Clink

Article Tools

Image Gallery

Print

E-mail

Comments

RSS

 I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m going to tell you about the ghastly meal that arrived masquerading as Thanksgiving dinner, and how we subsequently set our mattresses on fire and took the guards hostage. Or: You think I’m going to swipe some pampered adjectives from Food & Wine to describe the astonishing gourmet fare that LeCount presented for our enjoyment—pan-seared scallops, with rosemary-roasted Thumbelina carrots, and smoked salmon soubise.

I’ll cut to the chase, or, more accurately, the anticlimax. The trays arrived more than an hour early, at 3:45 p.m. This seemed wonderful until one sourpuss pointed out that it just meant more hours till breakfast.

What could be waiting beneath the lids? A hush fell over the cell block as a trusty lifted the first one.

Cranberry sauce, a good tablespoon or more. Sliced turkey—big, thick slices—with gravy and dressing. A dinner roll. Turnip greens with chopped onions. Enormous pieces of chocolate cake. Milk.

There was nothing to grouse about, and nobody did.

I like where liquor takes me. Selma, Alabama, might be an exception. I was minding my own business, whizzing east on Route 80, halfway between my best friend’s wedding in Port Gibson, Mississippi, and a warm bed in Savannah belonging to a girl I was dating at the time. I was driving a nondescript Ford Escort with functional taillights, and maybe just as well, since I was weaving subtly across the centerline. Good thing there’s no one on the road but me, I thought, as my rearview erupted in flashing blue lights.

The drunk tank in Selma is downright medieval. It’s a cube made of cinder blocks with a single, billion-watt bulb that never goes off in the ceiling. Directly beneath the bulb is a hole in the floor the size of a coffee-can lid, and that’s where you answer the call of nature. There’s nothing to sleep on but concrete benches.

When the sun comes up, we hear a clanging at the big steel dungeon-door. What happens next makes me think I’m still asleep. One by one the drunk-tank denizens get up and stagger toward the door and receive a tray. When I get mine, I am staring down at real, honest-to-God scrambled eggs, hot biscuits, strips of bacon, and grits pocked with melting butter. Later, at dinnertime, we get chicken sandwiches. I’m talking about real Southern chicken sandwiches, two pieces of bread with a gigantic baked chicken leg in between. Should I describe supper? I won’t. You get the idea. Next time you’re arrested, do it in Selma.

When I had paid for my crimes against humanity and been released from jail in Raleigh, I walked up the road and turned right, moving toward a vague recollection of a bus stop. Several miles up, my nose started twitching. Before me stood a faded building surrounded by cars: Larry’s Southern Kitchen.

RSS | Comments | E-mail | Print