So there I was, waiting for my cheeburga, asking Rodney to tell me about these dudes throwing each other around the mat. Suddenly, someone came in and started hollerin’ about fish and grits and making loud cat sounds. People looked up at him, said, “Hello,” slapped his hand. “Fish and grits, son! Fish and grits! MEEEOOOW!” He left.
Rodney looked at me and said, “He crazy. And I ain’t never heard a no damn fish and grits.”
We started talking about wrestling from back when we were kids, when stars had names like Superfly Jimmy Snooka and the Junk Yard Dog. “Yeah!” Rodney said. “Junk Yard Dog and them used to come over to the Coliseum!” Then he looked out the window and he added, “This—Main Street—used to be hot back then.” He started walking down the street in his mind, telling us about the Blue Note club on the left side, the King’s Palace here, and going on down the line. I thought of the dark, quiet street I walked to get here, the emptiness of it, and the image of his memory seems distant.
We looked back towards the TV. Huge were men tossing around a midget dressed as a leprechaun. I got ready to go, and Rodney dug around in his newspaper until he found a sheet of paper. He handed it to me. “You seen this yet? Take one a these.” It was a menu, and I think, in all the decades that Miss Inez’s has been around, the first printed menu they’ve ever had. “They open every day but Sunday,” Rodney said. “I’ll see you back here.”
I don’t know if I’ll see Rodney again. I’m leaving Biloxi soon, and am in the stage of departure where you take stock of all the things you’ll miss when you’re gone. My friends already threw me a going-away party. Of course, that was when I left for good the last time.
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