The M.I.L.F. Man

Patti Part 2

Ayla drove us 20 miles past the southern end of town to what seemed to be a swap meet, an art fair, a tailgate party and a veritable gathering of all the town "tribes." As well as a refuge for the "tribeless," judging by some of the very interesting characters wandering about.

"Cops like that it keeps all the thugs, drugs and po' folks 'way outside o' town on the weekends and holidays, you know?" Ayla told us. "So the tourists don't have to be bothered with people scratchin' and stumblin' down the street beggin' for change."

"It's that bad?" Patti asked.

"Honey, them boarded up buildings are just what the junkies need. They keep talkin' about knockin' 'em down, but every book about 66 has a shot of Main the way it used to be. People come from all over the world lookin' for it. That and the tipi motel with that big ass kachina out front. And the Rexall. Wanting to sit at the soda fountain and see the big old jar o' leeches in the pharmacy. But after dark on a weekday it's like the walking dead comin' at you."

I think Patti was on the verge of asking her to take us back to the airstrip until she was mobbed by almost everyone in the makeshift parking lot as she got out of the car. I'm sure there'd been some hype about her coming, their local girl made good. But the jubilation was warm and raucous.

And the joy in Patti's eyes made my heart do things, honestly. She became a little lighthouse, shining her biggest, brightest smile upon all who approached.

And for "po' folks" they were certainly out there spending and betting lots of money. I was gobsmacked at the wads of cash many of the men were waving.

I did wonder, I admit, whether they'd gotten it from selling those drugs Ayla'd spoken of. I mentally slapped myself for jumping to that conclusion so quickly, but they were flicking hundred-dollar bills at each other. Cigarettes and blunts sending wreaths of smoke circling around their heads as they counted out loud.

Each crew seemed to have a "pitch" guy who strutted around boasting about this car or that driver and what they were about to do to somebody else's car or driver. It looked like Wall Street out there, all these guys waving paper and yelling bids until the cars lined up for the race they were betting on.

Patti, of course, was in Ayla's corner. Her husband, Maceo—named for James Brown's sax player--seemed to have one of the best teams, based on the size of the circle around his pitch man and the big bets for any car he put up. Patti handed off her stash to one of Ayla's male relations to bet with, offering him a cut of the take should she win.

And then she hauled me up the steps of a rusty, rickety set of "renovated" bleachers and said, "I'm so glad you came," giving me a little one-armed hug, those soulful eyes sparkling.

"And this happens every week?"

"Used to—we have to get you some food! Best barbecue you ever tasted!"

I was down for that, but we stayed put through a few ear-splitting and really close races. One caused a huge commotion down where the betting was going on and had to be run again with cell phones on either side of the finish line to verify the second win.

After that, we bounded down the bleacher steps to get what remains, hands down, exactly what she said it would be: the best barbecue I've ever had from big, boastful men who had the right to crow.

The meat was tender and dripping with juice and special sauces. The sides, mostly cooked by wives and girlfriends, were that special soul food kind of rich and flavorful. Honed to perfection somewhere in the Southeast and lovingly carried through the generations and over the many miles west.