Arrested Development: 2 Weeks in the Deep South

Had you asked me two hours ago, I would have sung you the refrain of my anthem which has accompanied throughout my two weeks in coastal Georgia. It’s a little tune I wrote myself called “I Hate the Deep South.”

Of course that was before I fell in love.

What I have found in my travels that when I feel a loathing for where I am, it’s not where I am that’s the problem, it’s where I am. Last September in Salt Lake City, it wasn’t the proselytizing Mormons that were the problem, it was the fact that I had just left my cozy little 8-to-5 and struck out on my own. December in Detroit wasn’t an emotional crash-n-burn because martinis at Cheetah’s were overpriced, it was because I was slogging through my first divorced holiday season.

I should have known that my disdain for being in Kings Bay, Georgia and working a 2-week contract gig at the naval sub base had more to do with my emotional state than anything inherently wrong with the South. Every area has its quirks, don’t get me wrong. Given the choice, I would never live here permanently. Just that confederate flag thing, well, it makes me hear "Dueling Banjos" in my head. Gives me the piss quivers. However, what I treated with hooting disdain at the time has now become merely examples of the Northern Exposure Gone South quirkiness of the area, but falling in love will do that to you.

For example, within 10 minutes of each other, I heard the following conversation snippets at the hotel bar:

• “But I love skorts.”
• “I divorced her March 9^th and remarried her March 21^st!”
• “What do you mean you’ve never had boiled peanuts?!?”

Thankfully only the final comment was directed at me. And yes I tried them and the best I can tell you is that it’s an acquired taste.

It’s more than that, though. The South has this antebellum haze hanging over it, an almost tangible thing I feel compelled to run the windshield wipers to wipe off the car. It’s the Southern Baptist religious thing. It manifests itself as the entire state being dry on Sunday. That’s right: The whole. Fucking. State. I can forgive things like that though, when I’m in love.

It seems ironic to me now that I spent so much time up and down Route 40, making my way to the Atlantic Ocean at St. Mary’s, or toward Kingsland in the other direction, passing her by so many times.

Oh did I say her? I meant him. Sonny.

OK, not Sonny himself, but his restaurant. Sonny’s Pit BBQ. I finally broke down and went tonight, and dinner was, suffice to say, a religious experience. Now instead of pining away the hours until my flight whisks me out of here, I’m lamenting the brevity of our time together.

If you’ve never been to a BBQ pit restaurant, they are usually little roadside affairs in the grand tradition of the version of America we fictionalized in To Kill A Mockingbird. Sonny’s is a chain though, started in Gainesville in 1968. So when most of America was starting to wonder about our commitment to civil rights, the VietNam war, Timothy Leary, etc., Sonny was opening his first BBQ restaurant, and that seems quite appropriate. The South doesn’t seem to care that the rest of America thinks they’re rednecks, or Bible thumpers, or mint-julep sucking traditionalists, they just do what they do, and you have to admire that kind of blinders-on-the-horse focus.

Sonny’s is a cleaned-up version of that old BBQ pit, sanitized to appeal to the new South—Still low-key enough to appeal to the Boss Hogg types, but clean ‘n’ shiny enough to get the guy who has traded his Dekalb hat for a Titleist one. For some reason, there were about 6 guys there who looked that one guy from the Oak Ridge boys if he'd let himself go (Which one? Who cares, pick one), and one woman who bore a squirmy resemblance to Flo the waitress (I've been in Georgia a while. I'm pretty sure she's not the only one); And my server was named “Casey” but she spelled it “Kayse.” (Yeah, and my name’s “Jeaux.” I’m just a regular Jeaux).

Once the food came, she could have been named Roxanne, Jasmine or Aunt Jim, I didn’t care. Even the muzak playing “I Will Always Love You” (the Dolly Parton version, remember where we are) didn’t cause the synapses of my brain to seize up like it usually does. I contemplated the anomoly of having a salad bar there (Laughing at vegetarians in the kitchen?!?) while I waited for my food.

All I remember about it is pulled pork that was mysteriously gone far too soon, barbecued chicken and a couple ribs. When KahySee came over and asked is everything OK, I think my nodding head told her yes, but the fact that I was in the process of licking the orange tinfoil that the baked sweet potato came in might have been more revelatory. Since they didn’t have beer, I finished it off with two quick Bud Lights (Heee-yo! Rimshot please), heartily embraced Khacy’s entreaty to c’mon back and sat starry-eyed and dreamily satisfied in the car for just a moment. Oh this first time was over all too soon, and I asked myself what if I get used to this and it just becomes routine? I'm pretty sure that worry is just as unfounded as having the same concern about blowjobs, however...

Oh Sonny, you know just what I need. I'll never go vegetarian again, Sonny, promise promise cross-my-heart promise.