Charlotte, North Carolina was a frequent stop. I was working for a company that had developed a system for property title searching. Around 2004 home refinancing and “tap into your equity” loans were the name of the game. It was a happy time for title companies.
Arriving on a late flight from somewhere, I slept fitfully and awoke early, even earlier if you consider the 2-hour difference between East Coast and Mountain Time. It was still a couple of hours until my appointment and I had grown tired of the endless doom and gloom of cable news. Maybe some coffee and a bit of breakfast would help me reenergize.
The motel coffee shop was bustling but I ventured out and took my chances. Walking down a busy road, I found nothing except brake shops, liquor stores, a Piggly Wiggly and a couple of adult video stores. I know, it sounds worse than it was.
North Carolina is the land of trees, endless trees, endless green and the shops were buried in it. It’s really quite nice. I’ve been to Charlotte 4-5 times, and on a couple of occasions, I looked for a shopping mall. Never could find one. Just trees, trees, trees.
But still no place to eat.
Emerging from the green, I spied a Breakfast Nook*. The restaurant sat away from other shops, its large parking lot a quarter-full of pickup trucks, old sedans and a couple of Harleys. As I walked towards it, I noticed it looked rundown. But then, Breakfast Nooks always look a little rundown; perhaps it’s corporate policy.
I walked through the glass entrance, complete with the stacks of Real Estate guides and “What to do in Charlotte” catalogs and was immediately hit with the aroma of coffee, frying bacon and cinnamon rolls. Maybe shabby on the outside but doing well enough inside, I thought. A cook hollered from over his grill, “Take any seat you can find!” followed with a toothless grin and phlegmy laugh.
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As is my custom, I took a seat that offered the best view of the restaurant. I defend this by saying I am an observer of humankind but really, I am a shameless snoop.
A waitress appeared and took my order. “Be right back with your coffee, hon!” she cooed over her shoulder and disappeared in the direction of kitchen. As I looked around, it seemed odd that there were only a couple people hunched over eggs and grits, belying the number of vehicles in the parking lot.
Nature was calling so I headed to the rest room. Coming around a corner, thinking this place is bigger than it looks, I saw a group of about 20 men.
Embroiled in an intense, animated discussion, the men quieted as I approached. As the rest room door closed, the conversation picked up again.
“I’m not takin’ anymore of this BS!”
“Those lazy bastards just want to sit around and eat watermelon!” I could hear the chuckles.
Finishing my business, I confess I stood by the door and eavesdropped. Soon the conversation outside reached a fever pitch. The N-word was every other word, usually preceded by the F-word. These guys were not looking for friends who didn't have a white robe.
Deciding I had heard enough, I came out of the rest room. This time my presence meant nothing; I guess the fact that I am white helped. I quickly scanned the room of 30 to 50 year old men; lots of beard stubble, jeans, sweatshirts, tattoos. Working men and tough looking. I nodded at one in passing as I returned to my table.
The men were now louder than ever. The cook finally went back and, in an unforgettable manner, told them to “Shut up or get out!” (he used different words). At that, several left, eyeing me as they stormed out the door. I nodded as they filed passed, then focused on my warm and fragrant cinnamon roll.
To this day, I never pass a Breakfast Nook without thinking of those men.
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