I’m a day late, and I petition you for your grace and understanding. I was in no way shape or form able to write last night, even if I had a subject in mind, let alone the time. And since yesterday was the most exciting day of my year thus far, of course this will be another journal-esque entry. It’s a good demonstration of how one without kids or attachments lives their life.

6:30 and I’m up, drinking water (gonna be too hot for coffee), and doing my Wordle. I get it in three and I was super proud of myself. Aloof, in case you’re curious. Double letters usually give me the devil, especially when the word begins with a vowel. My head just doesn’t wanna work like that. So as I’m sending Lisa a text to say how many guesses it took, as is our custom first thing in the morning, and I see she is typing me something. I figure it’s her Wordle number. But no. “You wanna drive out to Cookeville this afternoon and spend the night and hang out?”

And me, with basically no obligations to anyone whatsoever, is like, “Sure! But lemme make sure Angela can let Chessie out in the morning.” Because that dog constitutes the entirety of my responsibilities, apart from work.

And lo and behold, Angela could, and I started working out a timetable in my brain of when I should leave, and meal planning throughout the day in order to capitalize on the offerings of downtown Cookeville or places convenient to my travel route. And what to wear and pack, of course. I decided not to leave before six, as that would give Chess a good long break this afternoon while I was home throwing stuff in a bag. Also, I am unwilling to sacrifice any more vacation time till we see what the rest of the winter holds. Honestly, we’re just getting started. Plus, since Lisa was meeting two Cookeville friends, I didn’t want to intrude on their time with her. It would work out perfect, since I’d be gaining an hour.

The drive was blessedly uneventful, and there was a stretch of interstate with no visible taillights in front of me. Being a Sevier County native, I will forever find this situation miraculous and glorious.

Downtown was hoppin’, but I was able to park where we always parked: the bank. I made my way over to The Blue Pig. I don’t know how the place stays in business. Last time I was there, they were out of pulled pork. It’s a barbecue restaurant. How do you run out of pulled pork? Luckily, they weren’t out of it last night. But the way you go about getting your food is highly unorthodox. First, you enter and walk to the counter. There’s a screaming huge chalkboard in front of you, hanging above the counter. There’s a smaller chalkboard giving instructions: you can order at the counter or through the QR code on your table. (I never saw them take one order at the counter the entire duration of our visit, just sayin’). A host is supposed to seat you. I stood there for some time; I believe the host was gathering a Doordash delivery. Lisa and them appeared from the backside. The first thing she says to me (now mind you, I haven’t laid eyes on her since June) is, “So apparently I was molested at 17.”

This is a lot for me to process as I have just driven 100 miles on a very empty stomach and everyone else in the party greeted me politely with, “How are you?” And “good to see you!” No. My best friend leads with this.

Seeing as how we were best friends at seventeen and I remember no such seedy incidents, I shuck right to the cob. I mean, besides, she used the word “apparently” so obviously there was no reason to call to arms or get emotional. “By who?”

“You remember when I was going through all that testing to join the Army?” To make a long story short, the doctor was inappropriate. The whole ordeal was inappropriate and they stalked her for over a year, plumb to another state.

But back to my issues at hand with the restaurant. So since this bunch are regulars, they know the owners well, and we’re immediately ensconced at a makeshift table. The waiter disappears and I’m left scanning this QR code and looking at the tiny menu on my phone. I remembered this procedure from Covid. The owners are clearly leftists and I’m instantly irritated. I held my breath that the pulled pork was available, irked that the tater salad was on the glaring chalkboard but not offered on the digital one. Whatever, broccoli salad it is.

Then comes the kicker. You go ahead and pay before they even bring you your food. WITH GRATUITY. AT 15%!!! For what?!?! What have they done to deserve a tip??? Especially before I even get my food. And of course, as the cashless society becomes more prevalent, you can conveniently pay with a debit or credit card. I don’t know what they do if you don’t have one, or don’t want to use one.

But, as all my stories go, I was hungry, and I will not be denied. So I dutifully entered my card number, agreeing to the 15% gratuity for services not yet performed and food not yet consumed. I wait for the ghost server/ robot/ mythical creature to bring me a glass so I can go get my drink from the self serve fountain.

No one appears.

Lisa ordered cowboy caviar and when it was delivered I asked for my glass. Oh, they’re by the fountain. So I suppose I could have just helped myself and saved $3.00. And I should have, to make up for the tip.

So I get to wait in line to fill my paper cup, with no lid provided. Then I get to wait in line for sauce. Then I go back to my party.

I will not lie: their barbecue is delicious. Their Cottontail sauce is a perfect compliment. I love their broccoli salad and baked beans and even the fiery pickles. But I do not like the way I had to go about getting it. And I won’t go back.

But at one point, I caught Lisa just looking at me. I figured she was just wanting a bite of my food. “What?” I asked warily.

“I’m just glad to see you,” she said, and my heart thawed by one degree.

“That broccoli salad looks so good. Can I try a bite?”

I knew it.

Next stop was the new speakeasy in town, and that was a fun little escapade. It’s in a nondescript office building. The drinks were tasty, our server was fun, and a good time was had by all. We stayed awhile, relieved that we were let in with our ripped jeans and basic tops. The Oliver, it ain’t. But I would absolutely recommend it, just for the experience.

Back to 37 Cedar, where they had begun the night prior to my arrival. We had lost half our party by this point. There was live music, and one ol’ gal dancing in some red platform heels. She was a hard sixty, ifyaknowwhatImean. And evidently a purse thief. But she was having a really good time and everybody in the restaurant knew it. She would give a holler, then grind on her boyfriend. They were seated up front, next to the door, against the plate glass window. Lisa kept saying she was pretty sure they made a baby at one point, but my attention had been diverted to the guy in the fur coat sitting in a lawn chair behind his van parked front and center. The van was far more interesting than the clientele, in my opinion. It had all sorts of charming phrases scrawled across it, including, but not limited to: “Trannies 4 Trump” and “Jesus is a Palestinian Jew”. I had noticed the van earlier while walking over to the Pig, had even stopped a moment because there was something written about Chester across the hood, but I couldn’t quite make it out. There had been no one about at the time. Now the owner was in residence, sitting under the hatch, but I was avoiding him due to my knowledge of the backpack bombers in the last few decades. This guy looked like a prime candidate. Kinda like Uncle Si on Duck Dynasty.

So I’m watching him, I’m watching ol’ Shake It in her stripper heels, and I’m watching three guys watch the new Unibomber. I’m hoping when it detonates, I go quickly, maybe a glass shard directly through the heart.

I drink my beer and speculate.

Of course nothing happens, or I wouldn’t be here, writing about it. We left as soon as Lisa started talking like she was gonna go ask to try on his coat. I told her she’d get scabies immediately and I would not permit her to ride in my car afterwards.

We return to the hotel, now down to just me and her, and make our way to the rooftop bar. The hotel I speak of is a Holiday Inn Express, right off the interstate. You can just imagine the ambiance. Why the developers thought this would be a prime location for a swingin’ rooftop bar, the world will never know.

We were served French 75s in wine glasses, then frosted martini glasses, but never the champagne glasses that are the norm. Whatever. Our bartenders were 19 and twenty, and, if I cared I would be trying to figure out how that is legal.

Selfies on the roof with the ghetto right below us.

Lisa regaled the only other patron with the story of how she became a goat mom. Which, as you should know, begins with: “Well, I was drunk.” 🤣🤣🤣 Then she goes on with the rest of it. “And this lady who owns this store had a goat in there that was for sale, and I bought him, and she said, ‘he has a full brother at home.’ And I hated to separate him from his family, so I said I’d get him, too, and when we went out there to get them, there were 12 others, so we bought all them too, and that’s how I went from no goats to 24.” And the guy is looking bumfuzzled, because clearly we were only at 14, but don’t worry, Lisa got him caught up. Plus the impending chicken delivery. And we mustn’t forget about the already existing turtle orphanage. And donkeys, including Georgia the Surprise and the late Mister Biscuit.

It’s quite the show when we’re out together.

One of the bartenders called her mean for something she said and we kinda looked at each other and I set him straight with, “She’s the nice one.” Which prompted Lisa to leave him a sketch on her receipt (“I drew you something”), which prompted me to persuade her to draw her north-walking cat.

All in all it was a good night. I’m thankful for rooftop bars, people who are good sports about two mouthy white girls, the fact that I feel the urge to brush my teeth (and subsequently drip toothpaste everywhere), and my best friend, even though she made me look for her contact for ten minutes only to throw it in the trash once I located it after an intensive search.

After a foggy and pothole-riddled drive back East, I am most definitely ready for bed. Which still leaves me a day behind. Oh bother.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy