I just got home. I feel like it’s the middle of the night.
It’s 8:19.

I tell ya, though, South Knoxville is no place for two white girls past dark. It probably ain’t no place for us in the daylight, either. Crackheads on every corner. People on bicycles trying to cross Chapman, and not at a redlight or anything, just all willy-nilly.
What was I doing in South Knox on a random Monday? My cousin text and asked if I wanted to go eat. She’s too bougie for lowly Seymour fare, she was opting for The Kennedy or Kerns. I told her as long as she was driving, I was game (but fingers crossed we weren’t going to The Kennedy or I’d have to eat watercress soup like Phoebe). Luckily, she chose Kerns where we’d have more options. Now, funny thing, I was wanting anything but Mexican (I’ve learned to specify because all my friends know I willingly eat it, so everybody wears me out on it). I was leaning towards pizza, which I rarely want. And this food mall had pizza. But Chelsey steered me away. She said it wasn’t very good. However, she’s way pickier than me. I didn’t discount them yet. The burgers were tempting; I’ve been wanting a good burger. I’m always wanting a good burger, truth be told, but I can get that any old time. There was Cuban, and sushi, and Mexican. There was Korean and coffee and macarons. But I landed on African. The gentleman cooking was the most engaging fellow there, and it smelled the best.
I studied the menu at length. It seemed pretty standard, apart from knowing what jollaf rice was and a few other things. They offered chicken, beef, and lamb. I could only pray it wouldn’t be too spicy. I decided I’d handle this like I did B-51 Chicken when it opened. I stepped up to the girl behind the register who had, thus far, avoided eye contact. I smiled. She kept her face pleasant, but neutral.
“Hello. I have no idea what to order,” I told her honestly.
“The most popular is the chicken and jollaf rice,” she stated without preamble.
I shrugged. Safe enough, it sounded like. “Sounds good to me.” She gave me a choice of breast or thigh and leg.
“What sauce on the side?”
“Uhhhh….what are my options?” I asked, searching the sign.
“What sauce on the side?” She repeated.
I’m clearly at a loss.
“It’s on the side,” she said.
“Okay, whichever you think.”
“No, hot sauce,” she finally spoke loud enough to be heard over the thumping music.
“Ohhhh!” I laughed at myself.
She was unamused and asked for my name.
I repeated it twice, then spelled it, because it sounded like she was saying “Ermine.”
“My accent’s pretty thick,” I explained, unapologetically.
And of course, when you go to pay, it asks for gratuity. What exactly am I tipping? You are punching my order into the computer. I am standing here waiting on my food. I carry it to my table. I throw away my garbage.
The drink was a canned coke. I should’ve gone to the bar for a fountain coke….if they even offer them. One can of coke is not sufficient for African food when you’re liberal with the hot sauce that started on the side. I did not think washing it down with craft beer was a good decision, either.

My cousin opted for Cuban, and was disappointed. No surprise there, she’s almost always disappointed when we go eat. That’s why I refuse to pick a dining establishment when it’s she and I. I will not take responsibility for her finicky taste buds.

She mentions she plans to vote tomorrow, but doesn’t know anything beyond the presidential candidate.
“Oh, you didn’t vote in the Primary?” That’s the tricky one where you gotta do your homework.
She didn’t, and reminded me she had text me about her card’s address being wrong, but it was correct on the website, and her license was right. I had told her all I had shown in recent years was my license, so she hadn’t bothered updating it, but was prepared with an electric bill. So I told her not to anticipate an issue, plus this was the “easy” ballot, just pick the ones with (R) beside their names, that way the House and Senate would align and bills could get pushed through faster with less debate.
She’s looking at me with a funny little smile and I thought, “Oh dear God, no….”
So that turned into a discussion that I could have done without. And her entire argument was, “I just hate him so much.”
“That doesn’t make her qualified,” I said plainly.
“Well, I don’t know that much about her policies, but I know that he wants to outlaw abortion, no matter what.”
“That is patently untrue. He doesn’t want federal involvement, he wants it decided at state level. And furthermore, he’s against late term, not all, not for medical justification.”
I can see Chelsey wavering, knowing she’s on unstable ground and has not verified anything for herself. She’s voting on emotion, as so many people are. I brought up the issue of taxes, since she is self employed, and asked her to think back five or six years. She said her business wasn’t as lucrative then, and she didn’t know what tax breaks she got. She stated she wants less government involvement, and then in the same breath went to talking about dyes and GMO products, and how in Great Britain they have the same products without all the “harmful additives that make products cheaper”.
And here is where I shine. “Ok, and those are available here. So you want that to be the standard? You want less sugar, but you want it to be a controlled substance. You don’t want people to have a choice. You want everybody to have what you want, only. Isn’t that just more government influence?”
She looked stricken for just a second, and said that she “felt” that the government were the ones responsible for allowing all the unnecessary chemicals to be included now. I shrugged and told her if that was the case, she could ship it in, or grow it herself. Her eyes dimmed as she said that wasn’t affordable. Coming from a girl wearing Prada, that has a housekeeper, that has everything delivered from coffee to groceries, and that just bought her husband a Breitling watch. I didn’t even know what the watch was, but figured it was expensive since he made a Facebook post about it. Not that I’m not happy for her and all the things she can afford, but don’t tell me a necessity is too expensive when you flash all the charms of your “successful” lifestyle around.
Which brought us to “free” healthcare, like the “truly great” countries overseas. Again, with the government involvement. Nothing is free. Most countries have a cap, and many limitations on providers. Also, once you reach a certain age, the benefits only go so far to keep you alive.
She wouldn’t quit, and brought up illegals and Harris’ stance on the borders. I nearly choked as I told her to look at the Google image of the “Mexican Freeway, the “path” across the border that is so well traveled and worn it is visible from space. “And this is why healthcare is so expensive here, and car insurance. You go out here, an illegal hits you, even though I don’t think they call them illegals now, they’re all ‘documented’, but they don’t carry automotive insurance. So they hit you, but they don’t have insurance, so your insurance has to pick it up. That’s why it’s always on the rise, to cover uninsured drivers. And they’re driving nicer cars than you and I. Because they can afford to, because they don’t pay insurance and so many of them are paid cash. And that’s so when they get hurt on the job the owner doesn’t have to claim them, he just says, ‘I didn’t even know that guy was here, I’ve never seen him before, you know they all look alike,’ and presto, no workers comp claim, it saves him from liability. But the taxpayers pay- they pay for his healthcare. When someone comes across our borders, they automatically receive $2000 and free education and healthcare. They’re treated better than our veterans. The people who pay for insurance will always be paying for those who don’t. The more that come in here, the more we have to pay. There’s your democratic economics.” I then went on to explain how the parties flipped in the late 60’s and 70’s. This seemed to be an eye opening lesson. Her rebuttal was some comedian who made fun of Puerto Ricans under the Republican name.
I sat back and rubbed my face. “They’re all morally corrupt. It’s all a game. What concerns me is not appearing intimidating to other countries, like Russia and Iran. I’m seriously surprised they haven’t bombed us already under Sleepy Joe.”
It went on for a few minutes and I know I didn’t sway her, but I hope that I influenced her to hopefully think about the future of America and what life could be like if we had four more years of a puppet. It’s scary, and I don’t want to dwell on it, myself.
I got an ice cream and came back to hear her telling Rob that I would have left her sitting there if I had driven myself.
I wouldn’t have. I’ve never been much of a runner. But I sure wish we had found other subjects to talk about. I respect her too much to let politics wholly divide us, but it’s hard. I so wished my Uncle Dale was around to talk to her. I don’t stay abreast of legislature like I should, like I did when he fed me the most pertinent information. There’s just too much garbage to wade through, especially without being able to trust news sites.

But onto an immediate issue. Chelsey informs me, that for future visits it was important to know that this venue doesn’t have free parking. I was perplexed, as we had simply driven into the lot, there was no kiosk or arm barrier. She tells me there are cameras that take a picture of your license plate when entering and exiting, and they send you a bill in the mail. “And you have to install their app to pay it.”
“Oh bullshit,” I replied, instantly incensed.
“Well, you get two hours free if you eat here,” she added.
“And how would they know that?”
“The restaurant gives you a QR Code to scan.”
“Neither of mine did.”
“You might have to ask for it. The bartender gave it to me last time.”
I’m positively livid. I saw NO signs anywhere, inside the building or out, about the parking charge. Lots in Gatlinburg, Knoxville, New Orleans, basically anywhere you pay to park are heavily placarded, many times at the front of each space. And that’s with the barrier arm to get in and out of the lot.
So we go outside and I’m avidly searching for signs. I saw THREE, about 8×10, with gray and white lettering. Not what you’d call hi-visibility. Can you imagine getting this ticket in the mail???
I did dig my receipts out, and they both do have the code printed at the bottom. However, the ice cream girl asked me if I even wanted my receipt. If I’m paying cash, I let it slide. If I’m using my card, you better believe I want it. It’s proof of service or product rendered. What if they debited more than what the cost was? I need proof of what I got. But if I were normal, I would only retain it long enough to match it up with my bank, so a day or two. Then I would get this ticket in the mail and no way to prove I ate there. Oh, calamity.
So don’t say I didn’t warn you. If I were you, I’d just stay away. It ain’t worth the rigmarole. Plus, the clientele is….well, let’s just say I didn’t appear to have much in common with the people wandering around.

We had fun singing 90’s rock on the way back; we do a pretty good rendition of The Cranberries “Zombie”. And what’s a mini road trip without Alanis Morrisette? She was appalled my coworkers are unfamiliar with her, as am I.
It was good to see my cousin but there’s a reason it’s bad taste to talk politics, religion, and money. I won’t let tonight leave a bad taste in my mouth but I will be more careful from here on out. We’re all just picking our poison. No candidate is perfect. God bless the USA.

Love from Appalachia,
~Amy