The trucker was still staring at me,
his sweaty hands insulated a glass of scotch.
I could smell his odor of liquor, piss and diesel,
all mixed with loneliness and a dire need for a companion.
My judgment was interrupted by the waitress,
a sweet smell of cheap jasmine perfume pierced my throat.
“Thought you’d like some orange juice while you’re waitin,
its on me sweetie, you look far from near here.”
“Thanks. Naw, I’m from up north, Canada.”
My gulp of juice echoed throughout the bar.
“Canada?!? Lord, must be damn near cold up there.
I bet this heat is sure a kick in your ass?”
“Oh the heat is more of a knock you in your face,
fall to the jagged ground, kick you in your stomach
then steal your wallet.”
She looked at me like I was nuts.
“Well, I tell you what, I had a cousin who went up there once,
came back hallerin’ and preachin’ about the cold,
sayin’ he almost damn neared froze to death after one winter!”
“Yah, Canada’s like that, we live in igloo’s you know?”
She stopped buffing a drinking glass,
staring at me in confusion.
I felt bad for playing around.
“No!?? Do ya? Child you have done gone in the right direction!
I would peel over if I had to live in an ice cave! Jesus!”
“Yah, it ain’t that bad once you get use to it,
we just use deer hide and seal skin to keep warm.”
Now I was being cruel, Americans are so easy though.
“Deer? Seal hide? Well, I would have never guessed,
you don’t look like the huntin’ type?”
I shrugged.
My shoulder fell through the neck of my shirt.
Clutching my skinny arm I was reminded how starving I was.
I could tell she sensed this realization.
“I think your pancakes are ready!
I’ll grab ya some more juice and extra butter too!”
She waddled back to the kitchen,
hips twistin’, barely contained in her floral skirt.
I guzzled more of the juice and waited for her return.
My chest burned as the orange pulp stuck in my esophagus,
firing a pain only a smoker can understand.
I pounded my chest to get it down,
hacking out the pieces of delta momma love.
I then smelt the warmth of a buttermilk batter,
felt the heat of a freshly flipped flap jack,
saw the beauty within ol’ Jerry’s art.
“Here you are child! Stack of six, extra large! Eat up!
Don’t go chockin’ yourself now, I don’t got no room left in the basement.
Down there just won’t fit another body!”
I don’t think she was joking.
The pancakes were perfectly bronzed discs.
Each one placed delicately atop the other,
a stack of pride and pretentious glory!
Pancake sweat corrugated beneath the edges,
I quickly lathered each floor of precious cake with softened butter,
using a knife engraved with teeth marks
of a fuming beast.
Drenching the stack with oozing syrup
I watched the last drop plunge from a glass dispenser,
crusted with crystallized beads,
adding to the memories of the ones who ate here.
The first bite was indescribably orgasmic,
a burst of sugar and maple
flooded within a heavy dough
melted, as if becoming one with my mouth.
I don’t remember much after that,
my hunger overwhelmed my ability to experience the taste.
Too bad,
I had a feeling it was like the best sex of my life,
I was just too drunk to remember
and forgot to turn the video camera on.
