All American chuck,
Be safe, with a salad, that’s the thinking, after refusing a hundred and one variations of a theme.
Back comes a dormitory of lettuce leaves, topped with crumbled nuggets of blue cheese, encapsulated by caramelised pecan pies, drizzled with a cloud burst of ranch sauce poured over the prime chicken platter, the bird entrusted on a free range H G Wells farm, encrusted with pecan feekin batter.
This all accompanied by dough bread portions, comparable to any example of bastardised milanda ootsiders.
Texans are polite, crying me, Sir, at the start of all utterances and then requesting that I have a nice day at the end, truly, with an element of sincerity.
Ladies are called Ma’am and so they should be.
Finding myself at a public phone without the required 75 cents minimum, to make a local call, and not knowing the actual value of the coins in my hand, I asked for their worth to be identified by a passing Vera Miles of Midnight Cowboy look-a-like. I was 25 cents shy, but forward enough to ask for the missing quarter, but with no quarter, not with those yelpers panting at the bedside. No thankyou Ma’am.
At the Battle of the Alamo site, in the heart of San Antonio, the aged fort is surrounded by high-rise banks of bleak obelisks, monuments to the recent greatest monumental financial fiasco, ever recorded, but unannounced in living history.
It will be spoke of though, maybe, in the twenty twenties.
Will we have cut back on the supersized, by then?
Texas traffic knows where it has been and where it wants to go next, and outside the Pear Tree Inn at San Antonio Airport, it’s been and gone, everyday and all week, multiplied by twenty-four seven take away two.
Free Liquor, Hot dogs and potato chips and pretzels are on offer. Fat men, thin women, and thin men and fat women, grasp and gorge on it all, then wash the beautiful taste away with refills of Diet Dr Pepper and other pepper-uppers, having no medical credentials at all, and as any bad medicine man knows, that compulsion is only a symptom of the illness.
The temperatures reach just under one hundred degrees outside, but a jaicket is still recommended within the cold air-conditioned rooms.
At this oasis of masonry meeting places, within its concrete desert, dessert bowls have been abandoned, deserted by dogs that have burnt their tongues in the hot sun-boiled water.
It’s a Tuesday night and bees begin to buzz in the evening heat.
Do they know that their UK cousins are dying off?
Of course they do.
They’ll get to compare notes soon enough.
They‘ll sigh, knowing little can be done except to keep spreading the pollen.
Then Buzz again in anticipation of the coming few days of hysteria.