Havana File

On The Road Again

On The Road AgainS

hake seemed to be outrunning the worst of the rainstorms as he pushed the truck through northern Mississippi. After a couple of hours, he began to follow road signs that took him off his track and onto a southbound road that promised to lead to downtown Tupelo. Blowing into the city center, he cruised the downtown area looking for a hotel or motel. There was only one whitewashed, pillared, and porch-fronted antebellum hotel that he could see along Front Street, and it looked like the kind of touristy, upscale joint that might be leery of sheltering a weary human with a wet dog. He passed several signs and billboards that heralded Tupelo’s most famous native son and provided directions for pilgrims wanting to visit the actual shack in which The King had swiveled his way into this world. Maybe tomorrow, he decided. Right now he needed to consume something more substantial than Fritos and Dr. Pepper and get a little rest.

On the other side of town, near an intersection crowded with signage that offered travelers a variety of directions toward Memphis, Little, Rock, St. Louis, and a number of other destinations, he spotted something that looked promising. It was a ramshackle little spread of bungalows fronted by a fairly large parking area in which sat two semi rigs dripping muddy water. A flickering pink neon sign indicated the Crossroads Motor Court had vacancies, and it didn’t look like the place was crowded enough to be picky about patrons with pets.

The lady at the desk demanded a fifty dollar deposit—refundable in the morning if Bear didn’t chew up the furniture or pee on the carpets—swiped his credit card, and handed over an old-fashioned key with a plastic fob that guaranteed return postage should it be found anywhere in the Continental U.S. She also indicated it might be tough to find a good restaurant open this late, but there was a little juke-joint a half-mile south that was said to serve a good burger if he could catch the cook before they closed the kitchen.

The room was semi-shabby in a kitschy Down South décor and the shower had last been scrubbed with something that smelled like embalming fluid, but the double bed was reasonably clean and only slightly rump-sprung. It would do for an overnight and Bear seemed amenable once he’d thoroughly nosed his way through an area reconnaissance. Shake poured kibble into the dog’s bowl and then headed back out to the truck.

It was near midnight when he finally found the place. There were three vehicles in the parking lot, all of them work-weary pick-ups with local tags. A sign bolted to a rusting corrugated metal awning that covered the entry said the joint was called The Buttplate Bar wherein, according to various hand-lettered announcements, a visitor could get ice-cold beer and Tupelo’s Best Burgers. As he trudged through the drizzle toward a door that had been painted fairly recently in a familiar shade of olive-drab, Shake squinted at the sign on the awning. It seemed like an odd name for a honk in rural Mississippi unless it was some kind of inside joke. If so, the proprietor might be a veteran. He knew of at least one unit in Vietnam in which the grunts referred to themselves as Buttplates, the part of a service rifle that takes the most punishment. On the other hand, he decided as he pushed through the door, there were a lot hunters and gun-nuts in this part of the south who knew what a buttplate was.

It looked and smelled like a hundred other small-town dives he’d frequented. A gaudy jukebox in one corner warbled a tune that let listeners know Garth Brooks had friends in low places. There was a burnished and stained wood bar complete with brass foot rails and mismatched stools that comprised the locus of activity for three or four serious drinkers nursing beer mugs. Booths tracked along one wall and five or six pedestal tables surrounded what might be a dance floor backed by a little raised platform that probably served as a stage on nights when the place featured live music. Muggy air, moved sluggishly by a couple of rattan-bladed ceiling fans, carried the musk of spilled beer and cigarette smoke, but Shake caught the tang of burned grease and hoped for the best as he approached the bar.

“Gitcha sompin’?” The bartender was a rotund man with caramel-color skin who smiled to reveal a magnificent set of horse-teeth that reflected the colors of the neon beer signs hung haphazardly over his head.

“Too late to get something to eat?” Shake tossed a leg over an empty barstool and glanced hopefully at a service window that led to a kitchen. He could see a black man in an apron over a white t-shirt moving around back there.

“Kitchen’s just closin’” The bartender studied his watch, sucked on his teeth for a while and then glanced up at the clock over the bar to confirm his declaration. “Lemme check with the boss. He’s cookin’ tonight and he might could fry you up a burger. That be OK?”

“I’ll take a beer while you’re at it, thanks. Whatever’s on tap will be fine.” Shake sipped foam from the top of a frosted mug as the bartender pushed through the kitchen door to consult with the cook. He saw the man in the apron glance through the service window and nod briefly before the bartender returned to announce that his boss could only offer a burger with fixings. No fries as the deep-fryer had just been emptied and cleaned. Would that suit?

“Suits me just fine. I appreciate the effort. I’ll be over there when it’s ready.” Shake carried his beer to one of the booths where he might be able to stretch the driving cramps in his legs. He was halfway through a second beer when a tall, muscular black man arrived at his booth with a thick china platter bearing a burger about the size of a small wagon wheel and emanating a delightful aroma of fried meat and onion.

“Many thanks. That smells really good.” Shake took a closer look at the man as the plate was proffered and decided there was something familiar about him. He couldn’t quite get a grip on it but he was fairly sure he’d seen this guy somewhere. The jaw-line beard and grey hair didn’t help, but there was something about that flat nose and high cheekbones that reminded him of someone. The man was slouched against the upright of the booth smiling at him, making no move to return to the kitchen. Shake decided he’d be bothered by it all night if he didn’t ask.

He slapped the top of the bun on his burger and took a bite. It was delicious, so good he would have appreciated the quality and taste even if he wasn’t starving. “This is really good, man. I appreciate you frying it up for me.” The cook just crossed his arms and added another lumen to his smile. Shake chewed for a bit and then noticed the tattoo on the man’s sinewy forearm. He’d missed it earlier in the dim light as it was nearly lost against the man’s dark skin, but he knew an eagle, globe, and anchor when he saw one.

“This sounds nuts, I know.” He pointed at the tattoo and swallowed. “But I think we might have served together—in the Marine Corps?”

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” The man pushed himself upright and slid into the bench across from Shake. He signaled for the bartender to bring a couple of beers and leaned across the table to stare into Shake’s eyes. “You’d think a Marine like Shake Davis would remember one of the old Buttplates from Echo Two-Three.”

Shake paused in mid-bite and then dropped the burger onto the platter. The deep, drawl and hoarse timber of the man’s voice was something he knew immediately. He’d heard it for months regularly over the rattle of gunfire or over a PRC-25 radio.

“Simmons?” The burger was forgotten and Shake reached for the new beer that landed on the table. “You’ve gotta be shitting me! Lance Corporal f*****g Simmons?”

“Close.” The man grinning back at him held up his beer for a toast. “It’s more like Master Sergeant Henry Simmons, USMC, Retired.”

“Christ! Now I get the name of this place. You own it?”

“Owner and operator since I retired out of Camp Swampy back in 84.”

“This can’t be happening, man. s**t like this only happens in the movies.”

Simmons laughed in that familiar chesty chuckle that Shake remembered so well and cupped his beer mug. “Yeah, in the movies, like—what was that one with Bogart? You know—Casablanca, right?” Simmons affected a Bogey growl. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world—Shake Davis walks into mine.”

“I’d been wondering what ever happened to you, Henry. You were the best—maybe the only—Lance Corporal Platoon Sergeant in the Nam.”

They let the bar close down around them and talked about lives and times. There was so much to say, so many memories, so many mutual friends to trace and so many seminal events to recall. Simmons had the bartender roust the remaining patrons and close up but leave the beer taps in place. They settled into a comfortable, disjointed back and forth, but around two a.m., Shake drifted to another time and place.