“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, I DON’T EAT GRITS, BITCH!”

The rousing laughter from the table was broken almost instantly by the condescending bark of the heavily-made-up, aging and bitter waitress who was taking advantage of her one opportunity to pull rank on anyone.  She was not amused by Roger’s antics.

“One more outburst from you all and I’m gonna have to ask y’all to leave,” she growled, flipping her over-processed and bodiless ponytail as she stalked off angrily.

“Yeah, Roger,” I giggled.  “Now eat your damn grits and shut the fuck up!”

We had stopped just after midnight at the sixteenth Waffle House we encountered (Jim was counting) for much-needed caffeine and trans fats, and were somewhere in northern Arkansas, surrounded by just the type of people one would expect to run into at such an establishment.  Megan sat across from me, slouching in the tattered, faded red vinyl booth, incredibly happy that our little pit stop signaled the end of her driving contribution, poking around at a soggy stack of miserable little pancakes.

“There’s simply not enough money in the world to get me to consume this shit,” Roger moaned, half-drunk and probably still a little bit high.  He had driven us from Boston straight through West Virginia, and was now able to settle in for the remainder of the excursion.  “Whose idea was this place anyway?”

“Yours, princess,” Kevin quipped, throwing an overcooked bit of hash brown at Roger.

“Bullshit!” Roger yelled, jumping to his feet.  “Do I look like white trash to you? I would never do such a thing.”  Our waitress, Miss Congeniality, marched right over at the sound of Roger’s little outburst.

“Alright, that’s it. Who’s payin’ this check?” she snarled.  We pointed to Scott, who had remained silent throughout Roger’s antics.  “Well pay up, and then get on outta here.  And I don’t wanna see y’all back here again, ya hear me?”

“Why yes ma’am!” Roger shouted in his best mock-southern accent, standing at attention and saluting the dragon waitress.  “And I do apologize for this unfortunate inconvenience.”

Scott shoved some cash into the waitress’s hand before grabbing Roger by the collar and almost dragging him out of the restaurant.  We shuffled outside, laughing, where Scott was eye-to-eye with Roger.

“Do you think it was the white-trash thing?” Roger asked, staring back at Scott.  Scott burst into laughter.

“That might have done it, yeah.”

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