Ballad of the Big Shots

When it's breakfast you go to Betty's, when it's business you come to The Spot. Both offer the amenities you'd expect from the Americana Diner experience. Only one holds a hotbed of intrigue and exposition that would put the Mos Eisley Cantina to shame.

In my youth they gathered along the front counter, silverbacks fading into the sunset. Eugene the golden gloves boxer who coulda been a contender, Merle the man who always has a plan. But the king of this court was the man who chaired a kitchen cabinet that would put Andrew Jackson's to shame, Ol' Virg.

Ol' Virg was every stereotype you'd expect to find, crotchety, chauvinistic, quick to anger and slow to calm down. Day after day he drew his morning routine to a close with stale cigarettes and bottomless cups of coffee. All the while he railed against "the city" or whatever agency he felt was currently impeding his grand designs for the south end.

Every so often he'd be on a tangent and one of his lackeys would speak out of turn, or heaven forbid the server would question his logic. Virg would storm off, swearing to never again step foot inside the establishment. Generally about a week or two later his need to hold court would overpower him and he'd be back at his station coffee in hand.

Virg doesn't make it to The Spot to talk shop anymore, he doesn't even swing by Betty's for a biscuit and gravy. A lifetime of railing against the system has left him a weakened old man unable to make the rounds. But every so often the phone rings at his house, his eyes perk up, his shoulders straighten and a cackle echoes throughout the room as he looks at the caller I.D. to see a city councilmans phone number flash across the display.

"'Bout damn time they get ahold of me, I've got some things to say!"

It is then that he rises up via telephone, the minutes bleed into an hour and for a small shining moment he's a Big Shot again. The timber returns to his tone as he offers his opinions on all manner of issue such as immigration and taxation. He's trying to set them straight, trying to show them the way, he knows that if they'd listen to him it'd all be ok.

Meanwhile at The Spot a new generation of silverbacks is growing into their own. Their roles are still undefined, a lifetime of experience and compromise has yet to harden their viewpoints and mold their interactions. But they do sip upon the coffee and contemplate ways to save their world and that's a start.

Do they know of the previous administration? Does this cabal of redneck intellect pay fealty at the altar of Rush Limbaugh as their predecessors did? Will it be flood or famine that challenges their agenda? And who shall rise above the others to assume the mantle of leadership and title of Big Shot?

In a small town diner there's plenty of time for those plot threads to play out. Because if there's one thing that's certain it's this, the band plays on, only the members change. And it's the sweet siren song of salvation that they offer up to the land they call home.