For The Record- 03. August. 2024

Thanks for the book, now my table is ready

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KA~

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“I’m so sorry y’all,” he says over and over. “He” sounds like Roger from American Dad, and none of us can unhear it. Fortunately, he looks totally normal.

A year ago this week(ish), my kids and I went on a trip. Longtime readers may recall that deciding where to go is always a much more protracted process than it needs to be. Eventually, we reach some consensus (this usually involves somebody saying “fuck it”) and go. This time, we flew to New Orleans and then headed east. Why New Orleans? My kids had never been to Louisiana, and it was easier to get into than Gulfport.¹

“He” is named Isiah, and it’s his first day at this Waffle House. His crime? Forgetting to put half of our table’s order in. It’s the latest in a string of bad decisions we’ve seen since we walked through the door. That we’re in Biloxi, Mississippi, at the tail end of July is one more in our own string of questionable decisions—the last being that we should walk the mile and a half from our (very comfy hotel room) to the restaurant.

It’s just down the road, right? Maybe, but I could politely be described as “husky.” I sweat in March. I’m not built for this.

It’s hot AF as we pass ramshackle houses half in the ground and stately manors in equal measure. You can almost see the oppressive humidity. You certainly can see me sweating through my shirt. Seagulls zip past my head, and pelicans laze the day away on pilings that run out farther in the water than I’m willing to wade. I wonder how I got here.

And there’s nowhere I’d rather be.