The High-Speed Chase and the Fancy Food Fiasco: A Small-Town Take on Modern Chaos

By Mark Morgan

www.markmorganbooks.com

I’ve been watching the news lately, and I reckon if city folks ever slowed down long enough to blink, they’d think the world had ended. Between high-speed chases on TV, helicopters buzzing like mad hornets, and traffic acting like it’s late for its own funeral, it feels like common sense took a wrong turn somewhere outside town. And that’s when this fancy food fiasco really got started.

Every night there’s a “high-speed chase” on TV. Sirens hollerin’, helicopters buzzin’ like mad hornets, folks dartin’ through traffic busier’n a one-legged man at a butt-kickin’ contest. Cars honkin’, people yellin’, and everybody in such a hurry you’d think they was late for their own funeral.

Now, we don’t really have that kind of traffic problem here in Scott County.

Matter of fact, in Waldron, we don’t have traffic jams at all. What we have are social gatherings at the four-way stop.

You’ll ease up there, hit the brake, roll the window down, and before you know it, you’re discussin’ the weather, somebody’s cousin, and whether the fish are bitin’ at Lake Hinkle. Engines idlin’. Time standin’ still. Ain’t nobody in a rush ‘cause everybody knows everybody.

Which brings me to the only high-speed chase I ever personally witnessed around here.

It weren’t even a car.

It was a hat.

A good one, too. Looked like it had seen some miles. Wind caught it right in front of the Rock Café and took off with it like it owed somebody money. That hat rolled down Main Street, bounced off a curb, and headed off like it had a mind of its own.

Three pickup trucks followed.

Not fast. Just determined.

Hazard lights on. Doors open. One fellow joggin’ after it with his arms out like he was landin’ a crop duster. Folks pointin’. Somebody laughin’. Somebody else sayin’, “That’s Bill’s hat!” like it was a missing child.

City folks call that chaos.

We call that Tuesday.

Now, after the hat was safely captured—slightly more embarrassed than damaged—we all wandered into the Rock Café to eat. And if you’ve ever noticed, city folks got some funny ideas about food.

They’ll pay good money for somethin’ served on a plate big enough to park a tractor on, with a drizzle of sauce and a leaf sittin’ on top like it’s proud of itself. Looks like somethin’ a cat dragged in and then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble of eatin’.

They call it “gourmet.”

Here in Waldron, gourmet means the plate bends a little when they set it down.

At the Rock Café, the food sticks to your ribs like it’s got a mortgage there. Burgers finer than frog’s hair. Fries that don’t need explainin’. And nobody charges extra for a smile or asks if you want your tea “artisanal.” It’s sweet, or it ain’t.

You eat. You visit. You finish the story you started at the four-way stop.

And when you leave, you take your time. ’Cause if you don’t, the wind might steal your hat again… and you’ll end up starin’ down another high-speed chase that tops out at about seven miles an hour.

Moral of the story:Life don’t need to be fast to be important, fancy to be good, or loud to be excitin’. Sometimes the best stories roll through town slow enough for everybody to wave at ‘em.