Shreveport, LA – “Pop Tart Wallet” – Red River Revel – October 3, 2000

We woke up early at the Residence Inn. “Welcome Home!!” It said on the door, and I inhaled deeply knowing that this nondescript inn in this podunk town would be the closest thing to home I’d find for the next six weeks.

I made the mistake of taking the rollaway last night. I woke up, after staying out too late post-show at Juanita’s, immobilized in a cocoon of blankets, sheets, and pillows—my back arched like a bow and my eyes slammed shut against every painful movement.

We’d partied with Todd last night, the regional manager for The Waffle House, who once again invited us to eat on his tab at any Waffle House between here and Louisiana. Breakfast at The Waffle House in Little Rock has become a STB (Sally Talyor Band) tradition and it’s egg yoke yellow doors opened with their familliar charm—a haze of smoke, sizzle of skillets, the tantalizing aroma of bacon, and laughter hanging in the air like a pool of Southern Comfort. Melba and Mary (our two favorite waitresses) greeted us with unrestricted enthusiasm which included flailing arms and swaying hugs.

Customers with trucker hats floating atop oceans of rumpled hair, smiled half-toothed grins and tipped their heads in our direction as we passed on our way to our favorite booth. Costomers smoked cigarettes while they ate, puffing in between bites, and they spoke in southern drawls we picked up faster than green grass through a goose, finding ease in the lazy boy lull of their southern tongue. “Hey, Melba” one of us would say, “cud’I git me sum’more’uh that coffee when you git a sec’n’ darlin’?” and: “Mary, what you been doin’ wit yer self girl?”

Ever since I misplaced my wallet, I’ve been using an empty Pop-Tart wrapper to hold my money. The guys are convinced I’ll accidentally throw it away at a gas station, which is probably why I haven’t lost it yet. Stomachs bulging under the weight of free grits, OJ, coffee, bacon, and, of course, waffles, I pulled out my silver Pop-Tart wallet to leave a tip. Melba snatched that wrapper clean out of my hand faster than a one-legged man in a butt kicking competition and tossed it in a trash can full of spoiled batter and discarded napkins despite all our protest. We laughed as she retrieved my make shift money holder all covered in eggshells and goop.

She refused my tip and offered an empty hot coco packet to transfer my funds into — frankly, it’s an upgrade. Now, we’re off to Shreveport.