I asked myself that question, somewhere between Van’s Pig Stand in Shawnee, Oklahoma, and the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee. It was late. Interstate 40 was torn up by construction, and it was raining in that distinctive Southern way where the raindrops simply appear in the envelope of humidity, condensing on the inside of the windshield and curling the pages of the road map. Mentally, I checked off the things I was giving up by going to New York the long way.
I gave up the shuffling, slow-moving herd at airport security. I gave up the slack-jawed glassy-eyed indifference of the people tasked with finding your nail scissors, as well as the “snack with beverage” that somehow constitutes the bright spot of the whole cross-country airplane ordeal. Still, two weeks from Los Angeles to Manhattan. Why, indeed?
It’s easy to rationalize. I wanted to see our beautiful country. Or: see, I make my living in Hollywood, producing (or trying to produce) television and movies that entertain ordinary people. The chief peculiarity of this peculiar business is that the more successful you are, the less likely it becomes that you’ll ever encounter those proverbial “ordinary people.” In Hollywood, having your finger on the pulse of the nation is best done poolside in Bel Air. I congratulated myself on being different.
So I tell myself. Actually, the real reason I hit the road was fried chicken.
Years ago, driving from Memphis to New Orleans with friends, we made a quick detour through McComb, Mississippi, to have a meal at the Dinner Bell, an old boarding house a few minutes from the interstate. We’d heard about its convivial, friendly atmosphere–three or four large round tables, each with a lazy susan groaning with platters of Southern delicacies–fried eggplant, okra, hush puppies, sweet-potato casserole, buttery biscuits and, of course, flawless fried chicken. Alas, it was closed, and we ended up at a sagging Taco Bell. But I had my mission: eat at the Dinner Bell before I was old enough to make it medically unwise.
Hallelujah, now I have. And it was classic, delicious Southern perfection, suffused with the quiet happiness that comes from being well fed. But a strange thing happened. Right there in the deepest part of the Deep South, in walked a young black man and a young white woman. They sat down at two empty seats and tucked into their lunch.
Eavesdropping shamelessly, I gathered that this was a business lunch–he was her boss, and some kind of employee review was taking place over macaroni and cheese. I readied myself, as a Northern snob is taught to do, for Racial Tension. This was, after all, Trent Lott Country. Would it be a nasty comment, bitter words, bigotry overt or otherwise?
Of course, nothing of the kind occurred. The neighborly, gracious atmosphere of the Dinner Bell–and in fact, everywhere else I went in the South–was totally unlike the spooky Northern stereotype of Mississippi and Alabama. Totally unlike what sophisticated Northerners imagine when they hear the words “McComb, Mississippi.” And I wondered how many interracial coed lunches were being eaten on that day at, say, the Four Seasons in enlightened Manhattan, or the Ivy in progressive Hollywood? Not many, I’d guess. That’s another reason for hitting the open road. It’s a tasty way to break down a few prejudices.
