Confessions of a failed Southern gentleman, Part II: Belle Watling's revenge

My recent trip to New Orleans underscored the realization of how far I have wandered from the fold. As I mentioned previously, I do love the culture and the cuisine of the Crescent City, the fact that it is a classic urban city, as well as a Southern one. I feel sexy there, I feel comfortable there, I feel at home--but that could just be the tourist talking.

However, I suspect I would no longer feel at home in North Carolina, at least after a meet-up with two of my friend Spencer for Let's Tarheel compadres. In my meaner moments, I secretly refer to these two as Goober and Gomer, but that doesn't quite capture them. They are classier, smoother, and better educated than that. They are prissier than that, as well. Maybe they could be called Helen Crump and Thelma Lou. Thelma Lou was actually nice, though, and Helen was from Kansas, not North Carolina. Better still might, given age and disposition, might be to refer to them as Aunt Bea and Miss Clara, with the latter being the worse of the two. If you fail to get any of these Andy Griffith Show references, you are most definitely not a Southerner--at least not a North Carolina-reared Southerner. Nor are you a regular viewer of TVLand.

I've replayed this scene in my head a number of times and checked in with others just to make sure I'm not missing anything. I related it to my friend EcoGal, in particular, who, like me, is a Pennsylvania-based North Carolinian (a reverse carpetbagger, if you will) with impeccable Southern street cred, and she, too, doesn't get why Our Miss Clara took such issue with my behavior in the Big Easy.

Perhaps Eco is just being kind--we Southerners do that; good manners overrule honesty most of the time, although the situation described below would beg to differ. Eco and I are friendly enough that I think she'd be quite comfortable saying to me, "Land sakes alive, chile, could you have acted any more like a Yankee?"

Because that was what I was accused of. And in the South that's on the level of calling somebody white trash, discussing your sex life or your income at Thanksgiving dinner, or revealing that you think Ted Kennedy would have made a good president. You might as well pack your bags and head back to Boston or the Soviet Union or wherever it is you crawled out from, son. In fact, I'd forget the bags and just put the pedal to the metal on your Mini Cooper or the Toyota Prius and take the first interstate north. Welcome to Maryland, please drive gently.

But you be the judge. Spencer, Aunt Bea, Miss Clara, and I met up at a hotel on the edge of the CBD, the Central Business District. (Y'all, ain't New Orleans cute?) We more or less agreed upon heading over to Café du Monde for some strong coffee with chicory and warm, fresh beignets, which is near Jackson Square in the heart of the French Quarter. It was a warm day--sticky, humid, maybe upper 80s, low 90s (it was New Orleans in June, chile)--but cabs were hard to come by and no one seemed particularly interested in figuring out the bus system or strolling down toward the Riverwalk to catch the streetcar. So we walked.

Now it was warm, I'll grant you that, but it wasn't heat-stroke-inducing weather, at least as far as I could tell. Dear Spencer and Aunt Bea were troupers, but Miss Clara was having one of those how-can-you-feel-pretty-when-you're-constipated days? (or something) and was not amused. Like any good Southerner, he immediately grew suspicious of me for looking as though I was, I dunno, having more fun than him, remarking on how cool and dry I appeared and wasn't that peculiar? As if understanding the power of Burt's Bees Herbal Deodorant and heavy puffs of Shower-to-Shower under each arm was something to be suspicious of.

We finally sauntered into our destination and squeezed around a table in the air-conditioned part of the Café du Monde and waited for the staff to attend to us. And waited. And waited. And waited.

It had been a number of years since I'd been to Café du Monde, but I vaguely remember having this problem before, that is, hanging around until the wait staff noticed you, never really being quite sure whose table you were sitting at, trying to make eye contact with somebody, anybody who might help, but being ignored totally by a staff that has seen one too many tourists to care about your bontemps rouler'ing, at least on their time. Two days after this visit, while having Sunday morning coffee with another friend, Edge of Seventeen, the same thing happened again. So I suspect I'm not mistaken here.

On this day, however, I noticed the table next to us had been waiting for some time as well, at least as long as we had. And I noticed that whenever we tried to get a staff member's attention, they ignored us. I was willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt--a shift change perhaps or maybe like the service industry in other parts of the city, they were understaffed and overwhelmed as well. But there was past experience to consider. And there did seem to be a lot of staff moving around, just not anywhere near us . . . .

One waitress finally passed near enough that she couldn't get away easily. I asked if we were at her table. She was leaving for the day, she explained, and pointed to another waitress a couple of tables away, who was busy chatting and laughing with other customers.

"That one," the departing waitress said.

Hmmm, I thought. "I'm going up to the counter to see if we can get some help."

"Now, aren't you just in a hurry. My, you've left the South, and now you just aren't used to the proper way to behave," said Aunt Pittypat.

"No," I said, slightly amused by the direction of the conversation. "It's just that we've been waiting a while. What's improper about wanting to get waited on?"

Now I have no patience for a tired ol' queen trying to "adjust" my behavior to conform to her idea of what's propriety. I'm older and have more insurance, as one says. But eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize . . . .

So I strode up to the counter with my best confident-but-friendly air and asked one of managers whether we were supposed to come to the counter to order or did the wait staff come to us.

"They come to you," he said.

"Ah, OK. Well, we've been waiting for about 15 minutes for service, both us and the table next to us. So maybe someone could come over soon and take our order?"

"Sure."

"Thanks very much," I said with a smile. And meant it.

The table next to us had watched the exchange and thanked me for my efforts on their behalf. But, oh dear me, Miss Clara looked like she'd just been propositioned by the minister at the church social--or, worse, by the minister's wife.

"Well, you clearly have lived up North for too long and have forgotten how to behave. We in the South just don't act like that."

"Um, how did I act exactly?" I said. "We've been waiting here for a while, and I thought that was long enough."

"Well, you know how you are. I don't need to be the one to tell you," said India Wilkes.

"Yes, I do know how I am," I said with a smile. But didn't mean it.

"Well all right then," said one of the ladies who sneered at Belle Watling.

Within a minute of my having gone to the counter, a waiter turned up, apologized rather profusely ("No need," I said, "We just weren't sure how things worked"--see what I mean about manners overruling honesty?), and had our drinks and beignets to us a few moments later. I tipped big when the bill came. I was truly appreciative of what he'd managed for us.

So success, but, oh, I never know when to quit. Maybe I really don't know how to behave after all.

The sly Southern snake in me waited until Clara had quaffed some iced coffee and had a mouth and face full of powdered sugar and fried bread.

"Isn't this good!" I said.

"Mmpfmpfmmm," the Belle with No Balls replied.

But then the Northern gaboon viper in me won out.

"And just think, if it weren't for me, you bitches would still be sitting here stewing in your own sweat."

Ah, so now we know how I am. And so does Miss Clara.

* * *

So let's recap. I'm almost 45 years old. I've lived in Pennsylvania for 1 year, Maryland ( a border state) for another, and spent 7 years in Washington, D.C., a decade and a half ago. That totals 9.

So 45 minus 9 equals 36. Thus, I've lived for 36 years in Southern culture and 9 years in Yankeelandia.

Thus, I suspect I sound like a credible Southerner, accent and all most days. Yet with some auditors at Southern Savings and Loan, this is one teller who is sure to come up several picayunes short in the cash drawer of authenticity.

Next thing you know I'll be talking about sex and money at the dinner table, showing off photos from my recent visit with Comrades Mikhail and Raisa Gorbachev at their sprawling collective farm outside Moscow, and shopping for foreign hybrid cars and other Blue State accessories.

But, you know, If it means I get plenty of coffee and beignets, don't sweat like an ol' nag workhorse as I plod down Decatur Street, stand up for myself every now and again, all the while getting to yank the chain of the eternally passive-aggressive--well, just call me the senior senator from Massachusetts.