“Up for it?” he says. “I’m footin’ the bill.”
“There are a lot more people here than usual.”
Walter just shrugs.
“We better go in,” I say, “before Nancy starts taking her five-finger discount. She’s wearing her Walmart dress. It might be a coincidence, but she’s hardwired, I’m afraid.”
“Indeed she is,” he says, and opens the door for me.
Inside, Boots and friends take over the small sitting area back near the restrooms, where city workers and clerks on lunch break from the strip mall usually sit to grab a quick sandwich.
But this has been going on for years, and on Thanksgiving Day that area is roped off for the Boots. To make it financially worthwhile for Quik Mart, tradition says no one brings anything in; the entire dinner is purchased on site: turkey burgers and dogs, olives and potato and macaroni salads from the mini-deli that may or may not carry E. coli.
Though Quik Mart sells wine, you’re not allowed to drink on the premises, so Walter buys a few bottles and hides them in the toilet tank in each restroom, where you sneak in to fill the Diet Pepsi can you brought inside your backpack, or in Nancy’s case, under her billowing dress. Since it’s illegal to drink it here anyway, age doesn’t matter. Except for Frankie, of course. Nobody want to see that little bugger drunk.
Walter leaves his credit card in the care of Nellie Mae Britain, who has drawn cashier duty for this prestigious event as far back as I can remember. She works here full-time but no matter how the shift schedule is drawn up, Nellie Mae oversees the Bootses’ ode to the Mayflower. Back in the day, I’d sneak over here after regular Thanksgiving dinner at the Howards; they could never understand why I ate so little on the one day you’re allowed to stuff yourself till you pop. I’d say I had to go visit a friend or see a movie, or just fall ill so I could go to my room, then pop out my bedroom window and come eat myself comatose on premium Quik Mart fare, all purchased at wholesale plus three percent.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Nancy stands at what she considers to be the head of the table. The tables are identical round wire mesh, pushed together and covered with butcher paper, but on Thanksgiving, wherever the big momma lands is the head of the table.
“Welcome,” she booms. “Another year, another recognition a’ the power of family. So good to see ever’body here. ’Cept maybe for Rance. Getting rid of him is like scrapin’ a turd off the bottom of yur shoe on a hot day.” No matter what decency lurks beneath, my mother cannot shake her sense that empowerment occurs only when she’s standing on someone’s neck.
Rance smiles and nods like he’s been given an award. Wonder what he’s on.
“Got a lot to be thankful for this year,” she goes on, “’sides the Pilgrims and Indians who probably didn’t like each other anyway. Like to interduce a few people, case you end up sittin’ next to one of ’em and don’t know what to say. This year for the first time we got a social worker in our midst, maybe the only one in the history of social workers ain’t a devil. Wiz, you wanna raise yur hand?”
Wiz raises his hand. “Ex-social worker,” he says.
“Best kind. I suppose that hot thing next to you is your lovely wife. Don’t think I know her name. How’d you land such a thing? You ain’t what most of us would call a catch. ’Course what am I talkin’ about? My ol’ man ain’t exactly The Rock. Walter, stick your hand up.”
In Nancy’s world, that passes for comedy. Walter closes his eyes and raises his hand.
“My daughter’s here. Big college athlete—didn’t know if she’d show this year. Haven’t seen much of her lately, what with her gettin’ all that fancy education, but I guess there are some things so rooted in your history you just can’t stay away. Stand up, Annie.”
I stand and take a bow. “I’ve been looking forward to it since Halloween, Nancy.”
“I’ll bet. ’Course there’s my other daughter. Now there’s somethin’ to be thankful for. Looks like there’s a perty good chance this third time through drug treatment might take—long as they keep her in prison—an’ next thing you know her little poop pusher will be livin’ with her and her friend Yvonne, who’s spent the last four years or so turnin’ her into one of them chicks who do chicks. Wanna stand up an’ take a bow, Yvonne?”
Yvonne just stares at the butcher paper.
“Hey, I’m behind ya all the way,” Nancy says. “Sheila’s got the kinda taste in men that should make her wanna drink about a gallon of Listerine.” She clasps her hands together. “So,” she says, “it’s another Thanksgiving which means we got to bow our heads and pump out a little grace. Sheila, since you’re givin’ us the most to be thankful for, why don’t you lead us in prayer.”
Without hesitation Sheila takes Frankie’s hand on one side and Yvonne’s on the other, bows her head, and says, “Sweet Jesus, thanks for shutting my fat mother up so we can finally eat. Amen.”
In my family, that kind of patter passes for endearment.
To fully appreciate this spectacle, you have to remember that Quik Mart hasn’t closed its doors to host this Boots jamboree. Through it all, folks are coming in to pay for gas or grab a couple of forgotten items for their own celebrations and I swear, to the person, they look at us like they took a wrong turn off the main road and couldn’t find a turnaround until they’d gone so far up the holler they hit a time warp.
So we eat.
Halfway through the meal, in walks Marvin. He waves at me from the door and says, “You guys really have this! I thought it was an urban legend.” He gives Walter a quick
