Phil Rice

Stuckey's: a Fatherhood Moment

Dad is driving me to Nashville from Sewanee one day, 1976, and stops at Stuckeys, probably around Manchester, for a bathroom break. I'm about 16. While he visits the can, I order a milkshake at the counter. Sitting on a barstool is a honky-tonk babe all dolled-up. She is very flirty and forward, and I handle myself with a certain Beatle-styled cool.  I confidently stride back to the car, feeling every bit the ladykiller. Dad pulls the 1973 Chevy Caprice back onto I-24, giving the gas his customary punch at the end of the ramp, like he always does, traffic or not. As the massive front end lifts in response, I brag a little about the sexy older woman being so attracted to me.

Dad slowly and silently goes through the motions of retrieving and lighting one of his Kents, snaps the Zippo closed and slides it behind the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. He takes a few deep draws and lets the smoke gradually fill the car, his eyes staring intently at the highway in front of him.

"That was a whore, son," he says.

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