by Doug Worgul
*
By the time they got onto the interstate headed south to the city, they were chattering like squirrels. Periwinkle wondered about the enormous white plastic bull standing guard outside the headquarters of the American-International Charolais Association. Ferguson explained that Kansas City was once a cow town, and that she would be seeing more big plastic cows during her visit. As they crossed the river, Peri inquired as to the wonderful aroma of roasting coffee. Ferguson explained that downtown Kansas City is home to two—count ‘em, two—coffee roasting operations, Folgers for traditionalists and Roasterie for frou-frou types. As they headed down Broadway, Peri asked about the smell of oak smoke and cooking ribs, Ferguson pointed out that downtown Kansas City is, at last count, home to seven—count ‘em, seven—barbecue joints. And furthermore that the greater Kansas City metropolitan region is home to more than 125 barbecue establishments, more per capita than in any other major metropolitan region in the U.S. of A.
“Of course, that was this morning. There may be more by now,” he said. “However, the specific smoke you are now enjoying is emanating from LaVerne Williams’ Genuine BBQ and City Grocery, known the world over as Smoke Meat.”
Peri harrumphed. “Smoke Meat, what kind of name is that?”
“It’s a name with a story,” Ferguson said.
*
It was too soon for dinner, and Ferguson felt that the conversation was just warming up, so he suggested that they go get coffee somewhere, to which Peri agreed.
“Traditional or frou-frou,” he asked.
“Frou-frou, if you please,” Peri said. “I could use a white chocolate mocha right about now.”
Ferguson obliged and headed for Coffee Girlz, over on the Boulevard in the Crossroads district. When they sat down with their drinks, the conversation that had been so lively and quick on the drive from the airport slipped into a lull. Periwinkle commented on the paintings hanging on the exposed brick walls.
“This neighborhood is a thriving artists’ community,” Ferguson said. “This shop always has local artists’ works on display.”
Peri nodded. Ferguson stirred his coffee.
Peri used a stir stick to draw circles in the foam on the top of her drink. “Did I read that your ex is running for Senate?”
Ferguson nodded. “You did. She is.”
It wasn’t that he expected that Bijou would never be the subject of discussion between them, but he hadn’t expected it at that precise moment. He blamed himself for having let the conversation lag.
“So, do you ever see each other?” Peri asked.
“Every few years,” said Ferguson. “We still have a few friends in common, so once in a great while our paths cross.”
He looked at Peri, hoping to discern where she might be going with this line of questioning.
“What happened between you two?” she asked. “Why’d your marriage fail?”
“It was me,” he said. “I’m the reason.”
Peri thought about that. “See, now that doesn’t really tell me much, does it?”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” said Ferguson.
“Why were you the reason?” she persisted.
“Because I was self-indulgent, scared, and lost,” he said. “And I couldn’t find my way,”
“That doesn’t really tell me much either,” she said. “Lots of people are self-indulgent, scared, and lost, but their marriages don’t fall apart. And, by the way, my personal feeling is that since there’s two people in a marriage, there’s usually at least two reasons if it fails.”
Ferguson nodded and was quiet. He sighed and wondered if this would be the last cup of coffee he would have with Periwinkle Brown.
“It was my drinking that did it,” he said. “Bijou told me to quit and I didn’t. And that was the end of it. It was fair and reasonable of her and I made my choice. I ruined it.”
Periwinkle’s face clouded over. “Did you not quit because you couldn’t, or because you didn’t want to?”
“I don’t know,” Ferguson said. “I’ve never tried.”
“So, you never did quit drinking even though it ruined your marriage?”
“No.”
Periwinkle got up and went to the counter to refill her cup. When she sat back down she leaned across the table.
“You remember what I said about not being mean to me? Well, in my experience, whenever some man decided he needed to yell at me, or push me around, or threaten me, he’d been drinking. So I don’t have a real good feelin’ about this.”
Ferguson watched the heavily pierced and tattooed barista make an espresso.
“I don’t get mean when I drink. I get sad. And then I fall asleep. Mostly, I drink when I’m alone. The problem is I’m alone a lot. Alone is how I live.”
Peri was silent.
Ferguson went to get more coffee for himself. He sat down and Peri took his hand.
“I’m not up to rescuing you, Reverend,” she said. “I’m looking to be with someone, not save someone. The only thing we lose if we quit right here is the idea that something good might have happened. Maybe we should quit.”
She sipped her coffee.
“But I’m not ready for that just yet. I’ve been believing that God is on the move here, the way things have happened. And I’ve been praying. And, well, here I am. This isn’t an accident.”
Ferguson looked at Peri’s hand holding his. His face felt heavy.
“All I know about God is what I’ve read and what others have said,” he said in a low near-whisper. “I know a lot about God. Hell, I’m a professional expert on the subject. But I don’t know God.
“I’ve wanted all my life to know God. To experience his presence. People talk about that. About feeling his presence. But I’ve never known what that feels like. I don’t really have any idea what they’re talking about. But this here, what you and I are doing right here, feels honest and dangerous to me. So maybe this is it. Do you think this is what they’re talking about? Like you said—God is on the move.”
She reached her other hand to his face and lifted his chin. She didn’t smile or look away.
“Here I am.”
*
Outside the coffee shop, Periwinkle stopped and took a deep breath.
“Hickory and meat,” she said. “Does it always smell this good around here? Or did you arrange this just for me?”
“This is just the way it is here,” Ferguson said. “And it never gets old.”
They walked to the car. Inside, Peri turned to Ferguson. “I was serious. This ain’t no rescue mission. I can’t save you. Only God can do that. But I do have a strategy. If being alone is your problem, then maybe I ought not let you be alone.”
*
He stood with her at the front desk of the President Hotel as she checked in, then walked with her to the elevators, where they agreed that they’d go out later for some live music.
Then he went back to his loft and, after twenty minutes of pacing, decided maybe he needed to rearrange his collection of swords he had displayed on his mantle.
*
They went to The Aldabra, a new club in the West Bottoms, where Mother Mary Weaver and her band play once or twice a month.
A.B. was there, sitting just off stage, watching Jen play drums. He saw Ferguson and Peri sit down and hustled over to their table.
“Hey! Rev. Glen! What are you doing here?” He stared at Peri.
Ferguson smiled. “Well, I heard there was a halfway decent band playing here tonight, so I thought, why not check it out?”
A.B. was still looking at Peri. Ferguson saw that if the conversation was going to go anywhere, he would have to be the one to keep it going.
“A.B. Clayton, allow me to introduce Ms. Periwinkle Brown of Memphis, Tennessee. Ms. Brown, this is my good friend A.B. Clayton. I would tell
you what the A. and the B. stand for, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
Peri extended her hand to A.B.
“Pleased to meet you, A.B.,” she said. “Are you in the band?”
A.B. blushed and shook his head. “Oh, no. I just help out. The drummer is, well, she’s my friend. And Mother is, too. Actually, they’re all my friends. The whole band. But I’m not in the band. I just help out.”
He continued to stare at Peri. Ferguson cleared his throat.
“Young man, I detect that an explanation may be helpful here. Ms. Brown and I are on what is known as a ‘date.’ A ‘date’ is where one person asks another to accompany him and/or her to an event of some kind, such as a movie, or dinner, or, as in this case, some live blues. Generally speaking, the object of a ‘date’ is to provide the two parties an opportunity to enjoy themselves in each other’s company. It is perfectly understandable if you are confused and/or amused to see me in the company of a lovely woman on a ‘date’, inasmuch as you usually only ever see me alone with my miserable self, a napkin tucked into my shirt and a dribble of barbecue sauce on my chin. Frankly, I’m as surprised as you are.”
A.B. looked at Ferguson as if Ferguson had just spoken in an ancient Chinese dialect.
Then he turned back to Peri.
“It’s really nice to meet you, too, Miss Brown. Rev. Glen’s a great guy. He comes into the restaurant almost every day. I don’t understand half of what he says. But he preached at my mother’s funeral and that was real generous. He’s a great guy. Plus him and me talk about music all the time. So it’s nice meeting you, too.”
He excused himself and returned to his place by the stage. Ferguson grinned at Peri.
“That was A.B. He thinks I’m a great guy. You should definitely listen to him. I’ve never known him to be wrong about these kinds of things.”
Periwinkle rolled her eyes. “He also said he doesn’t understand half of what you say, so maybe you just have him fooled.”
Ferguson laughed. “I don’t understand half of what I say.”
“So, what restaurant was A.B. talking about?” Peri asked. “That you go to almost every day.”
“That would be LaVerne Williams’ Genuine BBQ and City Grocery, known the world over as Smoke Meat,” said Ferguson. “The very establishment whose name you were so dismissive of earlier today.”
“I guess I shouldn’t be talkin’,” Peri said. “It’s not like General Bar-B-Q Ribs Wet N Dry is exactly a normal name.”
A server stopped at their table to take drink orders.
“I’ll have a Diet Coke,” said Ferguson, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
Peri ordered a ginger ale.
*
After Mother finished a three-song set of Big Joe Turner tunes—“Well All Right”, “Tomorrow Night”, and “Chains of Love”—Peri nodded in approval.
“Woman can sing. Yes, she can.”
Ferguson nodded. “I thought you might like Mother.”
On stage, Mother shifted her weight in her wheelchair and pulled her microphone close.
“We’re going to slow it down a lil’ bit now with this one from the late Otis Redding,” she murmured into the mic. “We’re gonna groove it low and slow. Like a ballad. Y’all know what to do, now.”
The song was “Love Have Mercy”. Peri took Ferguson by the arm.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” she said, pulling him to his feet. “This is Memphis music. And you and I are going to dance.”
On the dance floor, she put her arms around his neck and he held her waist in his hands.
*
On the way back to the hotel, Ferguson directed Peri’s attention to the large plastic Hereford bull on top of a tall tower-like pedestal on a bluff overlooking the Bottoms.
“See. I told ya,” he said.
Then, as they passed the Hereford House restaurant at 20th and Main, he pointed to the large plastic Hereford bull’s head mounted on the side of the building.
“See. I told ya.”
At the hotel, Ferguson rode up the elevator with Peri and walked with her to her room. She leaned against the door and was quiet.
Then she sighed. “What a day.”
Ferguson nodded. “It was a ‘What a day’ kind of day.”
Peri looked down at the floor and spoke softly.
“So, since you brought me here to see for myself if the so-called barbecue in this so-called Barbecue Capital of the World is any good, I guess tomorrow I best try some.”
Ferguson nodded. “I think you’d best.”
She took hold of the lapels of his jacket and pulled him to her.
“How far is your condo from here?”
“Just a few blocks.”
“Well, if you start feeling too alone, just call me. We’ll take it from there. You hear what I’m sayin’?”
Ferguson nodded. “I hear.”
*
Next day, after breakfast at Coffee Girlz, a tour of St. Michael’s Seminary, a leisurely walk on the Plaza, and a drive around Ward Parkway, and Eighteenth & Vine, Ferguson and Periwinkle arrived at Smoke Meat for lunch.
Pug Hale and Bob Dunleavy were seated together over at Mother’s usual table in the corner. They waved at Ferguson and he waved back. Suzanne Edwards and McKenzie Nelson were sitting by the window. They, too, waved and smiled broadly at Ferguson when they saw he was with Peri. A.B. was working the counter. When he saw Ferguson and Peri come in, he poked his head in the kitchen and motioned to LaVerne.
“Mr. Clayton, you remember Ms. Brown,” Ferguson said when he and Peri stepped up to order.
“Of course,” said A.B. flustered at the suggestion that he might have forgotten someone he’d met just the night before. “Hello, Miss Brown. It’s good to see you again.”
Peri smiled. “It’s nice to see you, too, A.B.”
She studied the menu board. “So, tell me, what do you recommend?”
“It’s all good, else we wouldn’t put it on the menu,” said LaVerne, who’d come in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.
“LaVerne Williams, let me introduce Ms. Periwinkle Brown, a successful barbecue entrepreneur like yourself,” said Ferguson. “Ms. Brown is proprietor of General Bar-B-Q in Memphis, Tennessee. She is on a fact-finding mission. She disputes our fair city’s claim that we are, in truth, the Barbecue Capital of the World, and is here to offer you the opportunity to defend the claim. Although, I’ve never been quite sure that you yourself believe in our barbecue supremacy, inasmuch as you hail from Texas, and, like all Texans, are of a mind that all things Texan are superior in all ways. Including barbecue.”
LaVerne looked at Ferguson.
Then he turned to Periwinkle and extended his hand.
“It’s a pleasure,” he said. “We don’t often get other barbecue restauranteurs in our place. Be my guest and sample anything or everything from our menu, on the house. We don’t have a real slick operation here. But we’re proud of our food, and I’d be delighted to hear your opinion of it, professionally speaking.”
He looked at Ferguson again and shook his head. “‘Inasmuch’? ‘Supremacy’?”
LaVerne asked Leon and Vicki to put together a sample platter. Just then Del James came in bellowing.
“I think I might have dropped a Dremel silicon carbide grinding bit when I was here earlier for lunch! Anybody seen it?”
Pug, Bob, Suzanne, McKenzie, and the other diners looked under their chairs and around on the floor, but no grinding bit was found.
“Okay! Thanks!” Del yelled as he exited the premises.
Peri glanced at Ferguson who provided the explanation.
“That was Del, the nearly-deaf sculptor. His studio is across the street, in the same building I live in.”
They ate at a table near Pug and Bob, who, after they
’d finished their lunch stopped and introduced themselves to Peri. Pug flashed his badge and told Peri that if Ferguson got out of line all she needed to do was call and he’d take care of the matter.
As Bob and Pug left, LaVerne came over to the table—A.B. trailing behind.
“Well, ma’am, how do we compare?” LaVerne asked.
Peri sat back in her chair and looked at the decimated sample platter in front of her.
“First off, let me say that you’ve got a charming place here, Mr. Williams. Really. And what a great neighborhood. All these wonderful stores and galleries.”
LaVerne frowned. “Well, thank you. The area is getting a little too la-tee-dah for my tastes. Plus the company we lease from keeps jackin’ up the rent. I think they’d be real happy if we just moved out. Then they could turn this place into some fancy-ass boutique that sells upscale ‘accessories for fine homes’.”
Peri smiled sympathetically. “Same kind of thing is happening in parts of Memphis. Hang in there. Even people who work and shop in fancy-ass boutiques need places to eat. And speaking of eating, this brisket of yours was a rare treat. Until recently, the only briskets in Memphis were corned beef like you find in the supermarket meat case. Never on the menu at a barbecue restaurant. So, this was a real joy. Tender, just the right amount of smoke. Nice smoke ring.”
LaVerne nodded. He liked where this was going. Ferguson sat back and grinned. Peri cleared her throat and continued.
“Same with the turkey. Not something we ever saw much of at joints in Memphis, up until recently. But this was lovely. Problem with turkey is that no matter what you do, it’s always a little dry. But, a little of your sauce remedied that situation. Your sauce is a fine sauce, by the way. It’s not as sweet as I expected a Kansas City sauce would be.”
Peri’s comment about the turkey increased her credibility as far as LaVerne was concerned. He felt the same way about turkey. Plus he liked what she said about his sauce.
“That’s a Texas-style Kansas City-style sauce,” LaVerne pointed out. “It’s got more vinegar.” Peri nodded in the manner of a scholar discussing research data with a colleague.
