The Frog and Turtle Restaurant, 7:15 pm, by Kimberly Ann Priest

“Honky-tonk,” I say, “It reminds me of home.” My husband reaps another fry from his plate as the spirit of the music stirs something in me, memories: square dances, VFW halls, the ‘old days’—or so now they seem—when my father walked our small Midwestern town’s main street saluting every man who wore a baseball cap celebrating military service, and the evenings he’d sit all his children down on a couch to show us, again, pictures of Navy ships and topless men posing aboard with big toothy grins. And how he’d rewatch movies featuring Ronald Reagan and John Wayne idolizing their heroism in America’s great wars, tears welling up in his eyes when we finally took the Alamo. Cowboy religion, and my father a captive convert undoubtedly repeating to his children words he heard from his father long ago: “Show some respect!” “Those were not ‘good ole’ days,” I say aloud, grateful for how I’ve plucked myself from them. Night lights shine through the restaurant’s window as I inhale a large bite of my vegetarian crepe, my husband rocking a little to the band’s catchy tune. Entering the 80s now, they’ve picked up the beat and synthesizer. I hate the eighties, I admit to myself looking down at my plate to halve a potato. No, you don’t, it retorts just as I press my fork into its belly. Shut up, I demand. My husband chews like a babe content; he loves the 80s. You love the eighties, the potato says, and I stop trying to cut its body in two. Listen, I correct, the music sucks. Too much technobabble and shallow emotion. I comfort myself with imaginations of folksy guitar and hand drums, ignoring the potato and turning my attention to the patrons on the other side of the room just when the band eases into “America the Beautiful” and a seaman strolls into my daydream despite my protest, his wiry muscled right arm lifted in salute and his body stiffened, feet snapped together quickly. I look up at the blonde youth’s freshly shaven face, his grey-blue eyes earnestly searching the horizon behind me for some glimmer of approval reflected. My right arm feels confused, the fork hovering a potato’s suntanned whiteness. But you do love your father, it answers, softly. The music stops for a short intermission. My husband swallows his last bite of fried chicken. It’s not my religion, but yes, I admit, I want America beautiful too.

_______________