Essay by Joe York
I walk in and wait in line behind the boy and the girl. They order and step back from the counter. I step forward and speak into the holes bored through the bullet proof plexiglass that separates the kitchen and its customers. It feels more like a box office than a barbecue joint.
“Two Cokes, please.”
I step back and stand by the boy.
“Are you a terrorist,” he asks out of nowhere.
“No, are you?”
The girl slaps a hand over his mouth.
“Shut up,” she says to him.
I step back and look through the hot winged window to see what Amy’s doing outside. She’s standing in front of the sign, camera stuck like a sty to her eye.
For years these painted-over pigs stood for the first last name in Memphis barbecue, Loeb’s. But Loeb’s didn’t last. Bought out one by one by places like Brown’s, the Loeb’s legacy lingers in the shape of these signs.
Looking at it then, as I walked out with the Cokes cold in my hands, it looked more like a boa constrictor digesting an ice cream cone.