What Not To Eat At A County Fair Near Corinth, Mississippi

Note: What follows is an excerpt from a story that I've had in progress for a number of years. I think it wants to be a short novel when it grows up. The characters are my own creation; sadly, The Slugburger is not. The dialogue you'll read here is a loose adaptation of an exchange I had with a coworker a lifetime ago down in Selmer, Tennessee. Selmer's a fine and lovely town, but I don't expect to see it featured on The Food Network any time soon.

For just a few minutes, I forgot about Russel Franks, his missing daughter, and the retainer he still owed me. The hissing lines of the Scrambler’s hydraulics fell silent as the gyrating monstrosity ground to a halt. A gaggle of preteenagers stormed off down the sawdust midway to seek other thrills, while the group in queue fidgeted and wiggled, waiting their turn to have the contents of their bellies churned to a froth. “It’s a what?” I took my change and blinked a couple of times at the sandwich vendor, leaning forward an inch or two to make sure I heard him right the next time. The greasy paper bag in my hand suddenly seemed less innocent than it had a moment ago. The man in the little open-sided trailer kitchen fixed me with a look that was two parts amusement and one part defiance. He repeated, “It’s a slugburger.” I swallowed and nodded. To my credit, it only took me about three seconds to get back up to speed. I smiled and said, “Okay then, just how many slugs goes into one of these treats?” He stared back at me, ratcheting the defiance component up to two parts, bleeding the amusement back to about one. He folded his arms across his dingy white uniform shirt and waited for me to either leave or rephrase my question. I was sure I could win him over; I just needed to take a different tack. “Well, what exactly is a slugburger? And long as I’m asking, why do you call ‘em that?” I was still smiling, careful not to show any teeth; I think I heard once that the locals took that as being too aggressive. Or forward. Or something. Mr. Slugburger assumed an air of world-weariness that was remarkable in a forty-year-old who had probably never been a hundred miles from home in his life. He launched into his own version of The History of the Slugburger. “Well, what a slugburger is, is a cereal patty. There’s no meat in it, less’n you count the lard that kinda holds the cereal together in the deep fryer,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder to the two bubbling fry vats installed against the little trailer’s far wall. A stack of uncooked patties waited beside the fryers. They were shaped more or less like hamburgers, but there the resemblance ended. They were a sort of yellow color for which I have no previous point of reference, and rather lumpy. A pair of flies buzzed lazily in a holding pattern over the stack, as if slugburgers were uncharted territory for them, as well. The man continued, “And as for the name, that came from back in the Depression.” He leaned down into the window and rested his elbows on the formica counter inside. “Back then, meat was scarce if you weren’t a farmer. Somebody came up with a way to make a patty out of meal and lard, fry it up in a pan, and put it on a bun like a burger. Made a big hit at all the little county fairs and such, where you could buy one for a nickel, which some folks used to call a slug. So you see where the name come from.” He stood up, pulled a grimy towel from the waistband of his black trousers, and wiped his hands. “Yeah. I do see,” I replied, slipping in a quick sideways glance at the bag, which was by now pretty saturated with drippin’s from the two sandwiches and the order of fries I had bought. “They’re really good, once you get used to the taste. A lot of folks that grew up around here won’t eat a meat burger.” The man turned to drop the next batch of slugburgers into the fryer. He looked over his shoulder to dispense one last piece of wisdom: “And remember, long as you’re here, if you want a meat burger, you have to specify “meat hamburger,” and don’t just ask for a burger. You’ll get a slug ever’ time.” I thanked him for the tip, walked halfway across the fairgrounds, and dropped the bag into a trash bin beside the Tilt-A-Whirl. So far, my visit to Fayette, Mississippi was beginning to look like a real waste of time. I thought about finding my car and getting back across the state line. I could find someplace on the interstate where I wouldn’t have to specify whether or not I wanted my hamburger made of lard and oatmeal, and still make Nashville by midnight to boot. I looked across the open field adjacent to the fairgrounds that had been cordoned off for parking. It was that elusive hour before twilight when the sun is gone from view, but somehow manages to brighten everything with a diffuse glow that is far more pleasing than the harsh orange haze of sundown. The round hills in the distance were a patchwork of timber and hayfields and seemed to be lit from within. If it hadn’t been for the shrieking machinery behind me and two acres of cars and trucks that looked like cast-offs from a demolition derby in front of me, it would have been a damned fine moment, indeed.