I'm in New Albany. It’s lunch time.
The local Chinese restaurant inhabits the discarded shell of an abandoned McDonald’s. An odd note: by coincidence, I was here, at this very McDonald’s, on the first day it opened, back in the 1980’s. On that morning, locals flocked in for McMuffins and free coffee, and children packed the candy-colored PlayPlace.
Today, our car joins just three others parked in the expanse of cracked asphalt that surrounds the place. The PlayPlace is long gone. Inside, worn booths and tables remain, but the front counter has been ripped away, making room for three steam tables. Behind this, a huge square of blue vinyl pool liner hangs from a length of yellow twine. The sign, taped to it, reads, “Do not come back here.”
Dishes which should be familiar aren’t. Every time I’ve ever eaten General Tso’s chicken, the nuggets of fried chicken have been swimming in savory brown sauce; here, the nuggets are hard and round and steeped in a thin, sticky syrup the color of motor oil. The sesame chicken is covered with sesame seeds … but the pellets are all batter, with no more than a splinter of meat inside.
In line with me are several locals, many of whom are still bundled up in puffy coats. As I probe the pork fried rice with a slotted spoon, the woman next to me carries on a conversation on her battered Verizon phone.
“She can say that all she wants to. She can. She can say that all she wants to, Momma!”
I move on to the dubious-looking broccoli with chicken.
“I’m gonna see him, and there ain’t nobody going to stop me, no matter what she says about it. He’s my man, Momma!” She pauses, shaking her head, scooping up a half-plate of waffle-cut potatoes. “He’s mine.”
I make my way to the egg rolls, note the degree to which they have been deep-fat-fried, and pass them up for a wonton filled with sweetened cream cheese.
“Maybe he did get her pregnant, Momma, but that ain’t his fault! The girl can’t keep her legs together anyway, and she got what’s coming to her, but he’s my man, no matter what she says, and that’s all I’ve got to say about it! Now goodbye!”
We both move back to our tables. The young woman, her plate heaped high with buffet fare, skooches into one of the worn grey plastic booths and slams her phone on the formica table. There are three very young children with her: long hair, dirty faces, ragged clothes. She tosses one of them an egg roll. “You eat that,” she says, staring off into the distance. “You be shut up and eat.”
After slicking her hair back with her hands, she takes her own advice, stabbing at the sauce-laden nuggets, lifting them to her round face, and pulling the chunks of meat away with her teeth.
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