How Bacon Saved my Life

So I'm driving along a deserted stretch of highway inhabited mostly by sheep and the men who love them, when suddenly the front left tire of my rented 1994 marshmallow green Oldsmobuick Inertialux decides in can no longer handle the weight of me, my luggage and my 194 ounce MegaSlurp (which I purchased at the QuickPig Pulled Pork Sandwich Shop and Filling Station: Home of the QuickPig Pork Surprise). Immediately I begin cursing the rental agent at the "airport", which was really just a flat patch of grass and a wind sock. He assured me that there was plenty of tread left on those deceivingly bald tires and that he wouldn't think twice about sending his own mother clear into Boudreaux County for night crawlers on those very same tires. Mother-in-law maybe.

As the car begins to veer into oncoming traffic, I grab the hula hoop-sized wheel and give it a spin like Uncle Chester on Wheel of Fortune. As I'm sure you know, the '94 Inertialux does not handle like a Porsche, or even an aircraft carrier for that matter. This poorly thought out maneuver sends the car rumbling through what was previously serene cow pasture. I attempt to regain control as furry woodland creatures are springing out of the ground like cube dwellers who smell donuts. These very same woodland creatures had a previous understanding that as long as you stayed away from the "black earth with yellow lines", you were almost guaranteed to live a long and prosperous life, by woodland creature standards. I proved them wrong that day I can tell you.

After bouncing uncontrollably through the field for what seemed like an entire episode of The Dukes of Hazzard, my $19.95 per-day ride comes to an abrupt stop in a four-foot drainage ditch with the rear bumper facing the constellation Gemini. I manage to muscle the 300-pound car door open, pull the release cord on my seatbelt and tumble out into 18 inches of drainage (even though it hadn't rained in these parts for six weeks).I spring to my feet and fish out of the brownish liquid my shoe, my not-waterproof cell phone and someone else's shoe. Odd. I then leap from the irrigation and find a small pile of sod to plop down on and regain my composure. Here I am, 40 miles outside of Corn-on-the-Cobb , Alabama with no viable transportation, cell phone, food, compass, iPod, matches, beverage or the latest edition of the TV Guide. What would McGyver do?

Before I can answer this question, I hear the oddly familiar sound of a primer-gray 1977 Ford F-150 with a confederate flag painted on the hood, a gun rack in the back window and a squirrel's tail tied to the antenna. Or maybe it was a raccoon’s tail. I've always had trouble distinguishing between the two without the rest of the body as reference.As the vehicle bounces through the adjacent field on mattress spring suspension, I notice that the cab is filled with what appears to be three brothers; Jeb, Cleeve, and Jeb Jr. (Junior for short). These three siblings, who apparently spend a lot of time at buffets, are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the truck creating a single mass with a density greater than mercury and enough inert energy to power Oprah's house for a month. If either door were to unexpectedly open, the brother nearest the door would be shot out of the opening with the velocity of a cartoon mouse.

As the vehicle gets closer, I can see Jeb pointing at me and repeatedly screaming an unintelligible sentence that ended in "Yahyee!" I was not about to stick around to find out what "yahyee" meant, so I made like a suicidal woodland creature and darted toward the "black earth with yellow lines". While Cleeve steers the confederate flag adorned chick magnet in my direction, Jeb Jr. (Junior for short), in one extremely graceful motion reaches behind his head, grabs his trusty 12-guage with his sister's name carved in the stock, wields it toward the sky and begins firing into the air with absolutely no regard for local air traffic, or where the shots might actually come down.

As I approach the highway, I see a sign on the horizon, "Gerties House of Pancakes: Home of the Third Largest Pancakes This Side of I-55". Now that was worth seeing. With my shoe in one hand, and someone else’s in the other, I begin to pick up the pace heading for Gerties. The sound of muffler backfiring and shotgun blasts was getting closer.Running at speeds that would probably cause friction burns on most mortals, and would definitely melt cheese, my left foot suddenly finds the burrow of the world's largest gopher. This sends me skidding across the rock encrusted earth, leaving a trail of skin and DNA. I quickly recover and continue my sprint with pain registering in three of my four limbs.

As luck would have it, Cleve was unable to avoid an even larger gopher hole, which sent their patrol vehicle into the very same drainage ditch that got me. They were now on foot. Advantage: me. Based on their physiques I could somersault backwards faster than they could run. And I highly doubted that they would make the trek some 300 yards to Gerties without the assistance of oxygen and a crane.

Safely inside Gerties, I placed a call to Quadruple A and am told to sit tight while they get the next available truck out to me. Should be somewhere between 30 minutes and nine hours, they said. As I wait patiently at the syrup-encrusted Formica counter the sweet, smoky aroma of bacon overwhelms me. So I order the third largest pancake this side of I-55, eight slices of bacon and half an egg, over medium.

Just as my undercooked egg, overcooked pancake and perfectly cooked bacon arrives, so do Jeb, Cleeve and Jeb Jr (Junior for short). And they're not looking particularly gregarious. They catch sight of me and slowly waddle over to my stool. Their shadow covered me and seven other patrons to my left.

To my left is a dull steak knife. To my right, two ketchup bottles. As I stand to face the antagonists, I slowly reach for the one thing that might thwart their attack. My plate. "Bacon?" I offer, as I extend the chipped yellow dish piled with food. First a look of confusion on their face. Probably the same look they had when they learned about their "uncle". They glanced at each other, not sure what to do. And then a distinct softening of their features. Their shoulders relaxed. Their brows un-furrowed. Their inconsistent teeth receded back under their lips. Simultaneously, three axle-grease covered hands reached for the plate, removing all eight slices of bacon. Their eyes still looking slightly puzzled, they turned and walked slowly back through the door, devouring the salty pork goodness bestowed upon them. As the door began to close, I even thought I heard Cleeve mutter, "Thanks for the bacon, stranger".

But it's me who owes thanks. To bacon. It saved my life. Bacon has the power to bring people together like no other meat product. Maybe one day bacon will save your life, too. Thanks, bacon.