Big Man the Book

Clarence and Norman Mailer were driving cross-country in the Rolls.  They kept the top down most of the time.  Somewhere in Nebraska Clarence was driving when “Meeting Across The River” came on the radio.  Clarence turned it off with the first notes of Randy Becker’s trumpet. If Norman noticed he didn’t say anything. He sat back with his eyes closed sunning himself.  He looked like a giant turtle sitting in the front seat of a rock sailing through a river of time.

“Rhode Island,” said Norman with his eyes closed, “has the best bad food in America.”

“Better than New York?” asked Clarence.

“More nuanced,” said Norman.

“Philly?”

“Not even close.”

“Go on.”

“Let’s start with the New York System Weiners,” said Norman, opening his eyes and sitting forward, warming to his subject.

“I thought you said Rhode Island,” said Clarence.

“I’m talking about Rhode Island,” said Norman.

“But you just said ‘New York System Weiners.”

“That’s what they’re called.”

“But they’re in Rhode Island.”

“Right.”

“Can you get them in New York?”

“No.”

“They’re called New York System Weiners but you can’t get them in New York, is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes.”

“You can only get them in Rhode Island.”

“Home of the best bad food in America,” said Norman.

“That makes no sense,” said Clarence.

“Never-the-less….” Said Norman.

“Go on,” said Clarence.

“The original store is in a place called Olneyville,” said Norman. “Their sign spells wieners with the e before the i …weiners.”

“Did you say Lonleyville?”

“No. Olneyville.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“Who gives a fuck?  That’s where it is, okay?”

“Now Lonleyville…that’s good.  I might use that in a song.”

“The wieners themselves are small, maybe four inches long.  Natural casings.  They’re called little Rhody hot dogs. Some use Saugy dogs instead. Years ago they used Zabs Red Hots but they went out of business.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well if these hot dogs are so fucking good why did Zacks go out of business?”

“Zabs,” said Norman.

“Whatever,” said Clarence.

“Zab died,” said Norman.

“Of what?”

“He died of a Thursday,” said Norman.  “Now will you let me continue or do you just want to play fuck around?”

“Like lonely street in ‘Heartbreak Hotel,’” said Clarence.

“The fact of the matter is that they’re delicious,” said Norman.

“Okay,” said Clarence. “If you say so.”

“They put ‘em on side-cut hot dog rolls.  Some of the cooks line a dozen of ‘em up their arm when they add the sauce and stuff.”

“What kind of sauce.”

“Basically it’s a hamburger sauce with secret spices combined with mustard, onions and celery salt.”

“Wait.  There’s hamburger meat on the hot dogs?”

“It’s ground beef with a high fat content.  The buns are steamed.”

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

“No, I mean what other good bad food have they got in Rhode Island?”

“Del’s lemonade.”

“What’s that?”

“Frozen lemonade.”

“Like a slurpee?”

“But better.”

“What makes it better?”

“It’s Dels.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh there’s quite a list of delicious crap you can only find there.”  Norman shut his eyes again and put his head back.  There was no one else on the road.  “You’ve got Johnny Cakes, Clam Cakes, Eclipse Coffee Syrup, wicked good Awful Awfuls at the Newport Creamery, stuffies, cabinets….”

“They eat cabinets?”

“No, you drink ‘em. They’re like thick milk shakes.”

“So why do they call them cabinets?”

“Theory is the blenders used to be kept in wooden cabinets behind the fountain in the old days but you’re getting hung up on the details and missing the big picture.  The big picture contains the best bad food in America.”

“We should go to Rhode Island.  Turn this motherfucker around and drive for a week. Get some New York style weiners,” said Clarence.

“System.”

“What?”

“It’s New York System Weiners,” said Norman, opening his eyes again.

“System,” said Clarence.

“We could do that,” said Norman. “Or we could just stop at this diner up ahead and have lunch.”

“Let’s do that,” said Clarence.

“There’s no sax on ‘Meeting Across The River,’” said Norman.

Clarence said nothing.

“Wow,” said the waitress.  “You’re Clarence Clemons.”

“Guilty,” said Clarence.

“And I’m Bruce Springsteen,” said Norman Mailer.

“No you’re not,” she said, but you could tell she wasn’t really sure.

“I’ve put on a little weight,” said Norman patting his gut.

“Well it’s nice to meet you both,” she said.

“What’s the best thing in the house?” asked Clarence.

“The chicken fried steak.  People come from all over to have it,” she said.  “All over.”

“Chicken fried steak it is,” said Clarence.  He turned to Norman.  “What’re you having Bruce?”

“I’d like one egg scrambled well, almost burnt but not quite.  Make it the consistency of play-dough with no hint it was ever connected to a living creature.  Then, on a separate plate I’d like seven-grain bread toasted on one side only and dry.  But give me some “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” on the side,” he said.

“We don’t have that,” said the waitress.

“What don’t you have?” asked Norman.

“The butter stuff.  Alls we’ve got is margarine.”

“I’ll have the chicken fried steak,” said Norman.