The sun, a fat, lazy hog in the Arkansas sky, was startin’ to dip its snout below the Ozark foothills, paintin’ the Land of Goshen in hues of bruised peach and old whiskey. Down by the Piggly Wiggly, Cletus sat on an upturned bucket, fingers calloused and nimble, coaxin’ a mournful, lonesome tune from a banjo that looked like it had seen more bar fights than church socials. Cletus, bless his tattered overalls, was a banjo tuner by trade, though lately, the trade seemed to be doin’ him more than he was doin’ it. His pockets, well, they were as empty as a politician’s promise.
A beat-up Ford pickup, its rust bloomin’ like a bad rash, rumbled to a stop a little ways down the road. Out of it climbed a vision in a crisp, starched Waffle House uniform, her hair a halo of spun gold, held back by a headband that probably cost more than Cletus’s last decent meal. This was Betty Jo Mayhew, a woman whose smile could melt a snowman in July and whose sass was sharper than a fresh-honed hog-sticker.
Betty Jo, she tromped on over, her sensible shoes makin’ a determined sound on the gravel. “Cletus Eugene, you still plunkin’ that thing like a heartbroken cricket?” she drawled, her voice a sweet tea laced with a hint of moonshine.
Cletus’s head shot up, and a grin that showed a surprising amount of gum spread across his face. “Betty Jo darlin’! You look sweeter than a pecan pie left out on the porch for the critters to admire.” He fumbled to set his banjo down, nearly droppin’ it on his worn-out boots. “Can’t a man just practice his craft? This here’s a G chord, and it’s cryin’ for some attention.”
Betty Jo leaned against his pickup, her arms crossed. “That G chord sounds like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of that instrument, Cletus. You ain’t tuned a banjo right since ol’ Earl Scruggs retired his fingers.”
Cletus puffed out his chest, a proud rooster in a coop of scrawny hens. “Now hold on there, Betty Jo. My ears are as sharp as a hawk’s eye. I can hear a pin drop from three counties over, and I can tune a banjo by the hum of a cicada.”
“Whispers of a cicada, more like,” Betty Jo retorted, a twinkle in her eye. “Anyway, I’m off my shift. And you, my dear Cletus, look like you ain’t had a decent meal since the last county fair. The Waffle House is havin’ a special: all-you-can-eat waffles and bacon. And guess what? Skeeter Davis and Ronnie Milsap reserved parking is free for the occasion.”
Cletus’s eyes widened. He knew about the reserved parking. It was the talk of Goshen. Apparently, the Waffle House owner, a man named Earl who’d inherited the place from his aunt who’d sworn she saw Elvis in the gravy boat once, had a peculiar obsession with 70s country music. He’d even put up little signs with pictures of Skeeter and Ronnie, claimin’ they were his inspiration for “that perfect blend of sweet and savory.”
“All-you-can-eat?” Cletus’s stomach gave a rumble that could shake the fillings out of a mule’s teeth. “And you’re offerin’ to… share?”
Betty Jo let out a laugh, a bright, tinklin’ sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze. “Well, I can’t let a handsome fella like you starve, can I? Besides, I’ve got a hankerin’ to hear some stories that ain’t about how a squirrel stole your last biscuit.”
They piled into Cletus’s pickup, the springs groaning in protest. The drive to the Waffle House was a short one, filled with Cletus’s attempts to impress Betty Jo with tales of his past banjo glory, which mostly involved winning a pie-eating contest and accidentally strummin’ the wrong note during a wedding that caused the bride’s mama to faint dead away.
The Waffle House was a beacon of fluorescent light in the fading twilight. Inside, the air hung thick with the sweet perfume of syrup and the sizzle of bacon. The reserved parking spots, though empty, stood as testaments to Earl’s eccentricities. Cletus, a bit intimidated by the shiny chrome and the smell of capitalism, followed Betty Jo to a booth near the window.
“So, Cletus,” Betty Jo began, her smile never wavering, “what’s a banjo tuner do when he ain’t tunin’ banjos?”
Cletus shifted in the vinyl seat, his thoughts as scrambled as eggs on a busy morning. “Well, I… I reckon I mostly contemplate the universe. And I try to figure out why my banjo strings keep breakin’ right before a gig. Maybe the universe is tellin’ me somethin’.”
Betty Jo chuckled. “Maybe the universe is tellin’ you to get a steady gig, Cletus. Like, say, at the Waffle House. We could use a good banjo player for our Saturday night ‘Twang & Waffles’ special.”
Cletus’s jaw dropped, nearly landin’ in the syrup dispenser. “You mean it? You think my pickin’s good enough for… for the Waffle House?”
“I think,” Betty Jo said, leaning closer, her eyes sparkling like dew drops on a spiderweb, “that your pickin’s got character. Just like you. And we got plenty of room for character ’round here. Especially when it’s hungry.”
He looked at her, really looked at her, her face lit by the warm glow of the Waffle House sign. She wasn’t just a Waffle House waitress; she was Betty Jo Mayhew, a woman who saw more than just a broke banjo tuner. She saw a man who could make music, a man who could make her laugh, and maybe, just maybe, a man who could make her heart do a little two-step.
“Betty Jo,” Cletus said, his voice suddenly rough with emotion, “I reckon… I reckon I could get used to this Waffle House gig. And I reckon I could get used to you too.”
Betty Jo Mayhew, the pride of Goshen, just smiled and reached across the table, her hand findin’ his. “Well, Cletus Eugene,” she said, her thumb gently stroking the back of his roughened hand, “looks like we’re both about to get a whole lot sweeter.”
And as the aroma of waffles and bacon filled the air, Cletus knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that he’d finally found a tune worth tuning his life to. And it sounded a whole lot like Betty Jo Mayhew.
