Dog Days of Dixie

Dog Days…blame Sirius, the Dog Star. The mangy mutt lies under the porches of heaven in late summer and tortures the South. Inhabitants languish in a heat-induced stupor. Work ceases. Including mine.

I languish inconspicuously in a Village diner, picking at a dull, lackluster lunch. It’s just another day on the island. Could be anywhere. Strangers come, they go. An average day.

Average, that is, until they walk in. Actually, they saunter in…elegant, confident, and intriguing. Interesting strangers. French, I’ll bet. A deathly hush descends. Forks drop audibly. Men gasp, some whistle.

The couple chooses the small table next to me. He’s a sharp dresser, expensive threads…maybe an artist or an actor. He wears a double-breasted blue blazer, silk shirt, a yellow ascot and a blue beret. Over-dressed for Dog Days.

Yet, it’s his companion that monopolizes the attention. She’s tall and tanned. Her long, silky-black hair has a glossy sheen. It reflects the sunlight and sparkles like the diamonds she wears. She’s stunningly dressed in brilliant blue, pencil-thin Dior jeans, Prada spikes and a blazing red Versace Tee. OMG, mama, just take me home to die!

Her T-shirt glitters in gold-emblazoned letters…Women Who Behave Rarely Make History. I recall my mother’s warning, “Son, beware of strangers.” I ignore her advice.

I ease my chair over. “Hello, want some company?” Before a ‘No’ could be uttered, I introduce myself, welcoming them to the island. Things go smoothly. Fluent in English, but with an aristocratic flair, they reveal a wild and incredible tale. Since this recital is not a sequel to “Fifty Shades of Grey,” I’ll save you from the salacious details and save them for myself.

We laugh through lunch. Diners come and go in a steady parade of curiosity. Women bristle with envy as their men eyeball the red T-shirt. I overhear a dour lady lash at her husband admonishing him not to let his eyes take him on a trip his body can’t handle. He sulks noticeably.

I push my luck with inquisitiveness. They answer with measured, but furtive glances across the table. I ask why they’re here. He answers, “Exciting plans.” I ask for details. She says, “They involve our yacht, the beach and a movie contract.” I ask where. “Cumberland Island,” he says.

I want to know when. “Later today,” she says. “Why do you ask these questions?” I tell her Dog Days bring out my best qualities. She asks, “Are all Southerners this way?” I tell her no, that most are dull and browbeat.

Slowly the ambient air at the table begins to chill. Still, I press on. “What’s the movie’s theme?” He frowns, “It’s really none of your business.”

Undeterred, I ask why it’s so secretive. She hisses, “You Americans are all alike, pushy.” I ask why she thinks that. She answers, “In Paris, we are not so intrusive with total strangers.”

I tell her this is the South, that we’re all friendly. “I think too friendly,” she says. I ask her if her mother also told her to beware of strangers. She snips, “Of course. Leave my mother out of this.”

I suggest they hire a guide, and I’m currently available. I caution them South Georgia is a dangerous place during Dog Days. I tell them about the movie, Deliverance.

He says, “I saw that movie…shocking. Are people here really like that?” I tell him yes. I ask him if there are degenerates in Paris like Humbert Humbert. It breaks the ice. She smiles, “Yes, they are mostly of Italian descent.” I tell them ours are mostly from Alabama. We laugh.

The dialogue dwindles down. I offer to buy their lunch. They accept. I guess they think they’re entitled. The French behave this way. Our brief encounter ends…with slow music the curtain falls. Life moves on.

We walk out together. The goodbye makes me teary. She notices. The humid sunlight of the early afternoon dispels the chill between us. We exchange hugs and handshakes and au revoir.

But then she looks back and smiles. Her T-shirt message winks at me. She says, “Dinner tonight?” My grin answers affirmatively.

“C’est si bon,” she says. “Our yacht, about eight? We’ll tell you the rest of the story. Until then?”

I stutter, “Yes, until then.”

The story has an epilogue. I go home, dial heaven, and have a long chat with my mother, reminding her that “Women Who Behave Rarely Make History.” Dog Days and strangers…nothing average about it! C’est la vie.

Bud Hearn
August 2, 2012