"You gotta smallun, don'cha?" I knew it was a question from the tone in her voice, but for the life of me, I had no idea what the question was.
Recently hired as a product sales manager, it was part of my job to periodically travel to the small stores that sold our product. These small stores were in similar small towns that I knew virtually nothing about. I had left the city early that morning and was traveling west, stopping in said towns along the way, checking displays, talking up the product and seeing how else I could help increase sales. Cruising along two lane country roads, after dark, hungry and tired was just not how I envisioned my new career starting.
The All Night Diner sign was a welcome sight as I pulled in to ease the hunger pangs. I guess they rolled the streets up after dark in this town as I was the only customer. Greeted by the chief cook/waitress with a friendly, "How do, stranger," I ordered my meal and a beer.
The waitress went about her business, straightening up tables, filling salt and pepper shakers and such. When my cheeseburger and fries were ready, she sat them down in front of me and leaned forward across the small counter, allowing an ample shot at her full cleavage. "'Nother beer, cowboy?" she asked. "Yes, please," I muttered, not taking my eyes off her milky breast flesh.
I'm not sure why I hadn't noticed her much before, but I blame the hunger and tiredness. Probably mid-30's or so, attractive in a waitress sort of way, blondish hair, green eyes, full hips, aforementioned breasts, nice firm legs and as I noticed when she set a fresh, cold beer down, no rings on her fingers.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she went about doing her waitressing stuff. When she must have been finished she came back to the counter, leaned towards me again, and asked, "You gotta a smallun, don'cha?"
With a puzzled look on my face, I asked my own question, "What did you say?"
She repeated the question, "You gotta a smallun, don'cha?"
Okay, now I was really confused. Not trying to be rude, I replied, "I'm sorry, I have no idea what you mean." "You know, a smallun, cuz'n your car."
My confusion grew even more with that statement. I looked into the parking lot at my car. What in the world did it have to do with anything, and exactly what was she asking? I turned back to her, still puzzled, asking, "What exactly do you mean?"
"Well, it's like this," she started, "Daddy always tale me that guys that drive 'dem fancy cars got smalluns." "So, you gotta a smallun?"
Alrighty then, I made a connection between the car and something her Daddy had told her, but I still had no idea what. It dawned on me that her phrase 'smallun' might, somehow be two words, like 'small one'. It was worth a shot. "Are you asking if I have a small one?" I offered.
"Yeah, that's right, so, you gotta a smallun?" Damn, that question just wouldn't go away.
"Do I have a small one, what?" I asked. "You know, small tallywhacker, cuz'n you drive a fancy car." She replied, obviously not feeling any of the confusion I was. Damn, I deciphered 'smallun', and now she throws a new word at me.
"You know, Billie drives him an ole farm truck and he got hisself a biggun for sure, and Mayor Murphy gots one of dem Caddylak's and I seen his and it ain't nuttin but a speck", she said. I didn't know Billie, or Mayor Murphy, and I sure didn't know what the hell she was talking about, but somehow this conversation was turning into more a game than a challenge.
"So tell me, what's your name, Ma'am?" I asked. Smiling as pretty as can be, she simply replied, "Daisy's my name, cookin's my game."
"Well, Daisy let me tell you a secret," I said as I beckoned for her to come closer across the counter. She leaned forward and I softly whispered in her ear, "I'm not from these parts, Daisy, and I hate to admit I have no idea what it is you want to know."
In our closeness I could feel her heat rising up from her cleavage, smell the mixture of perfume and cooking grease and the softness of her blonde locks on my lips, so close to her ears.
She took a step back, looked me square in the eyes, put her hands on her hips and in mock surprise exclaimed, "you don't know what a tallywhacker is, do ya' now." In all earnest I replied, "I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Daisy."
"Well, I do declare," her drawl sounding like something out of a bad southern movie, "Daddy tole me you city folk weren't too smart, but I didn't know you was that dumb!" With that little statement, I guess I was taken aback for a second and just looked into her green eyes with a bit of anger building.
It was certainly not my intention to drive all over the friggin' place at all hours to get stuck listening to this kind of crap late at night.