Books and Covers...

Brent and I eat breakfast out on one day of the weekend, usually Sunday before grocery shopping. One of the places we frequent the most is this old school restaurant in Hillsboro. A place where the waitress calls you hon sort of vibe. The food is very old school but really good. I usually get an omelette, no toast, no sides, just the omelette and then I bring home the leftovers to have as a whole other meal. That sort of place.

If we go on Saturday instead of Sunday we end up sitting surrounded by large groups of men's bible studies, or farmer co-ops. It draws from the more rural aspects of Hillsboro and Washington County. The ratio of pickups to cars in the parking lot is always about 4 - 1. We have joked that we are probably the only people who voted for Harris that eat there.

But the food is good. The service is usually solid. The price is reasonable, as reasonable as anyplace is right now, and especially because I often end up with two meals instead of one out of my order. So I just grit my teeth and bite my tongue when I overhear the conversations around me. Though I have told Brent one of these days I'm going to show up on a Saturday with my bible in hand and sit down at one of those tables and just shred them and their cherry picked verses.

So this morning we are waiting to place our order and they seat an older gentleman and woman in the same dining room as us. He's a loud talker. We are hearing all about how he doesn't drink coffee at home, only when he's out and he doesn't take cream or sugar or any of that trash. He quit drinking 7 years ago and a lot of people they both know have quit. Though the prevailing wisdom seems to be that White Claw isn't really drinking. And possibly beer isn't as well. Really solid alcoholic logic.

He's talking about chickens he's given to his daughter but his grandchild keeps chasing them so they won't settle down and start laying. He said he used to tell them (when they were his chickens) that it wasn't too far of a walk to the frying pan so they better get busy.

And then they start talking about a mutual friend of theirs whose kids won't take him in. He's older, like them, and needs help, but they won't do it. One of his kids just won't answer his calls. And the old guy says, "Well he's a racist piece of shit so what did he expect?" Brent and I both made surprised eye contact. Not at all what we were expecting. Then the conversation shifted and they started talking about ICE.

He said "Did you know they've started taking US citizens off the street? It's just whoever they don't like they take now." Okay, we clearly misjudged who this man voted for.

Then he lowered his voice (the fact that I can still hear it clearly lets you know what a loud talker he is) and says, "I'm not one to usually go for this, but if I could get to him I would gladly do the jail time." Hunh. I guess ANTIFA really is in the room with us all the time. I mean, aside from just me. I told Brent I felt like going over and shaking his hand and telling him I would make sure to write him every day if it happened.

It's not the first time I've been a little surprised by the people there not being who I judged them to be. Usually though its with the farmer groups. One of the younger guys will gently correct one of the older ones about something. Steer them away from either saying something completely racist, or correct them over something they are saying that isn't true. It's always done really subtly, probably years of practice. That balance between being part of a farming community but also part of liberal Oregon. Years of practice threading the needle.

I'd like to say that I won't judge a book by its cover, having been wrong many times, but I still will. I know I will. The number of red hats and bible verses about men being able to subjugate women means I'm right more than I'm wrong. But more than that I sort of like the little thrill when I am wrong.

Not just because I like the unexpected, but because I know if I'm wrong the red hats will be as well. And I like to imagine one of them saying something to "short walk to the frying pan guy" and being called a racist piece of shit for their trouble.