Reading my words at Waffle House with friend Josh

I’m writing from the Waffle House in Russellville.

The one on North Arkansas across from the PDQ. The diner that’s just like the one on East Parkway, or the one in Clarksville in front of the X-Mart.

Greasy tile floors, syrup-stained windows and red vinyl stools. Every Waffle House is the same, and they never close. In fact, the “Waffle House Index” is a metric used by the Federal Emergency Management Agency to determine the severity of hurricanes. Craig Fugate, former head of FEMA, explained it like this: “If you get to a town and the Waffle House is closed, that’s really bad.”

The Waffle House on North Arkansas was open when I arrived about an hour ago, the diner’s foggy windows orangish in the predawn, but not so dingy I couldn’t see my good buddy Josh Wilson sitting in the back corner booth.

Josh is tall, 6 feet 4 or 5, and likes to wear three-piece suits and wide-brimmed fedoras to the Waffle House, Walmart, any and everywhere, really. In another life, Josh was a youth pastor and I was a football coach. We’ve come a long way since then. Josh lives in Texas now, a hat-friendly state.

We’re at the Waffle House to talk books and movies, wives and kids. Our waitress, whose name tag reads “Jan,” is a hoot. A few years back, a Waffle House waitress in Forrest City (my hometown) made national news after videos surfaced of her “doing her hair” in the kitchen sink.

A sink like the one where Jan stands now, barking out orders to the cook: “Hashbrowns, smothered, covered, chunked … ”

I turn back to Josh and ask if he’s willing to let me read him a new story. He is. I produce a stack of paper from beneath the table and start to read.

If this all sounds strange, it is.

Writing is weird and often unpredictable. Similar to a Sunday morning spent in the Waffle House. There are no rules, no true code of conduct, which can all be forgiven as long as the food is good.

When it comes to books, the words are what matter; the lines that form a story like the one I’m reading to Josh.

When I’m done, I look up, surprised to see our food and a burly man one table over staring at me. His shoulders are turned so I can read his shirt: “TRUST GOD NOT GOVERNMENT.”

“For a second there,” the man says and hooks an elbow over the top of Josh’s booth, “I thought y’all was having a Bible study.”

I brace myself. Josh bites his bottom lip.

“But then I realized you’re some kinda writer, huh?” I nod.

“Well, listen,” the man says. “Your dialogue ain’t bad, but if you wanna get serious, I’ve self-published a couple books and … ”

The man pitches his novels then invites me to a writers’ group at something he calls “The Manga Hut.”

I offer my thanks, and he says, “You bet. My name’s Steve.”

Josh, who has his back to Steve, grins.

I say, “I’m Eli,” and shake the man’s hand.

A few minutes later, Steve is gone and I’m halfway through my All Star Special, thinking about my dialogue, wondering if it’s any good.