You’re wrist-deep in turkey testicles, and you’ve got no reference for the sensation because there’s nothing else that feels like a tub of half-thawed turkey balls. Why the hell anyone would eat the damn things is as mysterious as the sensation of the fleshy oblongs squirting through your cold fingers.

The Okie cook is yelling at you to move your ass, orders are piling up, but he’s always yelling so you don’t pay him any mind. Breading testicles is a step-by-step operation that can’t be rushed.

Once the poultry nutsacks thaw, you scoop a handful of the slippery blobs and drop them into the flour tub. A quick swirl to dust them up, shake off the extra flour, then the turkey balls go swimming in the egg and milk bath. The egg-coated sacs are slicker than minnows and twice as hard to catch. You fish the slimy bastards out of the dip and toss them into the breadcrumb tub. Roll them until they’re coated good and proper, then lay them out on a prep tray ready for the cook and his deep-fat fryer.

Turkey fries are a big seller here at the Kandlelite Klub. A dozen fried testicles served on a platter with a dish of cocktail sauce, each ballsack speared with a celluloid-tipped toothpick. The waitress carries platter after platter through the double doors, swinging her ass as she hits the barroom floor.

You wrestle another twenty-five-pound block of turkey balls out of the cooler, strip the box, and dump the frozen mess into a thawing tub. Then you head over to the dishwashing station. The busboy has piled up three loads of filthy plates and glasses while you’ve been breading testicles.

There’s no smell in the world like a big Hobart dishwasher. An olfactory assault of food waste, industrial dish powder, electric motors, and wet floor mats, all hovering in a pungent, steaming cloud. The dish station reeks of decaying swamp and cheap wages and living on the road. You whip an empty rack from under the conveyor and start sorting dishes from a heaping tub.

Sort ‘em, spray ‘em, and rack ‘em. Push the loaded tray onto the conveyor and grab another empty one.

You snatch the hanging sprayer out of the air, douche out the empty dish tub, and toss it in the clean stack. A disgusting stream of half-chewed gristle and coagulated grease flows down the waste trough and into the grinder. Slap the feed button on the Hobart and the monster roars into life. The first tray disappears into its maw, and you start in on the next full tub.

Gloves or no gloves, it doesn’t matter. A night of dishwashing leaves you with corpse hands. Skin bleached fish-belly white, fingertips pruned and translucent. Gloves help, but by the end of a busy shift they’re as wet inside as outside and you give up on them. You smell like you’ve been dumpster diving in an Oklahoma downpour.

By the time the Hobart spits out the last rack of clean dishes, you’re back at the tub of turkey balls, swirling the white orbs around and laughing at the idea of drunken rednecks gobbling them down.

The Kandlelite Klub is not a fine-dining establishment. It’s a barn-like roadhouse sitting on a two-lane state highway outside of a small Oklahoma town. There’s a horseshoe bar up the middle, a stage and dance floor for hillbilly music on one side, tables and booths on the other.

Out front, a neon sign towers over the pickups parked in the gravel lot. A garish candle slants across the sign, dividing Kandlelite from Klub, its neon flame blinking in the sultry Oklahoma darkness. The roadhouse is the biggest joint in the county and the busiest.

How you got here, the token long-haired amidst a tribe of Okies, that’s another story altogether. Hitching down Highway Fifty-Nine south of Lawrence, Kansas, on a night black as Satan’s intentions. A full-on blizzard howling across the plains from the Rockies. The cold kicking your ass, and not much hope you’d survive until dawn. It was one icy sonofabitch. Then—a miracle!—a pickup pulls over. You’re so thankful, you’d climb in with a serial killer, glad for the warmth while he carves you into bite-sized pieces.

But the driver isn’t a serial killer. He introduces himself as Hans, friendly as pie. Headlights cutting through that swirling blizzard, Hans tells you about being the lead bartender and night manager of a joint called the Kandlelite Klub.

When he asks your age, you lie. Sixteen, legal to work. No sir, no family, no school, no nothing. Hell yes, you need a job. Dishwashing suits you fine, thank you very much. That’s how you end up breading turkey nuts in an Okie kitchen and sleeping on a cot in a storage shed out back.

Being the lone odd duck amongst a gaggle of evens is a tricky thing. If you’re lucky, folks adopt you as a kind of mascot, show how tolerant they are. Without some luck, things go south. You settle into the role of mascot and keep your head down.

It’s sort of like those movies where a stranger comes to town, kicks ass, and sets things right. Except in this town, nobody wants anything to change, and the skinny long-hair is the most likely candidate for an ass-kicking.

That first week is tough, but you survive. The lead waitress takes a shine to you, which is lucky. Sheila, our lady of the perpetual swinging ass. The cook hates you, but you work faster and harder than the old drunk you replaced. By the second week, the Okie cook hasn’t stuck a knife in you, so life is good.

Hans jokes with the regulars whenever you venture out into the bar. Points to you and smiles, tells them never pick up hippie hitchhikers. Can’t ever get rid of them. Everyone laughs, looking at you like you’re some kind of exotic insect. You smile, duck your head, and get on with your work.

#

The Kandlelite Klub is not a gentle joint. Fighting’s as common as farting. Even the history of the place is steeped in violence.

The former owner accepted investment money from some gentlemen with dubious backgrounds. When their investment didn’t pan out to their satisfaction, the goons drove the owner into the boonies, put four 9mm slugs in his guts, and left him for dead.

Four gut shots will usually get the job done, but not this time. The roadhouse boss dragged his bloody ass across frozen fields to the nearest farmhouse. Tough bastard lived to tell the tale.

On your day off, Hans drives you out to the very spot like it’s a tourist attraction. Just a piece of empty section road and a broken-down farmhouse, the bloody drag marks long faded into history.

#

Given the history of the Kandlelite and the violent proclivities of its regular customers, a smart kid learns to be a ghost outside the safety of the kitchen.

When you’re not prepping poultry testes or washing dishes, you keep the bar stocked with ice and glasses. Hans doesn’t make many fancy martinis, but he splashes Old Charter and Coke by the barrel. Those Okies suck down cheap bourbon like Greek gods swilling ambrosia. Hans needs lots of ice, and you fetch it by the bucketload.

Stepping out of the kitchen is like entering a foreign world. You slip behind the bar toting two five-gallon buckets of ice. There’s a commotion at the far end. A guy is standing on the barstool, arms thrown wide. You recognize the clown. He’s one of Hans’s friends. Burt, or something like that. For a drunk, Burt’s balance is rock steady.

Burt is shouting his head off, an Okie Romeo extolling the virtues of the ladies gathered around his perch. The women giggle like schoolgirls. One old boy at the bar takes umbrage at Burt’s antics and mutters an insult. In a split second, everything changes.

The happy jester is now a raving madman. He steps onto the bar, towering over the old man who dares to spoil his fun. Burt’s gyrating his crouch in the fella’s face while he screams at him.

“What did you say to me, you old sonofabitch?”

The poor redneck stares down at his drink, but it’s hard ignoring a guy’s boots planted on either side of your Old Charter and Coke.

“I heard what you said, you bastard. You wanna say it again? Answer me, big mouth. Say it to my face.”

The sorry fool is looking from side to side, searching for some way out of this, but it just gets worse.

“Stand up, you yellow coward. Stand up and fight. If you don’t fight me, I’m going to make you suck my dick ’til you turn purple. You hear me?”

Hans holds his baseball bat down low below the bar, but he’s not making a move. He’s enjoying the show just as much as the rest of the crowd.

The threat of public fellatio seems to break the spell. The old boy pushes himself away from his barstool and scuttles a few steps backward. He’s trying to look mean, muttering about grabbing his shotgun, but it’s no good. The women screech like birds. Burt’s still standing on the bar, only now he’s doing a stripper’s shimmy while running his fingers up and down his crotch.

That’s too much for the old redneck. He turns and makes a run for it. The last thing you see is him staggering for the door trailing a cloud of shame.

Burt laughs the loudest and longest. Then he steps into thin air, spins, and drops onto his stool pretty as a rodeo rider landing on a bull. He’s all smiles again, and you see Hans lean the baseball bat back into its corner.

You’re frozen behind the bar holding an empty bucket over the ice sink. Then you realize you can move. Hans grins at you over his shoulder.

“Some show, huh? Don’t worry, kid, that old boy’s not coming back. Might shoot Burt out in the parking lot, I s’pose, but that ain’t our problem.”

You nod at Hans like you understand, but none of this makes a lick of sense. It’s not the violence that’s confusing. Plenty of that back in the old neighborhood. No, it’s the way these guys strut and prance before they fight, like medieval knights wearing cowboy hats.

“Best fetch another bucket of ice. Burt’s little show will get the drinks flowing.”

You duck back into the kitchen, half-expecting to hear shotgun blasts and screaming, but nothing happens. You fetch ice and glasses. Sheila carries a tray piled with burgers and fried turkey balls, swinging her beautiful round ass. The Kandlelite patrons laugh and dance, eat and drink, and the cash register beeps. Everyone gets drunk as goats, and no one gets shot.

#

Two months roll by before your novelty factor starts to wear thin. You’re relatively safe inside the Klub. The cook hasn’t stabbed you yet because you’re quick on the food prep. Sheila still mothers you. Too bad it’ll never be more than that, no matter how much you fantasize about her.

No, the change is more noticeable in Okie-ville.

You’ve got a few pals now, guys you know well enough to sneak beers with. One evening, a bunch of you climb the water tower at the edge of town. A half dozen guys up there, drinking piss-warm beer and watching the sunset.

Someone calls the sheriff, of course, and two squad cars show up. They shine their lights on the tower, making climbing down harder than it needs to be. The deputies flip the other boys some shit, then shoo them on home. You they hold onto because they have questions.

Where you from, son? Where are you headed next and when are you leaving? And who cuts your hair? We could arrange a quick trim for you, no charge.

The usual crap, like they’re reading from cue cards. Nothing you haven’t heard before. Small-town cops making it clear that you’re on their shit list. Whatever.

Getting hassled by the police is nothing new. But being the only one getting the heat, that’s dangerous. Back in the old neighborhood, there’s enough hoodlums to keep the cops busy. One street kid disappears in the herd. But here in Okie-ville, you stand out like a hundred-dollar hat on a milk cow.

A week later, you’re sitting in front of the pool hall. It’s your favorite spot in this one-horse town, the kind of pool hall you read about in pulp novels. Three cowboys pile out the door, all boots and hats. Two of them climb into a pickup while the third waits his turn. Cowboy number three glares at you from under the brim of his Resistol.

You’re not the sharpest nail in the bag, but you tend to avoid outright stupid. Not this time. Figuring to be friendly, you give the cowboy a two-finger salute, the same way your Okie pals do.

Now Hoss is livid, and his buddies are laughing. He marches toward you with that rolling, rodeo walk they must practice in a mirror. You’re so busy watching him you don’t see the ass-whooping that’s coming. Then he’s standing over your bench, mad as a hornet.

“Did you flip me off, punk?”

“What? No, I never. I mean, I just waved. Like this.”

You hold up those two innocent fingers, not understanding what’s going on. Cowboy Hoss slaps your hand away and it hurts. You stare at him, baffled. He’s leaning over you like he’s waiting on something, and that something had best hurry up.

His buddies honk the horn. You hear them laughing.

“C’mon, Blake. That little fuck ain’t got no fight. Let’s go get some beers.”

Blake, not Hoss, gives you a sneer and spits on the sidewalk. You dredge up enough survival sense to keep your eyes down and your mouth shut. Then he’s gone. A truck door slams and tires squeal.

After that, you start paying attention. You get the sense that a clock is ticking. There’s an ass-whooping looming on your horizon. If you want to keep all your teeth, leaving might be a good plan.

While you’ve been hunkering down at the Kandlelite, spring has broken out over the Oklahoma hills. At least you won’t need to dodge any blizzards.

You double up on the free meals, shoveling grub into your skinny ass. You eat as much as you can hold, then a little bit more. Hell, you even gobble down the turkey fries. The road can get mighty hungry. Best to fatten up before you go.

Slipping into your cot after a long shift, you do your best to appreciate a roof over your head. You dream of Sheila, her motherly hugs, and the swing of her beautiful round ass. You wake up knowing you’re going to miss her.

Friday morning you get up early and hit the laundromat. What few clothes you own are clean and packed. Saturday night is your last shift of the week. The locals are prone to church on Sundays and the Klub is closed.

Before it gets too busy, you ask Hans if he can pay you for the week. You want to hang out with the fellas tomorrow. Hans digs the money out of the petty cash and hands it over. He’s a good guy. You’re gonna miss him too.

It’s hellacious busy that night. You’re up to your elbows in turkey testicles, but you don’t mind. Tubs of dirty dishes are stacking up beside the Hobart. The Okie cook is yelling at you to move your ass. You laugh out loud, realizing you’ve come to like the ornery sonofabitch.

Sheila eases the last drunken regular out the door and locks it. The busboy wipes down the tables, then turns the chairs upside down and stacks them on the tabletops.

Back in the kitchen, the cook is long gone. The final rack of glasses slides steaming out of the Hobart. You shut the machine down, grab a tray of glasses, and back through the kitchen doors.

Hans is behind the bar, counting the cash into a night deposit pouch. You stack the hot glasses and pick up the empty tray. Before you can head back to the kitchen, Hans raps on the bar.

“How about a cold one for the crew, kid?”

He pulls two bottles of beer from the cooler, pops the caps, and plunks them on the bar. Sheila slides onto a stool and pushes a lock of hair out of her face.

“What about me, cowboy?”

Hans spins back to the cooler and makes it three bottles. You slip around the bar and sit next to Sheila, smell the musk of her perfume, the bourbon, and sweet sweat. It’s enough to make your head spin.

Hans stays behind the bar. He reaches for one of the bottles.

“To a hell of a night and a hell of a crew.”

Bottles clink and the beer goes down your throat cold and sharp. Sheila wraps an arm over your shoulder and nuzzles your neck. You want more than anything to fall into her and never come up for air.

She pulls away, laughs, and your heart breaks to pieces.

“What do you think, Hans? We got to find this boy a good local girl.”

Hans drinks, smiles, shakes his head.

“You do that, Sheila, and we’ll never be rid of him. Goddamn hippies.”

He gives you a poke. The two of them laugh. You do your best to fake a laugh, but it goes sour in your throat. You take a slug of beer to wash the sour away.

Damn if this place wasn’t close. As much a home as you’ve had for the last hard year. But it’s not home. Nowhere is.

Tomorrow is going to be the hardest leaving yet.

– Marco Etheridge