The Day the Barbecue Died

by C.M. Neumann

Someone in North Galbutt had left their tracks in the mud.

"I say about a size ten, triple E. What do you think, Country?" Both Sloppy and Country were down on their knees looking closely at the footprints behind Sloppy's bar-b-que restaurant.

Country stood up, "One way to find out, Sloppy. That just happens to be my shoe size." Country then placed his right boot in the corresponding footprint. "Yep, that's the size all right."

Sloppy eyed Country suspiciously, "Where you were last night, Country?"

Country spit out a wad of juicy fruit gum, "Dangit, Sloppy, I wuz here. Eating bar-b-que between sets. You know that."

"Yea, I suppose I do. How many people in North Galbutt do you think have your same shoe size?"

"Gol darnit! Sloppy, how in heck am I suppose to know something like that?" Country put a fresh wad of juicy fruit in his mouth.

"You know how to bum bar-b-que off me though, don't you?" Sloppy's voice turned cold. Cold as the December wind blowing just then through North Galbutt.

"Now, Sloppy, you know I play for that bar-b-que. What's the matter with you? We've had the same deal for almost twenty years." Country gritted his teeth.

"Well, maybe it's time for a new deal. Maybe it's time you stopped freeloading and pay for the bar-b-que like everybody else. I'm runnin' a bizness, not a charity for an old no good country singer."

The last words hurt but Country wasn't about to show it. "If that's what you think of our friendship, then I'll start paying for bar-b-que. But it won't be yours!" Country spat out his gum again and stomped off.

Sloppy watched him leave. He was no closer to the truth.

What was the truth?