Editor’s Note
I LOOKED HUNGRY, apparently. And dirty, definitely. In normal circumstances, if a stranger slides a mound of fried pork under your nose, awkwardness ensues. And suspicion. But not then. Somehow, I knew exactly what was happening. He felt bad for me, and he knew bacon would do the trick. It did. Buffet bacon, the kind matted together like flat, greasy dreadlocks. Yumm. “You looked like you needed some bacon,” the stranger had said. I looked up. The man was in his mid-60s, portly, with a kind face and a Southern accent. A splayed red-and-black flannel sat comfortably on wide shoulders. He had laborer’s hands. “Sure do,” I said. He sat down and his wife followed suit, as if it was his idea and she was waiting just to make sure I wasn’t a…