Wrangler

I walked into Wrangler's Cafe and it looked like the basement of Holy Redeemer Church, Kensington, Maryland, just before people came down after mass to awkwardly mingle over bad coffee and too small danishes, sitting on chairs with ripped vinyl. It was hot. It smelled hot. The frying that was happening in the back seemed to be in competition with the heat wafting in from outside. Though the frying pan had the advantage of liquid oil, there was heat hotter than moist in the air by the grain elevator. I heard the room stop when we entered; I blamed it on my over-sized sunglasses and my outfit-by-Target. Everyone seemed to stare right at me and even with trips to Prague and Greece under my belt, I never felt so foreign. They were still stopped and looking and I didn't know if I should sit or Wait To Be Seated; I didn't know if I had snuck into a town meeting, or a restaurant or a secret society of those who snub east-coasters. Things became a blur of belt buckles and denim and Sunday bests and I was relieved by the cool from the fridge door that Sandra opened to collect her homemade kuchen because it meant that she was getting it to go.