I left Alabama. I am in Georgia now.
At 3 a.m. I saw a yellow sign glowing beside the highway.
Waffle House.
I went in. The parking lot was full. At 3 a.m.
I asked the waitress when they close.
She looked at me the way you look at a child who has asked when gravity ends.
She said, "We don't close, baby."
Two things happened in that sentence.
One: I learned Waffle House has never closed. Not at night. Not on Christmas. Not during hurricanes.
Two: she called me "baby."
I am a grown man. I have a mortgage. It repaired something in me I did not know was broken.
I ordered hash browns.
She said, "Scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, diced, peppered, capped, or topped?"
I did not understand a single word in that sentence.
I said, "Yes."
She nodded and wrote it down. Apparently that was a correct answer.
Then I learned something, and I need you to know I did not invent this.
The United States government measures the strength of hurricanes by whether the Waffle House is open.
Open: the storm is fine.
Limited menu: the storm is serious.
Closed: evacuate. It is over.
This is called the Waffle House Index. FEMA uses it. FEMA. The disaster agency.
Japan built earthquake satellites. America watches a diner.
Both systems work.
At 3 a.m., the Waffle House contained: two truck drivers. A nurse still in scrubs. Four teenagers in prom clothes. One man who had clearly made several mistakes that evening. And one Japanese man with a notebook.
Nobody asked anybody why they were there.
At Waffle House, being there is the answer.
Then a man at the counter noticed my Alabama shirt. It was a gift. Long story.
He did not speak. He pointed at the shirt and shook his head slowly, the way you correct someone in church.
Then he said, quietly: "Go Dawgs."
I panicked and used the only word I own.
"Roll Tide."
Every fork in the building stopped.
The cook looked up from the eggs.
The waitress said, "Baby, no."
I understand now. Every state here has its own word. My word is from one state ago.
The man bought my waffle anyway.
He said, and I am quoting him exactly: "You didn't know. Bless your heart."
I have been told that phrase has two meanings.
I believe I received the gentle one.
I believe.
In Alabama a man said "Roll Tide" to me as a greeting.
Later that same day, the same man said "Roll Tide" as a goodbye.
I asked a woman at the store what it means.
She said, "Roll Tide."
I asked what it means.
She said, "It means Roll Tide, sugar."
So I began collecting evidence. I kept a list. I am not embarrassed about the list.
I have now heard "Roll Tide" used as: hello. Goodbye. Thank you. I am sorry. Congratulations. That is unfortunate. I agree. I disagree. And once, in a hardware store, as a complete set of instructions for installing a ceiling fan.
I heard it said at a funeral.
It was appropriate. It was the most appropriate thing anyone said that day.
I began using it. Carefully at first, the way a man handles a borrowed sword.
I said it to a cashier. She said it back.
I said it to a police officer who had stopped me for a broken taillight.
He looked at me for a long moment. He looked at my face. He looked at my taillight.
Then he said it back, and nodded once, and did not write the ticket.
I wish to be extremely clear that I am not claiming those two events are related.
I am also not claiming they are unrelated.
A man at a gas station heard my accent and asked where I was from. I told him Japan.
He said, "Roll Tide."
He meant welcome. I knew he meant welcome. There was no ambiguity at all.
I have been in Alabama eleven days.
I have one word.
It has been enough for everything.
I have started saying it in other states.
It does not work in other states.
I said it in a warehouse store in Oregon. One man turned around.
He was from Alabama. He said it back. We did not speak after that. We did not have to.
I say it anyway.