“It’s intellectually corrupt to condone mass murder for a political goal . . . to me. That’s just my opinion. Other people don’t agree, at all, and that’s fine. Perhaps they should read more–and not newspapers!” –John Malkovitch

“You’d better do something about that gut, Potts,” Supervisor Smith admonished as Potts pulled away from the dock, wiping sweat from his forehead, “I’d hate like hell to have to give someone else our best route. You’re gonna collapse dead one of these mornings, I swear!”

“Mae’s puttin’ me on a diet, she say.” Potts replied.

“Yeah? Well, you have a good run, Potts!”

Smith knew it was a put off. Potts had carried an inner-tube around his waist as long as Smith had known him, bigger every year. Smith couldn’t understand why he didn’t fall forward when he stood up. He knew what Mae really did was shovel her husband enough southern Black cooking to fatten a pot-bellied hog. His shirt pocket was already wet from a sweat-soaked handkerchief.

“S’pose I will, Boss,” Potts answered, “S’pose I will.”

Maneuvering his Milk truck past the others, he was first out the gate. The other route drivers were still stuffing the day’s load into the back of their trucks. Overweight as he was, loading crates of dairy products plus the ever-growing list of non-dairy items didn’t just get him going; It worked up a dripping sweat.

“I wish Smith’d shut up,” he said aloud, talking to himself as he usually did driving along alone during the morning. “He think he’s a Big Shot cause o’ Junior college and cause he’s a supervisor. ‘Drop dead,’ my butt! My momma’s still kickin at ninety-one and my Grandma Washin’ton lived to ninety-eight, dippin’ snuff and eatin’ lard!”

He smiled, thinking about the men still loading their trucks.

“Yup! I’m still the fastest, sweatin’ or not, fat or not!”

Farmer’s Dairy was one of the few places already humming with activity at 4:30 a.m.

“Reg’lar folk don’t get up at 3:00 and be loadin’ at 4:00,” he often bragged to Mae.