Transient Transplant

I had two things on my “must-do” list in Nashville:  eat hot chicken and visit Jack White’s record shop, Third Man Records.  

What I didn’t realize was that we would do those two things back to back.

I waited in a line that wrapped around the corner with two friends of mine at Hattie B’s, reading the menu on our phones to determine what level of hot we could handle on our chicken.

I like spicy foods.  But not enough to sweat and be uncomfortable.  

There were 6 levels of heat listed and described as follows:  Southern (no heat), Mild (touch of heat), Medium (warming up), Hot (feet the heat), Damn Hot (fire starter), and Shut the Cluck Up (burn notice).

I wanted to order Shut the Cluck Up just so I could say it out loud, plus I felt like I would earn some kind of badge of honor for conquering the hottest chicken listed.

But I didn’t want to die before I made it to Jack White’s store either.

So I settled on Medium.  Even though I wondered if it qualified as “hot” chicken if I didn’t even venture to the “hot” levels.

I told myself it was for the best, ordered some chicken, greens, and pimento mac and cheese and waited.

I soon learned I had made the right choice.  Just the right level of hot.

I sat with my friends, devouring the delicious food (hands down the best meal I had there) and feeling the spice of the chicken while discussing that it would be logical for us to hit up the record store next.

Side note:  I love Jack White.   I love the White Stripes, the Raconteurs, his solo albums, you name it.  I think he’s one of the coolest things to happen in music in my generation.  If there’s a band that his pasty white self is in, I’m checking it out.

So we decided to walk around the neighborhood before we headed to the record store, when I started thinking of my incident in New Orleans with the Po’ Boy.

While I do love spicy foods, they don’t always love me.  I get some gnarly acid reflux some days, and other days may give me stomach issues.  But I’d be damned if I didn’t shove the last of the hot chicken strips down my throat.  

It’s a risky game of roulette, but I’ve got my hand out waiting for that gun every time.  

So while we were exploring the neighborhood, I brought up to my friends that I only saw this record shop visit going down one of two ways knowing my luck:

Option one:  we roll up, browse through the shop, buy a few things, and it meets expectations.

Option two:  we roll up, browse through the shop, when suddenly I feel a gurgle in my stomach and know something horrible is about to unleash itself.

But then I find out the record shop doesn’t have a bathroom.  

I run outside, cursing the hot chicken and debate whether to shit my pants as a grown ass adult or shit in the street.

The clear answer would be shit in the street, since I’m a lady.  So I’d run around the corner, drop my pants and publicly defecate, cursing the hot chicken gods for ruining my intestines, when Jack White would conveniently drop in to see how things were going in his record store only to see me making a mess right on his doorstep.

Then I die of shame.

Those were the only two options.  

In the life of Carly Lauck, there is no in between where we happen to be shopping and suddenly Jack White stops in, I somehow am normal and rational and keep my composure, and get to tell the story of how I met Jack White to all of my friends.

So as I explained this to the friends I was with, who now obviously regretted coming on this trip with me and knew beyond reasonable doubt that I was insane, I ended it with “so I’m really hoping for option one.”

One of the friends I was with looked at me, unphased, as if she’d taken in every word of my crazy and thought it through and said, “I don’t know why you wouldn’t just shit your pants.  You’re wearing skinny jeans I don’t think it would get very far. Also I do know someone who met Jack White here. His office is the garage around the corner.”

So the stakes were suddenly much higher now.

I felt nervous walking through the door.

But as it turns out, it was option one that unraveled.  And the store exceeded my expectations.

I suppose I was in the good graces of the hot chicken gods that day.