The Texas Monthly article had changed the length of the line outside Conroe’s, but the rhythms of our days remained the same. Jake woke at 1:30 a.m. Despite the hoodlums who roamed our neighborhood at night—I was roused by the sound of gunshots (or maybe fireworks?) more than once—Jake insisted on walking to Conroe’s, leaving me asleep. He passed two pi?ata shops (Raquel’s Partyland and Ruth’s Partyland), two bars (Club Caliente and El Leon), and four churches of various denominations. He’d promised not to walk through Metz Park or any alleys until daylight.
I’d bought Jake an antique Pasquini espresso maker during our honeymoon in Venice thirteen years ago, and the first thing he did every morning when he arrived at the restaurant (after telling Brendan, who tends the meat all night, to go home) was grind beans for a strong cup. Then Jake got to work trimming ribs, putting them in one of our five smokers by 3:30 a.m. The brisket cooks at a low temperature all night, hence the need for Brendan. Jake started the fires for the turkeys next, using post-oak wood and butcher paper covered in tallow harvested from the brisket he’d cooked the day before.
During the next few hours, Jake would sit out back in his favorite green lawn chair, keeping an eye on the smokers, perusing the three papers he had delivered to Conroe’s every morning. We loved the Austin American-Statesman “Life” section and the New York Times crossword puzzle; whatever squares Jake couldn’t fill in, I usually could. This was the time-consuming art of barbecue: Jake monitored the wood fires, maintaining their temperatures, reading the smoke the way his grandfather had taught his father, who’d taught Jake.
People arrived around 7:00 a.m. to set up chairs and drink coffee in front of our small restaurant, sometimes waiting four or five hours for lunch. A man across the street started renting chairs (five bucks for the morning), and it was rumored that savvy Austinites hired homeless men or students to stand in line for them, paying with money or meat. I never saw any evidence of this, though if I did I’d put a stop to it. That sort of behavior just isn’t neighborly, and part of what we were striving for was a sense of community. There’d been two marriage proposals in line already, so I knew we were doing something right.
At nine, Benji and some of the other staff arrived to start slicing pickles and making coleslaw and potato salad. Before we opened, we made sure we had enough of all the sauces and that the bottles on the tables were topped off. We had a fridge full of pie delivered. (Bourbon banana pudding was the best, followed by Texas pecan.) Each table needed a roll of paper towels, crackers, and salt and pepper shakers.
Around ten-thirty I rolled in. I ate toast or yogurt at home; if I didn’t eat before we opened, I wouldn’t have a chance to take a bite until we closed. It was just nuts. I had a closetful of vintage dresses, and I usually wore one with a pair of boots. I put my black hair in a high ponytail, jamming a pencil in. On my fortieth birthday I’d gotten a makeover at Bobbi Brown, and though I had once worn nothing but Vaseline Intensive Care lotion and Chapstick, I now applied a light foundation, blush, crimson lipstick, and waterproof mascara. I shopped once or twice a month on South 1st, grabbing colorful old cowboy boots at Time & Again and dresses at Vintage Annie’s or the Goodwill. I kind of had a look going, and I felt good about it. Jake wouldn’t have noticed if I’d worn a sack.
The briskets, which cooked for eighteen hours at 250 degrees, came off around eleven, and Jake wrapped them in butcher paper and let them rest in the kitchen. I checked the tables and kitchen, then hung the “Come On In” sign at 11:30. Either Benji or I propped the door open, beckoned to the early birds, and began making our way along the line with a pad of paper to take note of what everyone wanted. I made sure people understood how long they were going to have to wait, or if we wouldn’t have any ribs or sausage by the time they hit the front counter. It had been Benji’s idea to sell beer and Big Red to the people in line; every day he filled a plastic tub with ice and drinks and walked along the side of the restaurant, way into the parking lot and beyond. Folks made it a party, and it was pretty wonderful. I was proud.
We’d come a long way since meeting in New York City, Jake and I. I was going through chemo and studying English lit at Columbia and Jake was selling homemade beef jerky out of the back of his truck, putting himself through business school at NYU. Falling in love had been the first miracle, then my remaining alive, then the Texas Monthly article. We had so much, I reminded myself. So, so much.
“That’s true,” said Principal Markson. “You do, of course you do, but still.” I hadn’t realized I’d been speaking audibly. Principal Markson had tears in her eyes. She had told me once that if she could make one of her teen mothers hand me her baby, she would.
But she couldn’t.
She seemed rooted to her spot at the register, though a long line snaked behind her. Some youngster in a very clean cowboy hat raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat. I ignored him. “How are things with you?” I asked.
“The usual,” said Principal Markson wearily. “By the way, could we reserve a table next Monday for the Teen Suicide Prevention Task Force meeting?”
“Monday? Sure,” I said, though we didn’t take reservations and she knew it.
“The Gang Prevention Task Force meeting is Wednesday,” said Principal Markson.
“Wednesday. You got it,” I said. These poor teachers needed all the breaks they could get.
“Markson, get a move on!” cried Officer Grupo, another regular. Principal Markson sighed, put her hand on mine, and squeezed. “Hang in there, sweetheart,” she said. I nodded. When she walked away, I rubbed my eyes with the sleeve of my dress. Then I smiled at the youngster and took his order.
When we had run out of meat, I flipped the sign to “Come Back Tomorrow!” and sat down heavily. I touched the tabletop, which was warm. The week we’d moved from our food trailer to the brick-and-mortar building, Jake’s father had arrived from Lockhart with gorgeous pine tables he’d constructed from boards he’d found in the basement of his own (famous) BBQ restaurant.
Jake had gone for a nap or a swim at Metz Park. The hoodlums cleared out during the day, and the public pool was filled with screaming children and bleary mothers. Jake liked to do a cannonball or two into the deep end after a long, smoky morning.