Page 79 of Kings of Sherwood

An engraved stone over the door transom says:

VFW POST 309

Rob swings the wheel and navigates us to the farthest corner of the parking lot, under a tree. Kills the engine.

“You hungry?” he asks.

I swivel in my seat, looking back at the building. Notice a feature I didn’t before—a tri-fold sign, white with uneven black marker writing on it.

BREAKFAST TODAY

$3.50 A PERSON

5:30 UNTIL SOLD OUT

“Starving,” I say.

Inside, it’s a mix of humble and proud. Artifacts, photos, postcards, flyers, and notices: recruitment, Fourths of July, memorial services and award ceremonies. It’s weathered by age but lovingly presented, reverent on paneled walls.

But it’s a bar, really. Primarily. The counter stretches the whole expanse of the long, narrow room. The barstools are high-backed, and the liquor behind it mid-shelf at best.Rolling Rocks, one for $1.50, two for $2, reads a handwritten sign, and a TV plays cable news on mute that no one’s watching.

Of the three booths on the side, two are occupied—older men with shockingly white hair and mottled, sun-browned skin under short-sleeve collared shirts. Some wear ball caps indicating their allegiance:USS Louisville. Vietnam Vet.

Rob takes two steps in, puts his hands in his pockets, rolls his shoulders back, nods. He’s both at ease and not his usual overconfident self—like he’s really taking stock of the place.

“Something smells good,” he says to me.

He’s right. It does. I can’t pick out a single individual food from the aroma, but it’s definitely salty, fried, and breakfast-y.

“Hey, y’all—welcome in.”

A woman a head shorter than me, whose hair makes up the difference and whose eyelashes are practically sticky black triangles, smiles up at us.

“So glad y’all could join us,” she says.

“Glad we’re here,” Rob replies.

I can’t tell from their interaction whether they know each other, or it’s just regular Southern politeness.

“I’m Donna,” she says, answering my question—guess they’re just now getting acquainted. “And y’all are very welcome to take this booth right here.” She indicates the one closest to the door. “Murph’s on the grill today, and he’s cookin’ up a storm. So you just take these—” she hands us each a sheet of paper, “—and check off whatever you want. I’ll be around to collect it. Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” I answer for both of us, and give her a smile. A real one. Donna seems like a person it’s hard not to like.

“You got it, missy.” She winks at me and disappears.

Rob gestures to the booth, chivalrous to the end.

“Thanks,” I say, casting one last glance around me as I slide into a seat.

I stare at the wall next to me, where a vending machine for stamps—priced 13 cents each—is stuck with its little drawer rusted permanently halfway out.

“It’s a good breakfast,” Rob says, resting his forearms on the table, interlacing his fingers. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but looks ain’t everything. Nothing fancy, but I’d say it’d give Tuck a run for his money.”

My eyebrows go up. “Well, I’m intrigued,” I croak. I clear my throat, still froggy from sleep, and scrub at the corners of my eyes just as Donna reappears—setting down two thick navy-blue mugs with a faded VFW logo. And a whole pot of coffee.

“You two look like you need one to yourself,” she says. “You need a refill, just holler.”

“Thank you, Donna,” Rob says, and flashes her a smile that sends a natural pink up behind the spots of her maroon-colored blush.

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