In small towns, there are two types of secrets: the kind that we pull together as a mini-nation to protect, and the juicy. It was a laughable statement, Mayor Frazier knowing what would happen the minute he turned back to his office. Now we’re just in preliminary talks but-” he looked over his spectacles with a degree of sternness and dramatics, “this needs to stay within the walls of this office.” “Caroline,” the man drawled with some level of importance, “I just got a call from some folks in California. Chewed her way through half the box before scooting to her feet and back to her desk, her round butt hitting the seat just in time for the mayor to walk out, his chest puffed, spectacles on, a notepad in hand that she knew good and well only contained doodles. She had transferred the call to the mayor’s office, picked up her box of Red Hots, and settled into the chair outside of his door. Ever since the first hint reached Caroline Settles, assistant to Mayor Frazier, who received a phone call on a Monday morning from Envision Entertainment. Quincy had been waiting for this day for seven months. “They’re here,” she said ominously, the excited glow in her blue eyes not matching the dark tones of her message. Kelli Beth Barry was the one who passed the news to me, her red hair coming dangerously close to some marshmallowy sweet potato during the relay. A whispered stream of excitement down the long line of the table, scooting by and hopping over cornbread, dumplings, pecan pie, and broccoli casserole. We were at the First Baptist Church when the word hit. Evening was for quality time with your family. Napping through the afternoon hours, front-porch visiting time at dusk. Under live oaks eating brunch with our friends and families. Only Yankees would think that was an appropriate time to thrust themselves into our lives. Even the pecan trees straightened in interest.Ī Sunday.

Brakes squealed and everyone in the tri-county area heard it. The scent of our camellias competed with their exhaust, the huff of diesel bringing with it the scent of pretension and importance. Catering trucks-as if we didn’t have restaurants in Quincy. Semis followed by limos, work trucks and buses trailed by matching sedans. The cavalry arrived on a Sunday afternoon in August. They think their Mercedes makes them a better person, when-to us-it’s just an indication of low self-esteem.

They think that the word ‘y’all’ is an indication of poor grammar. They think that because we talk slowly, we are stupid. Don’t understand the intricate system of rules that we live by. Hollywood doesn’t mix well with dirt roads.

Hollywood Dirt by Alessandra Torre