There's a little old man who comes into Ruby's now and again. He tips excessively. No one knows his name, he always pays in cash. We call him Colonel Sanders. He drives an old beat up Honda with shiny chrome spinners. He has wild, white, einstein-esque hair and a full beard. Sometimes you can catch him combing his hair as he shuffles towards the front door.

He always orders the same thing: Wild Turkey whiskey, a glass of water, a cup of black coffee, and ribs with sauteed onions and mashed potatoes. I'm told he used to order a full rack of ribs; half for him, half for his dog. But his dog died, so now he only orders a half-rack.  

He smiles faintly as he talks, his voice fading in and out, his eyes only meeting yours in passing. He has cloudy, yet vividly bright blue eyes. We talked about Coffee for a while this week. He said ours was "too black" (he meant too strong), said all Ruby's coffee was that way. I commented on the brand. The brand didn't matter he insisted, JFG is just fine, he's been drinking it all his life. I told him I like my coffee strong, and so my mother won't let me make it when I'm home. He told me I should listen to my mother.