Chapter 1: Drunken Pig Head

My family runs a restaurant.

The sign out front is so sun-bleached you can barely make out the name, but everyone in Maple Heights—and even folks from out of state—can find us by the smell alone. Our signature dish is infamous: Drunken Pig Head.

My grandma used to say that when my dad was young, he was trouble on two legs. He racked up gambling debts, packed a battered duffel, and ran off to another city to hide.

I can almost picture it: the old screen door banging in the sticky Georgia heat, debt collectors stomping onto our porch, their boots leaving black scuffs on the faded boards, their shouts echoing down the street and making every nosy neighbor peek out their blinds.

They showed up every day, pounding on the door and making a spectacle.

The whole block buzzed with it—Maple Heights isn’t a place where secrets last. Folks swapped gossip over church potlucks and whispered about us at the gas station.

My grandpa was so furious he up and died, and Grandma once tried to swallow a whole bottle of sleeping pills.

That kind of heartbreak gets carved into a family’s bones. Even now, when Grandma tells the story, her voice goes soft and her hands tremble like she’s still holding that orange pill bottle.

About six months later, my dad came back, parading a drunken sow down the street.

He swaggered up the block in the gray dawn, hauling a muddy pink pig on a frayed rope. Both of them wobbled like they’d closed down the dive bar together. Neighbors stood on their porches, coffee in hand, jaws hanging open.

When the collectors heard he was back, they stormed in, beat him black and blue, and spat out a threat: if he didn’t pay back the money plus interest in a month, they’d dig up Grandpa’s grave and break Grandma’s legs.

In Maple Heights, a threat like that isn’t just talk. Grandma clutched her Bible, but even God seemed far away.

But Dad just laughed, wild-eyed, “Beat me all you want, but don’t lay a finger on my pig.”

He spat a bloody tooth into the kitchen sink, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and flashed a wild, crooked grin. Even then, he could charm the devil himself.

“Forget a month, I’ll pay you back in two weeks.”

When those men left, Grandma collapsed, wailing so raw that even the cicadas went silent. That was the first time I realized grownups could fall apart, too.

“Derek, it’s impossible. We can’t pay it. You’d better run. I’m not afraid, I’m old anyway.”

But Dad puffed up his chest. “Don’t worry, Mama. Your boy picked up some tricks. Just follow me and get ready to live good.”

He winked, cocky as ever. Grandma tried to scold him, but she was too tired to argue anymore.

Next morning, Dad slaughtered the sow and set up a giant black pot at the edge of Maple Heights.

He borrowed a propane burner from the Carters, set up by the old railroad tracks, smoke curling into the muggy air. For the first time in years, the town smelled like the county fair.

The scent of simmering pork drifted everywhere, drawing the whole neighborhood—kids, dogs, even folks from the new subdivision—by their noses.

“Derek, what are you cooking?” Mrs. Jenkins called, shuffling over in pink slippers, fanning herself with a church bulletin.

Dad threw back the lid with a flourish. A wave of rich, meaty steam, tinged with whiskey, rolled out. Mouths watered all around.

It felt like the Fourth of July—neighbors standing around in flip-flops, wallets half out, bellies growling.

A whole, glistening pig head sat in the pot, steam swirling like a magician’s trick.

Even the flies hovered at the edge, not daring to miss out.

“Drunken Pig Head!” Dad announced, voice booming like an auctioneer. “Want a taste? Cough up some cash!”

“Twenty bucks for a quarter pound. Regular cuts, regular price.”

“Twenty for a quarter pound? Derek, you robbing us blind?” someone hollered.

Old Mr. Johnson whistled, but his hand never left his wallet.

Dad stood his ground. “Eat if you want. If not, step aside.”

He crossed his arms, daring anyone to test him. The hustler’s glint was back in his eyes.

Some folks turned red-faced, but nobody left. That pig head was too tempting.

The air was thick as barbecue smoke, and bellies rumbled louder than the complaints.

Even Grandma, a lifelong vegetarian and nightly Bible reader, later admitted she was tempted to break her vows by that smell.

She confessed her cravings at church, trusting the Lord would forgive her for coveting pork.

Mr. Carter, the councilman, was first to buy. Tried to haggle, but Dad just grinned and held firm. They shook hands like they’d just closed a backroom deal.

Dave Carter, his brother from Atlanta, snapped up the whole pig head. Folks took pictures with their flip phones, sending word flying to relatives out of state.

Word spread like wildfire.

The next day, the church ladies came by with “gifts” of pie, hoping for a discount.

From then on, Dad’s luck turned. The little stall got busier every day, money pouring in.

For the first time in months, Grandma slept through the night. Even the mailman started eating lunch at our curb.

The year Dad married Mom, he opened a three-story restaurant called The Drunken Oak.

The front door got painted bright red, and the first customer got a free shot of bourbon. Folks lined up down the block—the talk of Maple Heights for months.

People said even angels would get drunk on Dad’s pig head and fall from heaven.

Some called it sacrilegious, but nobody ever turned down a second helping.

On opening day, Dad jacked up the price of Drunken Pig Head tenfold.

He put it right on the chalkboard and sat back to watch the shock ripple through the room.

Every year after, the price climbed again.

It became a running joke: the richer you were, the more you paid. The old-timers grumbled, but they kept coming back.

Dad wore his reputation like a badge. “Let ‘em talk,” he’d say, “Money don’t care about gossip.”

That was the day Maple Heights learned what desperation—and hope—smelled like.