Tong Master

Road Dog was at the barbecue and Dwight was at the barbecue and I was at the barbecue; three men standing around a barbecue, sipping bourbon, smoking cigars, staring at sausages, rolling them backwards and forwards, never leaving them alone. We didn't know why we were at the barbecue; we were just drawn there like moths to a flame. The barbecue was a powerful gravitational force, a man-magnet. Dwight said the thin ones could use a turn, I said yeah I reckon the thin ones could use a turn, Road Dog said yeah they really need a turn it was a unanimous turning decision.

Road Dog was the Tong-Master, a true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver tongs, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little backs. A lesser tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages would've gone full circle, back to where they started. Nice, I said. The others went yeah.
Ron was passing us, he heard the siren-song- sizzle of the snags, the barbecue was calling, beckoning, Ronnnnnn ...come. He stuck his head in and said any room? We said yeah and began the barbecue shuffle; Road Dog shuffled to the left, Dwight shuffled to the left, I shuffled to the left, Ron slipped in beside me, we sipped our bourbon. Now there were four of us staring at sausages, and Road Dog gave me the nod, my cue. I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw sausages out of the plastic bag and lay them on the barbecue; not too close together, not too far apart, curl them into each other's bodies like lovers -fat ones, thin ones, herbed and continental. The jalapenos were tiny, they could easily slip down between the grill, falling into the molten hot-coal-netherworld below. Carefully, I laid them sideways ACROSS the grill, clever thinking. Road Dog snapped his tongs with approval; there was no greater barbecue honor.
Carlos came along, he said “looking good”, and the irresistible lure of the barbecue had pulled him in too. We said yeah and did the shuffle, left, left, left, left, he slipped in beside Ron, We sipped our bourbon, herfed our cigars. Five men, lots of sausages. Dwight was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed a lot of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing. Carlos was shaking his head, he said I reckon they cook better if you don't poke them.
There was a long silence, you could have heard a jalapeno drop, and this newcomer was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the Tong-master, then the Sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger -and everyone below was just a watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now -don't rock the Weber.

Dianne popped her head in; hmmm, smells good, she said. She was trying to jostle into the circle; we closed ranks, pulling our heads down and our shoulders in, mumbling yeah yeah yeah, but making no room for her. She was keen, going round to the far side of the barbecue, heading for the only available space . . . the gap in the circle where all the smoke and ashes blew. Nobody could survive the gap; Dianne was going to try. She stood there stubbornly, smoke blinding her eyes, ashes filling her nostrils, sausage fat spattering all over her arms and face. Until she couldn't take it anymore, she gave up, backed off. Ron waited till she was gone and sipped his beer. We sipped our drinks, yeah.
Road Dog set his drink down, took a hit off his cigar and set it on the table behind us and then handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he nodded. I knew what was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the abdication. The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip - was I ready for the responsibility? Yes, I was. I held them up high and they glinted in the sun. Don't forget to turn the thin ones Road Dog said as he walked away from the barbecue, disappearing toward the house. Yeah I called back, I will, I will. I snapped them twice, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of my wrist, rolling them back onto their little bellies. I was a natural, I was the TONG-MASTER.
But only until Road Dog got back from the toilet.