FROM LOBSTER TAILS TO TALL TALES
MY SUMMER OF CIVIL RIGHTS, RACISTS AND COCA-COLA
Ah, Martin Luther King Jr. Day 2025. A day to remember a great man, reflect on his legacy, and, in my case, reminisce about a summer in 1974 that felt like a cross between a history lesson, a comedy of errors, and a Southern-fried soap opera. Strap in, folks, because this is the story of how I accidentally stumbled into the orbit of civil rights legends, a future president, and one of the most obnoxious racists this side of a bad country song—all while working at a Red Lobster in Marietta, Georgia.
Now, let me set the stage. It was late May 1974, and I had just started my new job as a manager at Red Lobster. The South was already hot enough to cook shrimp on the sidewalk, and I was working 10-to-12-hour days like someone trying to pay off a debt to the mob. I didn’t have a day off for nearly a month, and when I finally got one, I decided to explore the Civil War history of Atlanta. Because nothing screams "relaxation" like trudging through battlefields in the Georgia heat.
Enter my new lady friend—a Marietta native with an encyclopedic knowledge of local history and a fondness for dragging me around town like a reluctant contestant on a historical scavenger hunt. She took me to Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield, where I learned that "strategic high ground" is just code for "sweaty uphill hike." Then it was off to Stone Mountain to see the giant carvings of Confederate generals, which looked like Mount Rushmore’s grumpy cousins. We also visited Ebenezer Baptist Church, where Martin Luther King Jr. had preached, and wrapped up our tour at Atlanta Underground, which is basically a mall with delusions of grandeur.
Oh, and somewhere along the way, we passed the Georgia Governor’s Mansion. Who did we see waving from the lawn like he was hosting a barbecue? None other than Jimmy Carter himself—then the governor of Georgia and future peanut farmer-in-chief. He was so friendly that I half-expected him to invite us in for sweet tea and pecan pie.
But the real fireworks that summer came courtesy of two men who couldn’t have been more different if they’d been characters in a buddy cop movie: Hosea Williams and J.B. Stoner. One was a civil rights hero; the other was… well, let’s just say he probably thought "civil rights" was a typo.
First, there was Hosea Williams. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was one of Martin Luther King Jr.’s closest allies and had been with him on the day he was assassinated. My encounter with Hosea happened when I was sent from my Marietta restaurant to the Atlanta Red Lobster, which was being picketed by union organizers. As a manager, I was faced with the unenviable choice of crossing the picket line or getting fired. Let me tell you, nothing prepares you for this kind of moral dilemma—certainly not the Red Lobster employee handbook.
The man leading the protest? Hosea Williams himself. Now, imagine my surprise when this legendary activist—this lion of the civil rights movement—looked at me, laughed, and said, "Don’t worry, son. No harm will come to you if you’ve got to keep your job." Then he handed me a cold Coca-Cola like we were old friends at a backyard cookout. We stood there chatting and laughing, and for a brief moment, I forgot that I was sweating bullets in polyester slacks. It wasn’t until years later that I realized just how big a deal Hosea Williams was. At the time, I just thought he was the nicest guy I’d ever met who also happened to scare the corporate bigwigs at Red Lobster.
And then there was J.B. Stoner. If Hosea Williams was the angel on one shoulder, J.B. Stoner was the devil on the other—the kind of guy who made you want to shower after being in his presence. Stoner was a card-carrying member of the KKK and had allegedly bombed churches in Birmingham. He even ran for lieutenant governor of Georgia alongside Lester Maddox, whose idea of progressive politics probably involved segregated salt shakers.
My first encounter with J.B. Stoner happened when he came into the Marietta Red Lobster and demanded that his server—Gloria, a Black woman—be replaced with someone white. Now, I’m not saying I’m a saint or anything, but there are few things more satisfying than watching a racist storm out of your restaurant because you refused to cater to their nonsense. The next time Stoner came in, he tried the same stunt. This time, he grudgingly allowed Gloria to serve him after delivering a monologue about his hatred for Black people that would’ve made even his fellow racists say, "Dude, tone it down."
But oh, it gets better. On his third visit, we assigned another Black female server to his table just to see if he’d implode like an overcooked soufflé. He grumbled but ate his meal. By his fourth visit, we were out of Black servers on shift, so we recruited one of our Black cooks from the kitchen to wait on him. That seemed to be the final straw for ol’ J.B., who never darkened our doors again. I like to think he went home that night muttering about how even his beloved cheddar biscuits had turned against him.
So here we are in 2025, and every MLK Jr. Day, I think back to that wild summer of ’74—my six degrees of separation from Martin Luther King Jr., courtesy of Hosea Williams and J.B. Stoner. It’s funny how life works sometimes. One minute you’re sweating through your manager uniform at Red Lobster; the next minute you’re sharing a Coke with a civil rights icon or outsmarting a card-carrying bigot with nothing but good manners and a roster of amazing Black employees.
And if there’s one thing I learned from that summer—besides the fact that wearing polyester in Georgia is basically self-torture—it’s this: heroes come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they’re leading protests or preaching from pulpits. Sometimes they’re waving from governor’s mansions or serving cheddar biscuits with a smile. And sometimes they’re just regular folks trying to do the right thing in a world that doesn’t always make it easy.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time for some sweet tea and pecan pie. Jimmy Carter would approve.
