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Hallelujah and pass the sauce welcome to the open air Church of the Beatific Barbecue. Presiding, of course, is the man in the red plastic razorback hat Big Jim Sullivan himself, part chef, part showman, pure schmoozer; 6 foot 4 inches and 265 pounds of "ripped rawhide and steel, full of vim, vigor and vitality." A man of prodigious good cheer and prolific one liners, a man who wants you to "put some South in yo' mouth," who insists you "don't need teeth to eat this meat." A man whose peach cobbler is such a religious experience "it'll make you tell the truth." Alas, on one recent Sunday, there is no truth to be told because the cobbler has run out a day ago. Naturally, Big Jim is quick to apologize to customers who arrive at the unpaved corner of Parker Road and Longs Way where, for the past eight years he has bivouacked his "Magic Rib Wagon" food truck and the 5,000 pound smoker that looks like a small railroad car. "How big is this smoker?" he says repeating the question asked by the man who, like everyone else who enters his gravitational pull and inhales his heady cologne of smoke and drug information medline plus tramadol sauce, is about to become his best friend. "Big enough to cook your grandma if you wanna put her in with all this meat. See here?" With that, he lifts the smoker door, steps into a furious cloud of hickory smoke and, brandishing a large fork, pokes at a juicy, glistening inventory of ribs, beef, pulled pork, sausage, chicken and ham, to say nothing of a whole turkey he's smoking for a customer's special dinner. "Now, doesn't that look good," he says, not asking so much as insisting. The words have barely left his lips when Big Jim is off on another one of his merry spiels: "We have baked beans, too. Super unleaded, no gas." Nor hot air. Sure, Big Jim talks big about his drug information medline plus tramadol, but listen up, y'all dude can cook. "I've been to all the famous rib places in Kansas City," says Kit Robinson, chowing down with fervor. "They don't compare to Jim's. I bet I come here every three or four weeks," he adds. "Why? Well, the sauce, the flavor of the meat and, of course, because of Jim. He's a lot of fun." Naturally, Big Jim is quick to deflect the compliment back towards his fare. He thanks Robinson profusely, then makes a swift segue to, "This isn't heaven, but once you eat my food you can see the pearly gates start to open." What he doesn't say is the gates he saw as a kid weren't quite so pearly. Or open. Not when you grow up with six siblings in Hope, Ark., the same place that produced a guy named Bill Clinton. Same hometown. Way different lives. Hope was segregated. Two separate high schools, two separate paths for blacks and whites. "We were so poor, they took one of those o's out and we became po', y'see?" says Big Jim. He remembers working in the cotton fields to help Oletha Sullivan support the family when his father died. He remembers the summers as a migrant laborer, picking tomatoes in Ohio, potatoes in Michigan, peaches in Colorado. Ticket to a new life Football was Big Jim's way out. He attended Lincoln University in Missouri and was pretty good. Good enough to make it to the training camps of the Baltimore Colts and the Green Bay Packers as a defensive lineman. Not good enough to stick there, but thank goodness for the Atlanta Falcons. "Uh, that team was a lot less than mediocre," he informs you. Of course, ask how he'd rate himself as a player and you'll also get, "A little less than mediocre." After a few years of pro football he took the master's degree he had earned and became assistant principal at Hope High School the school he couldn't attend because of his color. In 1979, his first wife got accepted into law school in Colorado and the Sullivans headed, well, no'th. Around "19 and 80," at about the same time he began his 30 year career as a public school teacher, Big Jim began peddling his drug information medline plus tramadol. Life moved on. A divorce. A second marriage. Two kids to go with the one from his first marriage. Teaching jobs. Changes. The constants were cooking and humor. If anybody asked about his recipe he'd say, "Secret family recipe. Buried in the ground for 20 years. Tender loving care is a key ingredient." If anybody pressed further, he'd tell them "It's the smoke. I only use hickory wood that comes from Arkansas. That's where you find the best hickory." Many miles on the rib wagon It's a lazy Sunday in late November. Big Jim eyes his Magic Rib Wagon, all faded white and blue paint, pigs dancing along its side. The Wagon may have "more miles than a doctor has pills," but it's done all right by Big Jim, serving as his headquarters for all those endless Saturdays and Sundays on Parker Road, for all those catering trips from Arkansas to North Dakota, for all those times at Cheyenne Frontier Days or provided food for some big honkin' event or modest party. "None too big, none too small, we cater for all," he says, effortlessly tossing off another Big Jimism. As you can imagine, he's pretty busy. Busy enough that he figures he rates a vacation. Might even take one this weekend. Not a bad idea for a 63 year old guy who suffered a stroke in April 2006. The stroke slowed him down some, but apparently not too much. Even before the large SUV has braked, Big Jim bounds out of the Magic Rib Wagon moving like he's trying to sack a quarterback. "How are ya today?" he says to the couple inside. "Hungry?" Fork in hand, he escorts them to the smoker and opens the door. The hickory cloud swirls out, a rush of meaty incense inciting another Pavlovian response. Out of the vapors come hosannas to the cornucopia of victuals. Out of the vapors comes a compelling baritone voice commencing a sermon for carnivores one and all. "C'mon, now," the voice says. "Put some South in yo'mouth." Amen, Big Jim. Amen. ... drug information medline plus tramadol