The Feet of God
93 - AN UNEXPECTED TREAT
As we drove for hours an’
hours into a gray creamy light, clouds broke and begun to sprinkle a light rain. We continued down the twisted road.
I looked out the remaining windows.
“Where are we?”
Charlie tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, “Well, there’s a sign.”
We passed by a peeling, hand-painted sign:
Crawdad ‘n Gator - 3 miles
“Guessin’ we’re three miles from Crawdad, ‘bout near where Gator is.”
I just kept looking out the window, now watch’n the rain start to fall in
sheets as everything darkened. Soon we
passed by another wooden sign: Jambalaya 2 ½ miles
Neither of us spoke much, but we both took note of the sign.
The next sign said: Don’t miss Okra 2 miles
And then: Eat 1 ½ miles
Then: Hungry for Hush Puppies? 1 mile
“I’m thinkin’ I could use somethin’ to eat,” I rubbed my empty belly.
“Me, too.” Charlie turned to me. “You got any money?”
I shot him a cross look. Here he was,
one of my former captors who’d forced me into manual labor for their own
purposes, and now he was rudely ask’n me for money? Seeing as he was unarmed under present
circumstances, I held tight on that Louisville Slugger.
Things was quiet as we traveled for a while on an old dirt road headed
downward, and down is always where the water is. Around a couple turns we come up on a shack
covered in hand-painted signs announcing the same Gator-Crawfish-Okra as back
on the road. The shack sat at the edge
of a pool of still water, a dock stretched out from the back into dark waters. A small raft was moored at the end of the dock.
We stopped and got out. I carried my
baseball bat with me for good measure.
Before we reached the porch an African-American dude with broad
shoulders and standing maybe 6’3” or 6’4” come out to greet us. He was way taller than me or Charlie, and built
in a powerful way. He wore some bib
overalls, and his rolled-up sleeves exposed big arms like shiny black pythons.
Charlie spoke first. “Hi, we was hoping
you’d be open and maybe we could get some home-style cooking like the road
signs say?”
“Gumbo.”
“Sorry,” Charlie cupped an ear.
The big guy responded, “All I got’s gumbo.”
“That’ll be fine,” Charlie put one foot on the steps to the porch. “I’m so hungry, I could eat an elephant’s
asshole.”
The big guy moved slowly and deliberately.
“Jus got gumbo.” He turned and
opened the screen door and went inside.
We followed fast behind.
The inside of the shack was basic, real basic.
In the middle of the room there was a chipped-up red Formica table with
four chairs. There was a woodstove that
warmed the place up real nice while the smell of something cookin’ filled the
air. A big couch sat up against the wall
with blankets thrown at the end, and I figured this is where our new friend
slept. The walls was bare. Not just bare of pictures or mirrors and whatnot,
but bare down to the wood. I was
surprised the studs wasn’t showin’.
Pretty basic, as I said.
The man ordered us to sit. And, we
did. He took a couple’a plates off from
a shelf and picked up a big ladle near the side of the stove, and he buried the
ladle deep into the steaming pot. He
pulled up a thick mixture and poured it onto one plate, then dipped again and
poured onto the other plate. He brought
both plates over to us and set ‘em down before us. Charlie and I looked at each other and inhaled
the aroma while the cook turned and picked up a jar with silverware in it and
put that on the table between us.
“Gumbo.” He nodded at the plates.
“Sure smells good,” Charlie smiled and reached for a spoon out of the jar.
“It does smell good,” I approved.
We dug in. The gumbo was thick and brown
and full of all kinds of unknown treats a hungry guy might like, like sausages
and vegetables and some really good pieces of fish.
“What’s this?” Charlie pulled a piece of meat from his mouth.
“Gator.” The cook smiled and pointed at
Charlie’s dish. “Catfish.” He pointed again, grinning as proud as he
could be. “Mudbug.”
I hesitated for a moment, but I figured, it sure beat the hell outta eating
an elephant’s ass.