| Guest post by Jubal Blue |
First off, thanks for letting me borrow the page for a bit. Writing something like this was one of those “someday” things—right up there with patching the shed roof or unsticking the screen door. But I was bored, so I figured, why not? Turns out I’ve got a few stories worth telling. Here’s one of them.
A Weekend in Baton Rouge
I don’t make it out of the parish much, but I’d spent the weekend at my sister’s new place in Baton Rouge, where she moved for work. Real nice place, but the walls are so thin you could hear a neighbor sneeze and bless himself. (And I did.)
I was there to help her settle in—hauling furniture, hanging light fixtures, and faking my way through “matte black” and “charcoal brushed nickel.” To me, they looked like “dark” and “also dark,” but I nodded and acted like I knew what I was doing.
Saturday night, she decided I’d earned a little culture, so she took me to a Lebanese joint to “expand my horizons.” My horizons are usually hayfields and tail lights, but I figured she hadn’t steered me wrong yet. She ordered us both something called chicken shawarma, which sounded like a spell you’d cast to ward off the shingles.
Now, if you haven’t never seen how they cook this stuff before, let me tell you. They’ve got the meat pounded flat and stacked up tall on this spinning vertical pole, kinda like a yardbird tornado glued together. Around it were these three glowing heat panels—tall and red—that look like something you’d dry paint with. The spit turns real slow, roasting the meat a layer at a time. If a rotisserie chicken had a cousin who joined the circus, this would be it.
They shave the meat off in thin strips as it spins. It was tangy and kinda garlicky. It was real good. Real different. A long way from Vienna sausage and crackers, but I cleaned my plate and figured I’d just taken one bold step into the world of global cuisine.
But sometime around two in the morning, I woke up sweaty and confused from a dream about being chased across a cow pasture by a flaming chicken swinging a crescent wrench.
The Road Home Goes Sideways
Come Sunday morning, sore and still carrying a faint whiff of whatever that flaming chicken dream was trying to tell me, I loaded up my old ’73 International 1100 and pointed it toward Chalkyville—that’s what I call home. I inherited the pickup from my Grampaw, who ran his cows with it, so it’s got its share of dents and scrapes, and it’s held together by baling wire and clean living. It was probably the only pickup in the parish that ever came with chrome trim, but there ain’t much left of that now—just a few busted mounting bolts and a lifetime of cow stubbornness. Grampaw once had this old banana-horned cow… but I reckon that story’s for another time. At any rate, I figured if I took it slow and didn’t spook it, we could limp the whole way back without incident.
Well, about twenty minutes past Alexandria, the temperature gauge jumped like a frog on a skillet. I pulled over just as steam started rolling out from under the hood. I popped it open and dodged a face full of hot mist and that sharp hiss that says, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, hoss.”
When the steam cleared, I saw that the top radiator hose had let go like a can of biscuits in a hot car. I hadn’t had a spare since I’d used it to patch this one already. Boy, wasn’t that a nice reminder right about now? What I did have was a roll of duct tape, a pocketknife, and a half-empty bottled water that’d been rolling under the seat since Easter. So I went to work and wrapped that hose like a mummified garden snake, poured in the water, and said a short prayer. Grampaw would’ve been proud. Maybe.
It held. For about five miles.
A Stranger Named Clarence
When the needle jumped back into the red, I hit the shoulder again—this time beside a ditch that smelled like old crawfish and rain rot. I was weighing my options (which mostly involved walking and regretting every life decision that led to this moment) when a rust-colored El Camino rolled by, hit the brakes, and backed up slow, like the driver was thinking it over.
Guy leaned out the window and gave me a look—squinty, half-curious, half “you look like trouble but maybe not the bad kind.” His windshield was cracked in two places, and he had a bumper sticker that said, “Vote for the Crook: It’s Important.” Said his name was Clarence.
As I climbed in, Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried” was playing low through the 8-track, warbling like it was tired but still hanging on. Clarence looked somewhere between “early retirement” and “still driving himself to the Legion.” His shirt pocket sagged with a pack of Reds, and he had the kind of quiet where you knew he’d seen things but didn’t need to talk about them unless you earned it.
The back of his cowboy Cadillac was a whole nother story. There was a dented water cooler, a coil of electric fence wire, a pair of muddy rubber boots, and a salt block still in the plastic. Man either kept a small herd or was on friendly terms with someone who did.
Clarence allowed that he wasn’t much on engines, but he had time and a working radiator. That was good enough for me. He drove us up to a little store, filled his old water cooler from a dry-rotted hose, and we headed back.
With enough water and luck, I limped to a NAPA and swapped in a new hose. Clarence just nodded, said, “You got it from here,” and rolled off with a wave. Never did get his last name.
The Moral, If There Is One
That trip didn’t go like I planned. The truck broke down, I bit off more than my stomach could handle, and I learned some things about taking life slow. But it reminded me that some of the best parts of living don’t happen when everything’s working right. They show up when someone like Clarence shows up too.
Thanks again for the invite. I might just do this again. I’ve got plenty more where that came from.
Veni. Vidi. Scripsi. 