Cookin’ with Mister Señor Love Daddy

11 Jan

I stayed with him in Slidell, Louisiana in his small trailer on 5th Street by Possum Hollow Park. He was making gumbo and nearly yelling out his frustration with the politics of fishing.
“It ain’t been easy bein’ in the strimp bidness. Last fishin’ season’s just fouree days long, which’s two days better’n the las’ season and foureen days better’n niney-two. On the bright side, em days seem to be increasin’.”
And he stirred the giant pot. While I decimated his collection of Old Grandad. Later, we walked to Greenwood Cemetery and he showed me where his mama was buried. Her headstone said: “Don’t Try.”
That’s it.
We took muffulletas wrapped in newspaper and ate by her grave and washed it down with cheap, red wine from a two-liter jug.
“Is all this teevee ‘n radio ads talkin’ bout alls-you-can-eat strimp, is what it is. Is killin’ us. Goddainm.”
He breaded up and fried some speckled trout and redfish and we went hard at the Maker’s Mark, which he had saved for my last night there. He talked about a little fifteen-footer that was for sale at the Lafitte C-Way Marina and how it’d have to be cleaned up and restored. If he’d had the money.
“Uhr-body got they dreams…”
Mine was just as unattainable as his. And we both hung to possibilities which seemed to run away faster with each glass of bourbon.
In the morning I started the car and took the 12 to the 55, which spilled me onto 40 west.
“Stay ‘way from Opelousas,” he said. “They’s a sherrif there who a sonofabitch to people a color like you’n me. A sonofabitch an’ a half.”
Tinseltown was next.

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One Response to “Cookin’ with Mister Señor Love Daddy”

  1. Edgar 12/01/2008 at 4:59 PM #

    One of the best epitaphs ever.

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