Mississippi Delta; Small Town Meeting

Duke and I had breakfast at daybreak this morning and were traveling soon thereafter. The woods were too thick to see the sunrise, but being on the road just after dawn is special nonetheless. The day is like a puppy; it has limitless potential.

I had mapped a route through Memphis on my GPS, but turned off of it so that I could have lunch in the Mississippi delta. I read a book about farming in the delta a few years back – High Cotton: Four Seasons in the Mississippi Delta, by Gerald Helferich – and I wanted to tour the country. It was as flat as a pool table, and deep green – hearty crops rising from tilled soil, verdant trees and shrubs swelling from streambeds like bristles from a brush. I hoped to find a small café where I could eat a burger and exchange cordialities with some local folks, so I drove through several dots that my GPS had labeled as towns. I drove through Neuhardt, Brice, Midway Corner, Ninetysix Corner. But the Mississippi delta has suffered the same fate as other agrarian regions in the US; agribusinesses have replaced small farmers and the small towns that the farmers once populated have begun to die. Houses sit abandoned, silos stand in disuse, telephone poles lean across roads at precarious angles. I found no restaurant of any description, and scarcely any commercial establishments at all. I settled for lunch out of the camper, and after getting shooed off a dirt road that turned out to be private, I found an unobtrusive place to park the truck for lunch.

Lunch in the Mississippi delta.

A crossroads in the delta.  If you look closely, you can see traces of Robert Johnson's soul in the bushes.

After I finished my tortilla and beer, I headed north through Memphis toward my present locale of repose, Mark Twain National Forest, about sixty miles east of Springfield. I followed US 63, a wonderful road that took me through rural Arkansas and Missouri. In a small town along US 63 that I will not name but will call Willowbrook, I met a man who I will not name but will call Jeremy.

Dusk was gathering as I pulled off of US 63 to consult my atlas. I pulled into a municipal park next to a river, let Duke out, and spread my atlas on the hood of the truck. I had just located Mark Twain National Forest as a likely resting spot when a car pulled up and a thin white guy stepped out. He wore black shorts, black socks, glasses and no shirt. Duke trotted over to sniff him out.

“Is the dog bothering you?” I asked. “He’s friendly.”

The guy stood still and let Duke sniff him. He started to move but stopped again when Duke walked in front of him. “I think he likes the black,” he said. He had a thin voice and a trace of a lisp.

I called Duke over to me. The guy walked over to my truck. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Montana,” I told him, not wanting to explain my full book-writing aspirations. “I’m trying to figure out where to stay the night, and I’m thinking about this spot.” I pointed to the green splotch on the map that denoted National Forest. “Is that a good place, do you think?”

Jeremy leaned against my grille guard. “I don’t travel much, so I don’t know,” he said. “But my friend has an RV park. It’s just down the road and it’s only eighteen dollars. They have electric and water hookups.”

“I’ll probably just keep going,” I said. “I don’t need the hookups.” I wondered what this guy was doing. It occurred to me that maybe he was gay and was hitting on me, but I dismissed the thought. Surely he didn’t drive up and down the road looking for stopped motorists to hit on. Maybe he was just plugging his buddy’s business venture.

He looked at the river. “Did you do any good?” he asked.

“I haven’t been fishing. I just pulled over to look at the map. Folks do a lot of fishing here?”

“The fishing is pretty good. The water’s clean,” he said. He pointed to the bridge over the river. “I used to jump off that bridge when I was growing up.”

“If it was warmer and I was a few years younger, I might take a jump,” I said.

“A few years younger?” he asked. “I’m almost forty. You’re . . . about twenty-three?” He was looking at the ground when he guessed my age. He didn’t even glance at my face to make an estimate. It made me think he had already considered the question.

“Twenty-seven.” I waited, hoping he would explain why he had stopped. He didn’t, and instead started cleaning the bugs from my grille guard.

“This is a pretty place to grow up,” I said.

He snorted. “There’s no good jobs here.”

“What do you do?” I asked.

He paused uncomfortably. “Inheritance,” he said. “That’s not a good think to say, but . . .”

“As long as you’re looking for a job, sometimes that’s all you can do.” He kept cleaning my grille guard.

“Well,” I said. “I guess I’ll head up the road . . .”

“That place you’re going is far. My friend’s RV park is just down the road. I can show it to you if you want.”

“No thanks man, I’m going to get a little further up the road.” I called Duke and walked him around to the passenger’s door. Jeremy followed me.

“This is a nice camper,” he said. I’ve never seen one on a Dodge.”

“I appreciate it.” I loaded Duke into the cab and walked toward the driver’s door. “You take care.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the RV park?” he asked as I rounded the hood. “It’s right up the road. It’s a good place if you just want to fuck— sleep”.

“No thanks,” I said. “You have a good night.” I got into the truck and shut the door. As Jeremy walked back to his car, I noticed an earring in his right ear. I watched and waited for him to turn his head, and as he climbed into his car, I saw his left ear. No earring.


* * *

It does not bother me that Jeremy may have been hitting on me. He suggested an encounter in which I was not interested, and I said no. He wasn't rude, threatening, or unduly intrusive. But I will say this: it must be tough to be gay in a small town along US 63.