here.
It was the sort of abrupt border that a decade or so later we'd get used to, diink nothing of, in our cities. Across the street
lay a vast empty lot overgrown with banana trees, Johnson grass and sunflowers. It had been used as a dump for appliances,
old tires, automobile doors and sacks of garbage. The ground was studded with broken glass. In a clearing beneath one straggly
oak sat a cable spool with vegetable crates upended around it. They'd painted a huge red swastika on the top of the spool-table.
Dozens of cigarette ends heeled into the dirt. Squashed empty cans of beer all about.
Half a block further along I came across the remains of what must have been a school or church. Time and time's footman-vandals
had had their way: it may as well have been an Anasazi ruin.
Another cross street led to the trailer park I'd half expected all along. BAYVIEW BONNE TERRE—YOUR HOME hand-lettered in dark
blue on a plywood sign. Had they intended the contraction You're}
Behind the trailer park a hundred or so houses roughly the size of the trailers, though nowhere near as well built, had been
shoehorned into four square blocks, like tamales in a can.
If the Balkans were the tinderbox of Europe (something I learned in eighth-grade history), then places like this, not a hair
different in kindfromthose I grew up in as a child back in Arkansas, though in today's idiom (we fount some words) another flavor, were the tinderboxes America had made for itself.
T HAT NIGHT BEFORE she left for work I took LaVerne out to dinner at PJ's, absolutely the best catfish and shrimp around. Sit
down and they bring whatever PJ felt like cooking today, always catfish or shrimp in some incarnation: catfish fried, catfish
stewed in court bouillon, shrimp Creole or etouffe, gumbo thick with okra, shrimp on shredded lettuce with remoulade. I never
heard anyone complain.
'This is nice, Lew. Thanks. I needed it."
I poured another glass of wine for me, something from the great state of California. Verne never drank when she was working.
She had a glass of sweetened tea. It was big enough to raise tropicalfish in.
"You have that look in your eyes, I'm not going to see much of you for a while. That what this's all about?"
I shook my head. She ran fingers lightly down the sides of her water glass.
"How long have we been together, Lewis?"
I didn't know.
"Yeah. Me either. Maybe sometime we'll sit down and figure that out." She reached across and picked up my wineglass, briefly
drank. Replaced it. "Be careful, Lew."
Of course.
"And tell me I'll have you back again when it's over."
I told her.
We finished our meal in silence. I took Verne home and spent that night, stoked with quarts of coffee and stale doughnuts
from U-Stop, haunting the empty lot and trailer park alongside Mel Gold's neighborhood, watching people come and go inconsequentially.
Eight or nine that morning I was back at U-Stop for a serial refill. Store looked to be the nerve center of the community,
like a stargate these people passed through on their way back into the world. They'd ease from the trailer park or houses
behind, pull in here for gas, coffee and chatter at the back of the store, maybe a prefab sandwich or couple of doughnuts
slimy with sugar, then reenter. Like decompression, for a diver. I did my best to blend in with the wall's beige paint and
ignore the sharp looks from those joining me, in jeans and T's, in short-sleeve white shirts with ties and polyester slacks,
all men, by the self-serve coffeepot. Should have brought a bucket and mop for disguise, then no one would be taking notice
ofmeatall.
The store had a free bulletin board on the wall by the serve-yourself coffeemaker. It held the usual business cards for car
repair, heating and cooling, home improvement, and the usual handwritten notices for apartments to let, entertainment centers,
musical instruments, pets and sound systems for sale. One hand-lettered paper
It was the sort of abrupt border that a decade or so later we'd get used to, diink nothing of, in our cities. Across the street
lay a vast empty lot overgrown with banana trees, Johnson grass and sunflowers. It had been used as a dump for appliances,
old tires, automobile doors and sacks of garbage. The ground was studded with broken glass. In a clearing beneath one straggly
oak sat a cable spool with vegetable crates upended around it. They'd painted a huge red swastika on the top of the spool-table.
Dozens of cigarette ends heeled into the dirt. Squashed empty cans of beer all about.
Half a block further along I came across the remains of what must have been a school or church. Time and time's footman-vandals
had had their way: it may as well have been an Anasazi ruin.
Another cross street led to the trailer park I'd half expected all along. BAYVIEW BONNE TERRE—YOUR HOME hand-lettered in dark
blue on a plywood sign. Had they intended the contraction You're}
Behind the trailer park a hundred or so houses roughly the size of the trailers, though nowhere near as well built, had been
shoehorned into four square blocks, like tamales in a can.
If the Balkans were the tinderbox of Europe (something I learned in eighth-grade history), then places like this, not a hair
different in kindfromthose I grew up in as a child back in Arkansas, though in today's idiom (we fount some words) another flavor, were the tinderboxes America had made for itself.
T HAT NIGHT BEFORE she left for work I took LaVerne out to dinner at PJ's, absolutely the best catfish and shrimp around. Sit
down and they bring whatever PJ felt like cooking today, always catfish or shrimp in some incarnation: catfish fried, catfish
stewed in court bouillon, shrimp Creole or etouffe, gumbo thick with okra, shrimp on shredded lettuce with remoulade. I never
heard anyone complain.
'This is nice, Lew. Thanks. I needed it."
I poured another glass of wine for me, something from the great state of California. Verne never drank when she was working.
She had a glass of sweetened tea. It was big enough to raise tropicalfish in.
"You have that look in your eyes, I'm not going to see much of you for a while. That what this's all about?"
I shook my head. She ran fingers lightly down the sides of her water glass.
"How long have we been together, Lewis?"
I didn't know.
"Yeah. Me either. Maybe sometime we'll sit down and figure that out." She reached across and picked up my wineglass, briefly
drank. Replaced it. "Be careful, Lew."
Of course.
"And tell me I'll have you back again when it's over."
I told her.
We finished our meal in silence. I took Verne home and spent that night, stoked with quarts of coffee and stale doughnuts
from U-Stop, haunting the empty lot and trailer park alongside Mel Gold's neighborhood, watching people come and go inconsequentially.
Eight or nine that morning I was back at U-Stop for a serial refill. Store looked to be the nerve center of the community,
like a stargate these people passed through on their way back into the world. They'd ease from the trailer park or houses
behind, pull in here for gas, coffee and chatter at the back of the store, maybe a prefab sandwich or couple of doughnuts
slimy with sugar, then reenter. Like decompression, for a diver. I did my best to blend in with the wall's beige paint and
ignore the sharp looks from those joining me, in jeans and T's, in short-sleeve white shirts with ties and polyester slacks,
all men, by the self-serve coffeepot. Should have brought a bucket and mop for disguise, then no one would be taking notice
ofmeatall.
The store had a free bulletin board on the wall by the serve-yourself coffeemaker. It held the usual business cards for car
repair, heating and cooling, home improvement, and the usual handwritten notices for apartments to let, entertainment centers,
musical instruments, pets and sound systems for sale. One hand-lettered paper
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