Across the Tracks

Cypress trees. Big, fat trunked Cypress trees along the Mississippi. They drape their leaves over thick swamps. Swing with the wind.

This is the Bayou. Where mangled mosquito swarms buzz their own tunes. Where folk whistle songs from large, cheap whiskey jugs. And crack beer bottles over another's head if they talk too much. Drink too much. Sing the blues.

The dividing line is the train track behind the old Murphy warehouse. It separates the big houses from the shacks. The high ground from the low. The church mice from the rats.

The dark wood splintered town hall still stands. Barely. The door is always open with a stagger of window light. Flies and gnats gather the door. There is a jukebox in the center that used to be a dance hall. Rusted silver. No one dances here anymore. Only Mae and Bill Thompson, an eighty-seven year old pair. They lean in on each shoulder. Arms embrace. Then move an inch to the right. An inch to the left. They slow dance to Elvis Presley music when someone puts in a coin.

There is a bothersome battered biscuit smell that comes from Terence's house next door. He sits on the shack porch in his pale pasley shirt. His mango yellow mutt curled beneath. He swats a fly circling the heavy heat. Everything is slow and tired until Terence spots his enemy. The man walks down the dust path. Roy Fritz. He is a combination of strong cherry pipe tobacco and stifling smoke of cigarette. Terence gets the wiff before seeing the total body emerge from the hill.

Terence spits tobacco when he sees Roy. Deliberate fighting words for a feud fueled by a long time disagreement. Terence reaches down below his chair and grabs his weapon on sight. His old hands shake, but he is ready with his trigger. He spits on his forefinger and slides it along the long black shining neck of the instrument.

Roy carries his weapon beneath his left arm. Always. It never leaves him. This is his companion friend. He cocks his weapon at Terence as he comes closer. His instrument is long silver slender. Depth of brown wood. Roy moves closer. The sagging porch cracks a sigh.

Their eyes engage in a deep long stare. Terence bites his lip. Roy leans in. He wants to swing. Hatred steams. Seems to steep deep. The town folk gather. The people here call them, "White Lightning, the Classic Clash." After the best home brew made in the mayor's basement. It is wicked when it all goes down.

It is just about noon. Then the first outburst. Terence screams. He hoots, an inquisition. His feeble fingers start pickin'. Strings resonate. Chords collide. He hesitates. Hammer on. It is the blues. An irrationality of persecution. The world as disorder and emptiness. He sings a verse. Then the chorus.

Roy's instrument, the banjo, busts a chord of pickin'. The voice is louder and higher pitched like tin. He feuds furiously with Terence. Bangs his banjo against his red and white cotton shirt. Cries a yelp. But Terence strikes Roy a right with the E-string. Roy bounces back. A set of triplets. The small crowd claps the rhythm of melody. Double time. Then triple time. They sway and fan themselves. Sweet sweat in the summer sun.

But a foghorn sounds suddenly. The sun slows down. Noon entertainment stops. Folk get back to work. Pick corn. Tend horses. Run the stores. Rock in rocking chairs on porches.

And someone puts a coin in the old jukebox again. Old Mae and Bill slow dance in the old town hall. Next to the jukebox that plays Elvis Presley music in a space where time finds a place to hide and the sweaty sun stands still.

Donna Clovis is a photojournalist, producer, and writer. She is currently a doctoral student at Columbia University in New York. She has completed masters study at the Graduate School of Journalism at Columbia University as part of the Fellowship program. Clovis teaches photojournalism and writing at Princeton University's Institute for the Gifted. Her photographic works have been exhibited at the Queens Museun of Art of New York and the New York Historical Society. Additional Fellowships include McCloy and Harvard University Fellowship where documentary work on Holocaust in Germany was completed. Clovis has written for ABC Television, The Times Newspaper and Scholastic Magazines in New York. I have won first place in feature writing from the NABJ and a nomination for the Pulitzer Prize in Feature Writing. Most recent is a Visiting Scholar/Artist Award to the American Academy of Rome in Italy 2007 and a Fulbright to the Netherlands 2008.

Email: Donna Clovis

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