Mo & Curio & Old Man Rivers Gimp

Freebird!

Eddie Nesbit could not carry a tune under the best of circumstances but with only the uncaring wind to hear him bellow, emulating Ronnie Van Zant was not the hardest task. Above the hearty drone of the 351 Ford motor pushing him up the mighty Mississippi in an old Ski Nautique, Eddie and the late Van Zant sang their hearts out in praise of the also deceased Duane Allman. His hands tapped the steering wheel in increasing ferocity, lamenting the world they could not chai-e-ain-e-ain-e-ainge.

"Won't you flyyyy hiiiiigh...Freeeeeebird, yeah!" The impossible flurry of the triple-lead guitars took over for an eternity. Nesbit rocked his head, taking in the notes as if he was hearing the old tune for the first time all over again.

Kentucky bluegrass weed had a firm grip on his mind. Its haze filtered the sunny world around him; his senses alight in the incessant sun. With the roar of the powerful ski boat chained to the whimsy of his hands' orders, very little boat traffic around, most of his trip behind him and the tunes cranked wide open, life was extremely good for Eddie. His travel had gone without the slightest hiccup. The boat was a dream to pilot. He had money, weed and a sixer in the cooler. The width of the river gave him great latitude in avoiding traffic. Even when barge traffic made its way near him, the tiny boat weaved around such vessels with ease. Though a mere speck in the water of America's mightiest waterway, Eddie Nesbit felt omnipotent on the sunny day.

He waved casually at the occasional SeaDoo or Bombardier jumping wakes behind him every so often. He nodded and held up a flippant hand to old men in john boats chasing flatheads and gave giddy thumbs-up to sun-roofed pontoons laden with shirtless old men and their wives and daughters taking time to get some tan lines to take home after a day in the sun. The occasional cabin cruisers would pass him as would pricey bass boats, usually helmed by a pair of serious looking anglers wearing khaki fishing vests festooned with endorsed patches and permanent albino patches around their eyes and temples from fighting the glare from the water's surface with only the finest Ray-Bans. Acknowledging other nautical souls was a mere courtesy. Though enjoying himself immensely, Eddie Nesbit was not on a social call.

He was many miles below Robinsonville, Mississippi and far above Helena, Arkansas, ecstatic to be far from Baton Rouge and Natchez, where the traffic was heavy and the Coast Guard was on the prowl. He hated stopping in Helena for gas with Robinsonville not that much further, but the Nautique was a thirsty bastard. There were still game wardens and the Coast Guard around, but he dismissed the threat. It was the sheriffs of parishes and counties adjacent to him that posed the main problem. If someone had tipped someone off about a certain Nautique running dope up the mighty Mississippi, ostensibly to avoid a random traffic stop, local lawdogs had only to keep a boat hanging out in the channel awaiting him. One certainty about the river run, the only directions were was only upriver and downriver.

Eddie was no fool. Foolhardy in some small indiscretions- namely having a dugout that started in Baton Rouge fully packed with sensemilla and was now nearly empty. There was a snub-nosed five-shot .38 stashed under the dashboard next to the dugout. Both could be flipped overboard discretely and both would sink if he caught some Johnny Law in a skiff eyeballing him. The sixer was two short and surrounding by a great many cans of normal soft drinks, bottled waters and sandwich makings.

For three days and nights, Eddie had lived on two packs of lunchmeat, a huge bag of trail mix, a loaf of bread, and a Lay's Chips variety pack and the drinks. He camped on the numerous sand bars when his eyes grew heavy in the waning sun, sleeping on a mat on the soft sand. In the throes of a mid-August drought throughout the South, he left the tent and other camping gear he normally took with him on the upriver run behind. Rain was a forgotten notion.

It was clear sailing. Taking in the sun, waving at the baby dolls in string bikinis riding by toasting him with beer cans. Seeing the odd flash of a whitetail's ass as it rushed into the tree line, maybe a gator lying with its snaggle-tooth smile on a sandbar. Ducks aplenty, fish jumping, maybe a beaver slapping the water before diving deep. Towboats with an impossible number of barges tied to them meandered with loads of coal and grain heaped high upon them with deck hands clad in orange work vests wandering the decks and giving him a nod.

Here and there, the river would pile up a fresh sandbar teeming with skipjacks boiling in panic as a school of predators approached them, the eons-old cycle of kill and be killed, eat and be eaten...at least until one died and was eaten anyway...played out in endless sandbar microcosms all around him. Especially in the morning as the rising sun glared from the shiny scales as the little fish went about their day.

The occasional giant carp would slap at water as they eased along their day. There had been a tremendous gar hovering near a finger-slough near Vicksburg when he awoke that morning, easily a six-footer and maybe closer to seven. A first glance he mistook it for a gator as it meandered down the length of a sandbar.

Seeing the big gar reminded him of some of the folks he worked for as a younger man. Fresh from Ohatchee, Alabama then, making his way in New Orleans as a roofer, he worked alongside many Creoles, black folks, roughnecks, Latinos, and country boys. Those folks would catch a big gar such as the one he saw, or even a goo or buffalo, skin it and drop it in a pot of crab boil. When the meat had cooked away from the bone, they would pick the spicy flesh from the bottom of the pot, roll it into their hushpuppy batter and fry up lil walnut-sized fritters. Dip them in remoulade sauce, and man, they were some fine eating. And all from a big trash fish that folks in other parts of the country would toss on the bank in disgust.

They coulda fed Pete Fontenot at least half of his usual breakfast on that six-footer. Eddie smirked. One of his superiors was a big boy, easily tipping over three-twenty. And that was not because he was a defensive tackle.

Or maybe a family of ten. The fat bastard...

He was making great time. Looking at his watch, Eddie looked at the map he had folded to where his position was noted and pinned to the windshield.

Almost noon! Hot damn!

Having made the run numerous times, certain landmarks and river markers told him where he was, but the river was forever changing its banks. With the mile markers and other signs, he had a good idea of his location and how much further to go. Assuming his rendezvous went as scheduled, he would be back in New Orleans by eight that night.

Just in time to catch Bonnie Raitt with Laura over at Tipitina's tonight! Eddie hunkered over a Bic's flame and caught up the tip of a Marlboro Light aflame. He was smitten with a doe-eyed Colorado transplant named Laura Arresco. Sweet girl, kind of an earth mother type, but forgiving of his more redneck attitude toward the beast in the field and the bird in the air and the tree on the ground. She was tall, laid back and prone to say, "right on," to anything she agreed with in spirit. She accepted his travels and did not push his buttons about what he did. Of course, had she, Eddie was more than qualified at lying.

Before he made the acquaintance of one Bertrand "Grizzly" Fontenot back in '85 when there was still a decent Van Halen lineup and Judas Priest was officially still slaying poon, Eddie Nesbit was no more than a string bean twenty-two year old pounding nails in starter homes out in Slidell and Mandeville. By day, at least. By night, he soon demonstrated a willingness to do whatever was required to make a grand at night...as long as his sex remained hetero and his hands remained blood-free, that was.

Without much education beyond taking the occasional head slap from upperclassmen at Ohatchee High and skating through the curriculum in the classroom, he nevertheless did pretty well for himself under Grizzly's umbrella. What he lacked in book learnin', he more than made up for by sliding into whatever persona a situation warranted. Seamlessly, he was about to weave in false histories, current facts, fake drawls, and clothing into whichever public persona the day required.

Eddie was a chameleon, his wit as fast as the lizard's tongue.

For a sports fan, he would quote chapter and verse about the Bear, vociferous about how Stallings was probably the last of the Bear's direct progeny to take the Tide to the Promised Land. The duffle bag he left was full of growth aids helping to ensure JV student athletes had ample assets to show college scouts as the mad scramble for furthering their education at the cost of blood left on some faraway hundred yards of turf began in earnest.

For a movie buff, he could ramble off quotes from any number of scenes and could muse that the only reason that Alabama retard beat out Travolta for an Oscar was that Forrest played for the Bear and even ten years after he died, Paul Bryant was still God. His paper bag he brought with him was full of products meant to ensure the movie experience would be a much-enhanced, if not hazy, one.

With a Brooks Brother suit, he would carry a briefcase full of problem solvers to a harried civil servant in some Jackson or Baton Rouge government building, giving the 'two-pistol' fingers at some receptionist as he strolled through the double doors.

With some Carhart overalls and a ubiquitously dirty ROLL TIDE cap, he could sit on some redneck's couch, pound some Busch while debating climber stands versus a good ole shooting house with a recliner in it. Tell any good ole boy he left a package with about how sweet it was for a SEC team like Alabama to shut them Miami sons of bitches' mouths up. Beat 'em like they stole something, by God! He would smirk, nod, and clink his cold one with his confederates before bending over a sample line of crank.

He could discuss Chomsky or Amis with burgeoning leftists at the Naked Bean down in Belhaven. Affecting a goatee and John Lennon-glasses, Eddie would hand over a Crown bag laden with tiny bits of paper designed to make one's mind that much more open to the greater universe beyond that cookie-cutter bourgeois Ozzie and Harriet falsity the Establishment tried to cram into their vaccinations at birth, man.

The word of God came to him if need be, nice preacher's coif atop his head for effect. He was careful to be a Catholic in a Baptist's company and vice versa. Most religious debates ended when it was found he was the other denomination. There was no point in debating one's piety when the denomination of the other was a flawed path leading to hell and politeness steered that fact away to the lewd business at hand. Besides, there were riches to be had on earth, passed from one sinner to another in an envelope of greenback reverence.

A rap CD was never too far from the changer if a soul brother's paranoia about whom exactly that cracker was with the dope needed assuaging, Tommy Gear sweats and even a necklace sporting a giant X if necessary. He was a NWA fan, straight up, yo. And could quote them lyrically. An older man or woman got a dose of Marvin Gaye or the Delphonics.

Eddie could rave in a warehouse full of strobes; he could fish under a ball cap in the sun. He could lie, cheat and steal and tolerated those who did so. Using the term, "Big Daddy" casually as he chatted amicably with average Joe's as he rocked jovially in his loafers, he rarely seem ill at ease in mixed company. A woman was always Ma'am.

If pulled aside and boarded today, he was an all-American recreational boater out for a ride on the mighty Mississippi, just taking the old boat out to blow the dust off of the pistons.

Truth be told, officer, it was a rare treat indeed to be able to get away from the kids and the old lady and get the boat out of the dry dock he paid an arm and a leg for. Hell, he thought he oughta move into it and set up his home there, for the price he paid to store the darned thing. Things kept going heck in a hand basket, he may have to sell it.

He wore an old pair of black cut-off sweat pants with the emblem for the 24th Infantry Division (Mechanized, he made sure to tell anyone who asked how much riding in a Bradley sucked) stenciled on one leg and a holey olive drab t-shirt. Oakley shades covered his eyes beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat with the front lip fitted with a transparent, green-tinted visor section. His feet bore tan lines that were nearly permanent after a summer making the river runs twice a month.

A good boat needed running, of course. Right, officer? Straight, mundane hours of circulating gas and fluid through it made a motor happy. Maybe he would wind it up a little to get some wind in his teeth and the feel of the water breaking away from the hull under his feet. Darned lucky to get away from the family, too. Means I can run a while without stopping to let Mama and my lil girl jump out and pee every twenty minutes and having to slather sunblock on everybody fifteen times an hour. Here, look at these pictures. Ain't them the cutest kids?

Of course! You can search the boat and the ice chest. Got a few Mountain Dews and few cold ones for a friend in need of a good cold one on a hot day like this. To be sociable, you see?

Yeah, that Bryan's make some great ham, don't they? For me though, you just can't beat that ham my grandpa used to get when he slaughtered his own hogs for the smokehouse. Get a ham fresh from the noose if you know what I mean. Kinda sad, if you ask me. A lost art, really.

Here's my license and insurance and all and my fishing license to go with those three spinning rods and that tackle box back there. I thought about dropping back into some of these little oxbows and pickin' off some specks if I can find some wantin' a jig for their supper.

Oh yeah, that's my old rules of war card they used to make us carry. Yeah, I had been out since a few years back. Got called back up when we had to go kick Saddam's ass up around his ears. Me? Naw, I didn't make it over to the sandbox. I watched the war on TV with some popcorn up at Fort Campbell. Who wanted to be over there with an asscrack full of sand around all them camel jockeys. I mean, someone has to man the phones back home, right?

The boat? Got real lucky on the price. I bought it a few years ago off an old boy over in Canton who just got laid off. He had just put a new motor, a new impeller and refinished the interior and then the folks he worked for went belly up. Hell, it ain't but an '84 and only had six hundred hours on the hull before he got the new stuff put in. Truth be told, I don't think he knew much about boats. Some folks got more money than sense. I expect you officers seen a lotta them kind out here like that, eh, big daddy?

Yes sir, it's a great day to be alive and on the river. You guys seen much barge traffic up from here? I try to stay away from them big boys. They got enough to worry about without having to watch out for us fast-movers. And I hate that wake they throw. Shakes my teeth. Hell I bit my tongue one time when I hit harder than I thought I would. I see a lot of kids jumping those big wakes on those SeaDoo's. Man, they catch some air on them.

Yes sir, y'all have a good day, too. Don't see how ya' can't have a good day on a day like this! God willing, we'll see a lot more of them. Y'all be careful out there and watch your six!

You fucking saps...piggy cocksuckers! Have a nice day!

Eddie Nesbit chuckled to himself as he slouched in the seat and gazed at the blue sky. Freebird ended and Life in the Fast Lane started on the mix tape.

"Hell yeah!" He cleared the area for threats and pulled out the dugout. Clearing the final two batties-worth of the weed- turned to mere dust as the grinding of the metal pipe emptied the amount after a few days on the river without resupply- he flipped the dugout into the river as a precaution. No sense having paraphernalia aboard if the herb was gone. The Eagles' torrid song about strung-out lovers blared from the speakers and he gave the Nautique a lil more gas.

The four kilograms of coca paste his ass rested upon in the driver's seat and the other kilo sewn into the throwable life was nearly home. Several miles ahead in Robinsonville, there was a man waiting with car for him and a truck and trailer for the boat. Fresh cigarettes at a boat-slip convenience store that also had a lady who made some of the best fried chicken.

And then a ride down Hwy 61 to Baton Rouge, pick up I-12, head to the house. Meet Laura later, get lit, party a touch, and make a night of her.

A channel marker flew past. He plotted his location on the map again.

"Ten miles!" He spoke aloud for the first time in hours, running through a checklist of gauges and mental notes in the lilt of an ancient mariner.

"Gas a-plenty! Herb is firmly aboard ye, Captain. Sunny skies for miles..." His eyes fixed on an oncoming small boat far ahead of him, heading downriver. Something was odd about it. He grabbed a pair of binoculars from their nook on the dash. "And land Ho, Captain! Lookouts be seein' naked trim at two points to port. And closing!"

A deep-hulled Bayliner, grungy white with faded red lines along its beam hurtled toward him, riding bow-high despite a woman spread eagle on her back draping her legs over the bow. Eddie could see she was topless immediately. Her breasts tipped with dark nipples that jiggled as the boat wiggled in the water.

"Ahoy there, titties." Eddie smiled. Riding the river frequently yielded a courtesy flash now and again, but to see a nude sunbather riding the bow of a powerboat for all the world to see was slightly odd. Definitely not in a bad way.

Eddie nudged to wheel to starboard. It was a courtesy gesture. The river was easily a mile wide and only a suicidal boater could hit another small craft.

He stood up from the seat, tossing his hat to the floor lest the slipstream take it away. Squinting, he could make the pilot to be a man wearing a floppy hat similar to his but the woman covered the cockpit mostly. Even a half-mile away, he could see immediately, she was one of America's finest.

"Niiiice!" Getting flashed happened often. Abundant sun and beers, miles between boats, and the brashly all-natural attitude of an exhibitionist set many a mammary swinging side to side from beneath a bikini top that was struggling to keep them hidden anyway. Getting a split-second nipple shot and maybe a festive "cup 'em and shake 'em" from some screaming tart on a jet ski was one thing, but this girl was just lying on her back giving the world an amphitheater-sized display...

"Of all her money-makers! Holy shit!" Eddie's eyes feasted as the boats closed on one another. Apparently, the strings hold an electric lemon-yellow bikini bottom had not held it in place. The tiny triangle of the crotch flapped behind her like a naughty ensign, held in place by her dainty hand. An added bonus, she then brought her legs up and planted her feet on the bow, opening and closing her tan legs casually for his gaze. "I hear ya, baby!"

She was a tight package. Short, he could tell by her coverage of a beach towel she laid on and the basic knowledge of the front of a Bayliner. Young, he figured her twenty maybe. Pouting lips and a button nose with a pair of sunglasses hiding her eyes. Brunette, short hair. Took care of herself.

"Great tits with noooo tan lines!" He admired her physique as the boats closed rapidly. Eddie immediately wondered if she might be foreign. French, Spanish, maybe a Greek. Most Americans did not lie so explicitly in the sun in public but the Europeans had nude beaches. It was not modesty that kept American women clothed. It was the law.