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Show RIVER spring on the starter coil broke and we were left on the river with no power. The current carried us across the river and we tied up to some trees across the levee from Plaquemine, Louisiana. It was early, not yet seven o'clock, when I walked into town. There was nobody around but cops and winos. I waited outside a hardware store till a cop came to direct traffic at the intersection. I told him my story and he called the sheriff. "Don't worry, son," he said. "The sheriff'll take you where you want to go." But I did worry. I was afraid I was about to get run-in, it was 1969 and I couldn't see why the sheriff of Iberville Parish would want to help a vagrant longhair like me. The sheriff showed up-I believe his name was Lawrence Durrell-and he was the perfect picture of a tough southern lawman; knee boots, .38, tight starched uniform, and sunglasses. Riding around with him was a kid on leave from the army named Skeet. As we drove down the highway Durrell made comments about everyone and everything we saw with the proprietary indulgence of a southern lawman inspecting his realm. We stopped at a railroad crossing to let a train pass and an old blue Ford pulled up next to us. "Thaf s Wally Jons, isn't it?" said Durrell. "Yep," said Skeet. "You know what he done, son?" Durrell said to me. "He enlisted in the army and right after basic training at Fort Bragg he deserted and come back here. The Feds came down and got him and shipped him out to California so they could send him to Vietnam. He deserted and hitchhiked back here. They came and got him, he deserted again and he's been back here for forty days. I ain't gonna bother him, I can't even blame him. Vietnam, shee-it. We don't have no business there." -101- |