Possum, a Beer Run, and the Ditch

There is really only one important picture in this bunch and this is it.

Everyone should have a location that when passed gives them a little smile.

This is mine.

It is the 15 mile per hour curve on the north side of Parks, La.

There is a ditch on its convex side.

It has been visited on many an occasion by many a driver.

And, no, not by me, except this once.

The story is below.

 My wife and I were best friends with this nurse.

She was caring for this girl who had been injured in a car accident.

The girl's boyfriend was Possum.

Possum belonged to a self proclaimed local chapter of the Bandidos Motor Cycle Club of Houston, TX.

I say "self proclaimed" because they really were not "ordained" and later that situation caused them pain as 

the real Bandidos have a "copyright", so to say, on that handle.

Nevertheless, on this fine Fall Sunday afternoon they were having a party at this house back up

behind the cane fields on Bayou Teche. In attendance were some Galloping Gooses out of New Orleans.

They were bad to the bone. I knew of their reputation having come into contact with them at my cousin's

pop festival on the shores of the Atchafalaya north of Melville.  He had hired them as security agents,

much like the Hell's Angels had been hired as "security" at the famous Rolling Stones concert 

at Altamont.  Most of the above knowledge was unknown to me prior to Cindy, the nurse friend,

asking my wife and I to accompany her to this party since she had to help her crippled patient and 

was uneasy being around "strangers". How much more saccharin could she have made it?

We arrived.

The whole thing seemed pretty low key. 

I guess it was early or there were serious negotiations going on and no one was firing weapons, 

yet.

We were introduced to these older vest wearing bikers adorned in all the correct one percenter garb.

They seemed laid back enough or they were stoned.

I couldn't pull a social rabbit out of my hat of personalities so we sat with the ladies.

After a while Possum approached me.

He said, "Hey man, since you are the only one here with a cage (my Chevy van), could 

we go into town and recharge the ice chest?"

He also added that the attendees had pooled their money for "the buy".

I guess that was meant as an incentive. 

What was I to say, no?

Cindy was able to come with me and Possum.

I suppose she came since she'd gotten me into this and wanted to buffer the Possum contact.

We went to the store and Possum went in and got the beer and ice.

Before we set out he had professionally  packed the beer in the ice chest

which made for a gourmet presentation.

It was warm and the back of the van had no windows so I left the side sliding door open.

Cindy sat in the passenger seat and Possum sat on the ice chest in the back.

We headed back to the party, and in hind sight, maybe going  around that corner a little  too quickly.

 Of course the tape player was on.

We were in party mode, after all.

I turned around to say something to Possum.

Possum wasn't there.

I looked at Cindy thinking I'd lost my mind.

NO.

She verified that there was no Possum.

We'd lost Possum.and the ice chest.

I turned around to retrace our route in hopes of finding him.

This was all way too surreal.

Heading back through the corner exploding beer cans creating

geysers of foam marked the spot.

Possum lay there wet, propped up by one elbow.

We parked and rushed to his side.

He said, "Man, this isn't good".

I assumed that. 

We asked how he was.

He answered, "That don't matter".

He added, "We have to repack the beer, put 

the bad ones on the bottom and the good ones on top".

"That was all the money we had".

I had a few bucks for some more ice and we made it look good.

He said that we should leave right away after returning.

He would get his girlfriend home but the ... would hit the 

fan when they drank their way to the bottom. At that point

he'd figure something out.  Or something like that.

I do know that we left and I think Cindy

terminated her job with Possum's girlfriend, immediately.

I never heard the rest of the story and I never saw Possum again.

Flying out of a van on Dead Man's curve into the ditch amongst exploding beer cans

 might not  have been the low point 

of his evening. 

After leaving the corner I headed down Section 28 road

There's not much story to the remaining pictures.

Lets just call it this year's Cane Run.

 Cane Eaters come out this time of year. There's one.

 South through St. Martinville. The cemetery was used in Burke's movie, "In the Electric Mist".

 Not the Electric Mist.

 On my last ride I was inventorying engines. These were at Baldwin.

 Heading north on the US 90 service road.

This is the Bayou Choupique, the bayou the Confederates had to cross on the burning bridge fleeing 

from General Bank's army at the Battle of Irish Bend.

 Looking toward Surrel, There was once a plantation railroad out there.

 Sleeping cane eaters.

 The Teche, looking toward St.John Mill, north of St. Martinville.

 The 1895 train / vehicle bridge is still with us, though turned with the bayou and unused, unclaimed.

And, finally, another cane eater and her empty dishes.

Feeding these things is a job.

I don't know why the farmers keep them.