CHOICES

Memphis, September 30, 2019

8:17 p.m.

After three weeks of sailing down the Mississippi with our six-meter steamer, we reached Memphis. We needed a few days' respite. A small transit pier, with a reception shack and cold beer, a few piers with permanent moorings, a toilet and the local crew that keeps moving their chairs around the shack to stay in the shade.

“You guys! What are you up to tonight?”

The voice belonged to a young man who worked in the marina. He was usually very quiet, hardly ever spoke. In the four days we’d been there he never even nodded, never mind said hello.

“Anna Alabama and I are going fishing. Want to come along?”

He’d sailed up in a large pontoon boat, a seven-meter, serial make, aluminum chassis, upholstered floor, seats in white faux leather, two outboard motors, 115HP Johnsons.

We asked him if he owned the boat. “I work here, I can drive what I want. I could take your boat if I wanted to.”

He brought along an icebox full of beer and a wireless speaker that kept blasting out country music.

“Let’s go,” he said.

As we boarded, he was already slightly drunk and as he drove, he became euphoric. He kept opening the beer cans with his teeth and foam dribbled from the corners of his mouth. It was clear he knew the bay inside out. He had sailed the Mississippi before, alone. Took him 12 days and nights, non-stop, on beer and amphetamines.

The locals here fish by speeding over shallow waters. The Asian carps are startled by the noise and jump up onto the deck on their own. These are big fish, up to five kilos. As he began to drive, they kept jumping out of the water. In the moonlight they shimmered like pearls.

“Shiiit! Hahaha! Welcome to America, motherfuckers!" he screamed and danced around the boat to the sound of country music. Two steps forward, two steps back, heels, toes. He took off his shirt and put his hat on backward.

“See! Like this. Just like surfing!” He spread his feet and pretended to surf. “You stand like this and jump”. He wanted to show us how to keep yourself on the deck at high speeds. “Jump! Yes! And again, jump! Come on, Anna Alabama, rev it up! Like that! Jump!”

Anna Alabama drove and he kept stroking her naked knee. He opened another beer can with his teeth. “You wanna fuck?” he asked me. Anna Alabama kept staring at the deck.

“ROOOAAAR”, the boat shook. “Motherfucker!!! Anna, stop!”

From who knows where he pulled out a knife, stuck it between his teeth and ran to the outboard motor. His head disappeared beneath the surface. “Hold my legs! I said hold my legs, motherfucker!” His head went below again. A fishing net had tangled around the propeller. “You got a light? Shine it here!” The knife shimmered under the light beam.

“Shiiit!!!” He spat out some river water and reached for another beer. “Gimme one! Everything’s fine. I got it all out!” Strings of frayed webbing flew through the air.

“Push it, Anna Alabama! Yeah! Oh, fuck! Did you see it? Close call, man!” An enormous carp jumped over the boat and missed his head by mere centimeters.

“Look at this!” His knuckled were swollen, bruised and scratched.

“What did you do?”

“He got into a fight yesterday”, said Anna Alabama.

“Who with?”

“You see that white speedboat?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his fist at the speedboat. “That nigger pulled up at the peer yesterday, pumped his gas and ran off. I fucked him up!”

“I hate them!”

“Who do you hate?”

“All these niggers, hate ‘em!”

“Why?”

“’Cause of history. They’re cunts! The mayor is a nigger bitch and she said to kill all the white kids!”

“She said what?”

“Yeah, that’s what she said. I know. All these fuckers want us dead.”

“Don’t hold it against him, he hates ‘em”, said Anna Alabama, “he grew up around here.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t care, they can be OK.”

“Come on, Anna, let’s dance.” He lowered the speed, let go of the wheel and took Anna to the bow. They danced. The boat drifted through the night, as he spun her around to a George Jones song.

Under the bridge he turned toward the mouth of the bay. Behind the peninsula, the Mississippi lazily dragged on.

“Look up,” he pointed to the bridge, “a guy jumped off from there last night. I dragged him out of the water. He was all blue, choking, spitting up blood. Broken ribs, broken arms and legs.”

“What happened? Was he drunk or on drugs?”

“No, he was Muslim.”

Memphis, April 4, 1968

6:01 p.m.

A deep inhale.

The right eye is closed. It twitches. The left is open wide, focused.

Tiny beads of sweat on the forehead. Nerves, not the heat, it’s evening, the beginning of April.

On the second-floor balcony of the Lorraine motel, a door has opened. A male silhouette entered through it. The man straightened his tie, gripped the balcony railing and looked down. Two white Lincolns stood at the ready to take him to the next meeting. The Lorraine motel neon sign shimmered in the dusk of evening.

He had still heard a quiet sound from across the street. A sharp pain followed.

The bullet pierced his neck.

Martin Luther King was pronounced dead about an hour later. He was 39 years old.

Memphis, October 1, 2019

9:21 p.m.

The white speedboat the kid told us about pulled up to the peer. A large black man in a white suit stepped off the boat.

“Whaaa-? I can’t believe it. What is that thing?

No, really? Crazy shit.

Haven’t seen one before.

It’s yours?

You sailed up in this?

Hahahaah!

From Minneapolis?

You guys are crazy.

Jack, Jack. Get out here. You have to see this!

And bring the ladies too.”

Everyone from the speedboat gathered around us. The steamer was a magnet. The speedboat’s owner’s name was Scooter. He wanted to see the boiler. He’d never seen a machine like that. They were on their way to set up his famous grill in the marina. Mississippi catfish, the secret Scooter recipe.

“Have you tried the catfish around here?”

All around us were “NO FISHING” signs that said the local fish cause cancer.

“Not yet.”

“Whaaaat? OK, you’re coming with us. Scooter is about to grill up the best catfish of your lives. I promise!”

Scooter lives off of his grill. He converted a bus into a restaurant and sells his own spice mixture for meats. He makes enough to be able to cruise with his friends around the bay on his white speedboat in the evenings.

“What happened with the kid from the marina?” we asked him.

“Eh, noting, ‘s all cool.”

“All cool?”

“Yeah. Kid’s got some problems but is OK, really.”

“Do you have problems because of racism here?”

“Meh. Used to be a problem. You’ve heard about MLK, right?” He thumped his fist to his chest. “Fuck the whites. They’re not the problem anymore. The biggest problem in the States these days – are the Mexicans.”