We ventured east through Mississippi to Alabama, Mobile County to be precise. Land of Harper Lee, Tom Robinson, Boo Radley, Atticus, Gem and Scout Finch, rabid dogs and rape trials. Mobile itself was kinda what I expected, folk sitting out on their porches whittling wood. Most of the houses were white and wooden, some had been painted blue and many proudly brandished Stars and Stripes and Alabaman red and white St Andrews’ cross flags. We drove down Dauphin Street to see the antiquated Alabaman adobes, seems, like Atticus, all are Attorneys at Law. That’s the old-money in the white parts of town, but the black parts of town are just as charming, with less of the grandeur. Lean-to wooden bungalows are dwarfed by the whitey’s mansions and pimped Lincolns and Oldsmobiles replace Saabs and SUV’s.
On thing that is the same in this state though… Everyone is huge - men, women, children, black, white, blue or gray. It’s a lazy ole place, it makes you wanna do everything slower, talk indolently, lethargically spit tobacco all over your recently whitewashed porch and move sluggishly, if at all. It’s a southern hot and sticky, like licking Juliette Lewis after one of her gigs yet it’s still winter here, I guess, or maybe spring, I really don’t know as I’m seasonally challenged. It’s not like you can ask either.
Which reminds me of the time we passed through a border patrol between New Mexico and Texas. Again a lovely, brown coloured Mexican man (oh the irony) inspected our passports, asked us if we had any immigrants on board and shot the breeze about where we were from and our RV. He looked back at our megabus. “What year is it?”
“It’s 2009” Natalie shot back.
There’s no flies on her; sharp as a button that one.
Ohh, I forgot to tell you we were stopped by the cops again. They wanted to know if we were carrying any marijuana, speed, heroin, methamphetamine or dead bodies. I told him there were quite a few on the windshield. He looked at me like I was an idiot!
Anyway, back to the story… After Natalie decided it was time for a diet (I’ve put on about forty stone in this country) we wandered into Mobile town after getting the electric step of our house fixed by a tire mechanic. We had had cereal for breakfast but sat down to Seafood Eggs Benedict with “deadly” hash brown for me and a chicken Caesar salad and potato soup for my cohort. The café was probably the poshest we’ve been to in America and it was good to see black and white folk mingling.
Across the way on Cathedral Square a teenage couple practised a cross between Ballroom and Rock ’n Roll jive dancing. They were pretty good. Either they were very much in love or he was gay.There was a St. Patrick’s Day festival in the town square and we waited on tenterhooks for the parade. At 2.04pm, exactly four minutes late, cops on motorbikes having cleared the way, it began. Now remember I mentioned Natalie’s diet? Well what’s the worst that could happen? Buy-one-get-one-free hot dogs? Nope. Free green-topped Guinness? Guess again.
It started raining sweets.
As white, gold and green floats pootled passed, old men dressed as the pope, women, children and leprechauns threw brightly coloured Mardi Gras beads and bags of sweets, cuddly toys and lucky charms (medallions, not the marshmallow breakfast cereal) into the arms of the hungry awaiting mob. Previously paraplegic people jumped like slam-dunking basketball stars to catch the booty on offer. It was like a cross between Willy Wonka’s Chocolate factory and Claire’s Accessories.
Any girls dream.
Natalie was happy and I had a black eye from one over-zealous nine-year-old candy tosser.
We enjoyed Mobile. And I didn’t even have to shoot any slavering diseased dawgs.
I’m still the best shot in the county, though.
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