Member-only story
Catfish Rodeo
You don’t mind rassling alligators for your food, do you?
Southern Louisiana
The sweeping field behind my place in Southern Louisiana sloped gently into a greenish, drizzly swamp. My neighbors called it a bayou, and spent many early morning and late evening hours lazing there, fishing poles in the water. To me, it looked more like a creek, or a half-dug pond. But what did I know?
I’m from Chicago. “Fishing” is riding down Stony Island Avenue to that fried perch and chicken joint, and picking up some Hennessy on the way back.
So no, I didn’t mind when the teenagers on the block played soccer out there all hours of the night. I didn’t mind when the old grandpas cut through my back patio, dragging their strings of bass and bluegill, leaving blood and guts for the angry birds. I didn’t even mind when my neighbor Bennett sat in my favorite lawn chair and sucked down my last beer while he cleaned his daily catch. He always left a few cat filets for me, didn’t he?
What I did mind — vehemently — was stepping out into the morning sun to come face to snout with a four-foot slimy brown alligator.
“Four foot? It’s not even grown,” Bennett scoffed when I called him from my kitchen, after slamming the back door and turning off all the lights. It was safer in the dark…
