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Unformatted text preview: tml important, but it wasn't the right time. I asked him how fast he was driving when our car went by. He said he never got above fifty. I asked him if he could estimate how fast our car was going, and he just shook his head. "Two days later, I stopped by late one afternoon, and we settled back on the porch for another round of war stories. Promptly at six, Clovis said he was hungry, said furthermore that he loved catfish, and asked if I would like to join him for dinner. I was single at the time, and so Clovis and I left for dinner. I drove, of course, and he talked. We had greasy catfish at six bucks for all you can eat. Clovis ate real slow, his chin just inches above the pile of fish. The waitress put the check on the table and Clovis never saw it. It sat there for ten minutes. He kept talking with a mouthful of hush puppies. I figured the dinner was money well spent if Clovis ever came through with his testimony. We eventually left, and driving back to his house he announced he needed a beer, just one beer for his bladder, and at that moment we just happened to be nearing a country store. I parked. He didn't move, and so I bought the beer too. We drove and drank, and he said he'd like to show me where he grew up. It wasn't far away, he said. One county road led to the next, and after twenty minutes I had no idea where I was. Clovis couldn't see very well. He needed another beer, also for his bladder. I asked directions from a store clerk, and Clovis and I set sail again. He pointed this way and that, and we finally found the town of Necaise Crossing in Hancock County. Once we found it, he said we could turn around. He forgot the part about his childhood home. More beer. More directions from the store clerks. "When we got near his house, I realized where we were, and I started asking questions about the car wreck. He said it was still too painful to talk about. I helped him into the house and he fell onto the sofa, snoring. It was almost midnight. This went on for about a month. Rocking on the front porch. Catfis...
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- Spring '10