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Alexandria, LA

The road leading here was empty days of staring toward a speck on the horizon where the road became a point that everything funneled into, thoughts, new friends missed, every highway song I have ever heard. Trees always leaning away, a thousand dead armadillos filling my head with the putrid rot of bad oil, three flattened rattlers I try to move with my foot, and the shine of far away tar rolling on to me. We all file off into the distance that gives no hint of ever ending. Vehicles that passed me five minutes ago can still be seen all these minutes later just working out getting smaller and smaller. Marksville was the last town that had food to buy, or easy water. Marksville is a long walk back, a walk I won't make except in dreams faling backwards. More than one home along the way didn't answer their door when I knocked for water with my humblest face on. From a spout hidden behind thick brush, or baking in the concrete sun beside a railroad station where many signs warned me to stay away, desperate,I filled water-bottles after I saturated my insides with all I could camel down. Finding water became a day's task the moment I shouldered my pack and stepped into the dawn. That and walking--always walking.
Route 1 moves into Alexandria through a very poor section of town. At least nobody threw another mustard and ketchup hotdog at me from a moving car, or sent a huge wave of rainwater soaking me from head to my socks by storming their red-neck pick-up through the largest puddle in the state just as I walked by. That was Marksville. Some places just get angry like people do. When it happens it is best to just pray for trees, and once they are given run for it. Anger takes a spell to work it's way out.
Walking through some poor towns is beautiful. Yes, there is more trash, smells, dangers. Your eyes have to be all over, keeping yourself aware and safe. Even with all of this I have said thirty hello's this morning as faces walked past me searching out my eyes with eyes of their own, eyes that wanted to pull up a chair and get to know you. That is how they made me feel. I walked past countless buildings that were falling in on themselves, and carwash stalls taken over by heavy webs of vines. Colors, painfully bright lunge from murals on over pass supports that nolonger hold anything. The street art slows my feet. They are not angry murals like I have seen too many times, in too many towns and cities. They are filled with hope, flowers growing up out of rock surrounded by handprints in every race color, blue skies washing over clean fields gone silly with life. Just walking by made me feel good.
I knew that a fancy clean new mini-mart would show up eventually. I am thankful I did not cheat the walk. In a tiny store that sold gas (if you want super), I met Joni Diane Sharp. My money went from my hand to her hand, and then back into mine as we talked. Joni asked alot about the walk with a healthy amount of wanting to understand. It is priceless to stand in a small Louisiana market and watch the world you would never elsewhere met wander in. Great faces that have bronzed in the sun turtle out of brilliant white t-shirts reaching for a morning coffee. Old men laughing the way I remember doing as a child, but rarely see adults do anymore. A life loving laugh. Before I left, Joni gave me water that did not taste like an old garden hose, rather it was cold and in a new bottle. Wrapped in foil were two more bundles for my journey when I left. Joni said if I didn't want all the smoked sausage and chilli cheese then I should pass it off to a friend. I laughed to myself, "I don't know anyone here." I couldn't thank Joni enough. I hadn't had a meal besides nuts in almost two days. I never said this to her.
A half mile down the road town still looked like a dark city waiting for evil to find a way of working out an advantage. Finally I found a fairly decent place to perch and still cover my back. On an old loading dock I prepared to dive into my great gifts of food. Just as I started to get the party going a pit bull,black and white, started working her way over to me from a tear in the metal of a warehouse door. She was more hungry than I guess I had ever been. Her nipples were extended from use. After alot of tender words she was three feet away propelled by a belly that over-powered her desire to flee. Her tail remained welled between her legs. Her head was down, and meek. Here was the friend I was told about. As I shared my meal I talked about the miles that had just passed. I talked about being alone. I talked about how much I had been given. When I left I knew she would not follow. Her secrets were somewhere in that old building. Mine were on the road ahead. Still, a block away I looked back. She was licking a stone I used as her table. I wished I'd given more. We always wish we'd given more when we remember being hungry too.