God's Wrath Spared The Rusty Pelican
The Gulf Coast of Mississippi is in many ways like a poor-mans Florida panhandle. Before the casinos set up shop in the early 90s, the Biloxi area enjoyed miles and miles of white, sandy coastline near water that on the right day looked to be a mosaic of blue and white glass beads. After the tide rolled ba ck near dusk, I would look for seashells and check them for crabs. Once, I reached my small, wet, and sandy hand into a large conch-like shell and that gray little bug pinched my fingertip. I yelped, but I didn’t cry, it didn’t hurt that much. But I learned that the hazards of the ocean were different than the hazards of the West Michigan lake shore. I took special note of the washed up jellyfish and Man o’ Wars that rolled in with volumes after every major storm. Those things worried me more than the stingrays or the small gray finetooth sharks, because they were the hardest to see. I figured that if I got a shark bite, at least I would have stories to tell. But, I didn't and I don't. Except for the crab, the Gulf Of Mexico's predators never made me their pray.
Across from the place where you could once rent Sea-Doos, there was a souvenir shop and an old shrimping boat that was washed to shore by Hurricane Camille. Up until my last visit about a decade ago, shrimping boats could be seen off in the blue-gray horizon each dawn. To get freshest catch you would have meet shrimpers at the docks at 8 A.M to buy some of the world’s finest shrimp for wholesale. Grubby shrimpers with more knives than teeth would sometimes slice one open in front of you to show you how meaty they are how easy the vein came out.
Because of the availability of fresh ingredients, shrimp gumbo, which was served everywhere. They had it at the Rusty Pelican, a dive restaurant near my grandparents home. The sign out front had a large cartoon pelican, and it said in bold letters: PO-BOYS, GUMBO, CHICKEN, FISH, SEAFOOD. A Po-Boy is a large submarine sandwich with thick bread. The best one at the Rusty Pelican had fried crab cakes and was served with a hushpuppy and about a pound of salty carnival style fries. If you had room, you could also get a slice of Key Lime Pie. With the humidity, white sand, and Key Lime Pie, you would think you were in one Florida’s finer vacation destinations if not for the prevalence of the Confederate Flag and middle age men going into town without shirts and/or shoes.
Once while at a small market in Pass Christian with my grandparents, I remember a black man in a straw fedora coming into the store, and continence of the old fat Cracker at the register changed dramatically, and with his eyes he followed the black man through the store.
While my grandfather was looking over the booze selection, the black man made his way through the store. He picked up a bag of potato chips, and a couple of large bottles of beer. As my grandpa paid for the bottle of Seagrams V.O., a copy of The Times-Picayune, and the 3 Musketeers bar I picked out, we headed out. But before we could get to the door the Cracker told the black man to empty his pockets. By the look of his brown furrowed brow, he was perturbed, but he was used to things and he politely complied. With his chapped hands, he reached into his pocket and laid out on the counter a red Bic lighter, rolling papers, tobacco, his ID, and a small wad of bills. "I ain't got nothin," he said.
He hadn’t stolen anything. The fat Cracker rang him up. When we got into the car where my grandmother was waiting, my grandfather told her about how the Cracker shook the man down. “Nigger shit”, said my grandmother. “It’s always nigger shit”.
I didn’t know what she meant. I still don’t.
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