East of Shreveport

It was the Christmas before I turned 15 that my parents decided it was time to make a ceremonial visit to the 240 acres of land we had inherited after my grandparents passed away; in part to allow my sister and me to peruse this chunk of land which we would one day acquire, and in part to allow my mother to revisit the town of her father’s childhood. My sister and I obliged with a moderate amount of complaining, and loaded our iPods and gameboys into the family minivan in preparation for the 8 hour drive to Gibsland, Louisiana. We finally set up camp at the Holiday Inn in nearby Shreveport, as Gibsland does not offer any lodging for tourists, because no one ever visits the town. The next morning we awoke in time for an entirely unsatisfying continental breakfast and set out to accomplish what we had come here for, my sister and I already aching to rejoin our friends back home. On the drive over, my mother regaled us with anecdotes about our grandfather’s exciting childhood spent on this beloved expanse of land. However, when we reached Gibsland, we were not impressed. The sign upon entering the town boasted that Gibsland was home to just over 1,000 residents. There were only about 4 paved roads stretching throughout the community, pitted with potholes and warped asphalt. However, it was clear that Gibslanders were a proud people. The town’s one claim to fame was that Bonnie and Clyde had been shot about 17 miles outside of the city, and the civilians were honored to be a part of history. Out of the 15 or so buildings that made up the pathetic skyline, at least 3 were museums memorializing the lives of the famous duo.

Our van pulled to a stop in front of an overgrown span of woods, and my mother heaved a nostalgic sigh. We all dispersed in different directions, my sister retreating to a nearby stump to text message, my father chasing after our black lab with a tennis ball, and my mother placing her palm on the trunk of a great oak and gazing wistfully at the spreading branches above. I wandered through the sylvan paths, collecting interesting rocks and snail shells for the better part of the morning, until my mother called me back; the dog was tired, my sister was bored, and my dad was hungry. It was time to go.

We ended up at the one open restaurant the town had to offer and dined on baked beans and fried chicken. After I finished my meal, my mother dismissed me to wander about the town in an attempt to find something entertaining. I mindlessly drifted into one of the many Bonnie and Clyde museums, which was run out of the living room of a dilapidated red brick house. At the sound of my high-tops dragging across the dull carpeted floor, an ancient black man emerged from a back room and greeted me warmly. His skin resembled the leather of an old shoe, stained and wrinkled and weather-worn. A thin beige jumpsuit adorned his crooked frame, and his eyes were an aged yellow tint, with pupils eerily grey from cataracts. He enthusiastically gave me a tour of the museum, his rasping laugh echoing through the room as he explained to me the significance of each picture decorating the walls. He urged me to sign the guestbook, and sold me two 25 cent postcards, one with a photo of Clyde’s bloody remains, and one picturing the bullet-torn car in which the outlaws were killed. He told me how he was the oldest living resident of the town, how he had lived here all his life and wouldn’t dream of moving anywhere else. I nodded politely, although doubting his sanity for staying in this place by his own free will. When it was time for me to leave, he called out in a slow southern drawl, “you come back now, ya hear?” I waved and smiled. “Not likely,” I thought. I was already bored of the town and pining to return to the excitement of home.

The next day, we loaded back in the minivan. I listened to my iPod and played Tetris on my cell phone and thought of the old man. I doubted that he had a cell phone or an iPod, or even that he listened to any music post-Buddy Holly. I scoffed at the dullness of his dated existence and reveled in my privileged state, latest technology, hottest trends and all. Yet in the back of my head, I could not suppress the scintilla of jealousy that was growing there. Jealousy because he was content with so few possessions and yet I endlessly sought out materialistic gains to make me happy. He led a simplistic existence, yet seemed immeasurably satisfied, wanting nothing more than that which was needed. I paused my iPod and gazed out the window at the pine trees flickering by. It was then that I decided that happiness was defined by those who achieve it. Some don’t need money or fame or popularity. Some need merely a dilapidated red brick house, a beige jumpsuit, and plenty of Bonnie and Clyde memorabilia.