Abbeville? Beaulah? Oxford? Hatley? Maben? New Augusta? Biloxi?
He curved right on Fulton St. from Madison with a swaying loop of a turn. On no account did he compose rigid and razor-sharp cuts down pavement streets like in the movies or like the masses marching to make it to work in time on a Monday sunrise. Not him, he strolled city streets up and across with a whimsical stride. Precisely in the identical manner as if he had been on foot back home from the small town’s food market with a coca-cola bottle drooping down from his left hand with absolutely no sense of time and certainly no particular place to be. Perhaps in a sort of town in America where no one has ever heard of besides the neighboring areas and the citizens of this distinct place people call home. Even more so to slice it down even further to fully arrest in your mind how this young man walked-about, let us elect to choose a state in this beloved country land of ours we label the U.S. of A. How about Mississippi? So, close your eyes and point erratically somewhere within the state boundaries of the mighty state of Mizzizzippi, and there you will have the scene reeling before you of a young man with suntanned arms, freckled shoulders, combed over hair to keep the sweat from streaming into his eyes; kicking pebbles down a dust road with a grin and coca-cola in supply, somewhere in the subterranean south of America in the month of orange July.
by Jack C. Buck