I can still see the old man there at the bus stop, ragged and tired. Didn’t leave that bus stop for many many years, close as I can reckon. “Takin the Greyhound to Natchez,” he’d say. Wouldn’t get on a steamboat, even though it were cheaper in them days. Couldn’t take the boat, couldn’t take the river. Too many voices. Voices from the Depression. Out on the river in the middle of the night wouldn’t be able to stop hearin them voices.

“How’s that river flowin today Slim?”
“Flowin.”
“Catch anythin?”
“Nope.”
“How many days it been?”
“Too many.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Sometin out dere. Sometin eatin all de catchin fish.”
“Any idear?”
“Nope. Gotsta find out though. Dem poor kids is starvin. Ain’t got no energy, ain't got no will. Wife’s skin'n bones. Can’t see her like dis mon.”
“Here, take this Slim.”
“What’s in dis bag mon?”
“Lake smelt.”
“Oh, can’t take dis.”
“You’ll take it. I ain’t takin it back.”
“Can’t live like dis. Ain’t no way to live I tell ya.”
“Hey, where you think you’re goin?”
“Out to sea.”
“On the river?”
“Yeah mon.”
“What fer?”
“Find out what’s eatin dem fish. Catch de sumbitch. Call it to answer. Feed my family wit it. Bets we could eat on dat ting all winter. Maybe longer.”
“Whatever’s out there, tis too big. You’ll be that what’s for eatin.”
“Maybe so. Chance I gotta take.”
“I’d think this through Slim.”
“Times for thinkin’s done gone mon.”
“Come back you fool!”

But he was gone. Slim was never seen nor heard from ever again. And the old man just walked on down to the bus stop to become old. Goin to Natchez, lookin for Slim’s old fishin hat. So you kids can take yer housin crisis. Aint’ never seen no depression.