One-thirty in the morning in a truck stop outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. A shout of Goddamn! from the men’s room made everyone turn, forks and mugs frozen in mid-air, until this trucker came out waving his hand in front of his face like whatever it was in there was the stinkingest goddamned thing he’d ever stunk. Some of the folks in here, mostly men, mostly tired, and mostly white, laughed because they thought he was making a joke about his own shit, right?
But he kept shouting. “Goddamn! Any of you motherfuckers named La Fit? Anyone know what a La Fit is?”
“You mean Lafayette?”
“No, not Lafayette. There’s no ‘y’ in it.”
The tall black kid working the flattop said, “Spell it?”
“It’s L-A-F-I-T-T-E. That’s La Fit.”
Kid said, “I think it’s La Feet. Like, French or something, know what I’m saying?”
One trucker at the counter said, “Yeah, you’re right. It is.”
“So what the fuck’s a La Feet, then?”
The fat girl pouring coffee said, “Pretty sure it’s a pirate. Or a voodoo queen. I forget.”
And then there was some babbling about Jean Lafitte versus Marie Laveau and how anyone this close to New Orleans should know the difference, but the first trucker said, “I don’t think it’s some dead pirate. All I’m saying is someone took a handful of shit, smeared it on the wall in there, saying they’re looking for a Lafitte.”
“I’m telling you, I’ve got to drop one mighty badly, but not in there. Not now. Shit, I’m going to the Arby’s down the road.” He high-tailed it for the door, dropped his copy of Cigar Aficionado on the floor, and let out a bad fart leaning over to get it...