His name was James Bodreau although everybody just called him by his
last name, Bodreau. Some folks called him Louisiana cause that's where
he was from.
One morning Bodreau went down to the Greyhound Bus Station in Columbia, SC. It was on Gervais St. Bodreau had heard that there might be work for an experienced sheetrock hanger over in Augusta, Georgia and Bodreau set out to take the bus to Augusta, generally a two-hour trip - if the bus were on time and left on time, that is.
As Bodreau waited, he watched the wall clock in the bus station. The clock showed 03:00 am. As he watched, he saw a fellow passenger discard the morning newspaper, the State Newspaper, on a nearby seat as he boarded his own Greyhound bus. Bodreau picked up the paper and scanned the headlines.
"Woman shot on S. Main St." it said. "Why, dat's only like fer instance, four to six blocks away from here, might be," Bodreau told to himself. He kept reading.
The writer reported how the woman had fought off her attacker but she got shot in the process and her pocketbook wasn't recovered. The article concluded with these words, "The woman, whose name were not given, is presently in the Memorial Hospital over on Sumter St. and doctors are operating on her at the time of this publication but they ain't found the bullet in her yet."
"Good heavens," Bodreau exclaimed as he laid down the newspaper. "Huh," he thought to himself. "Reckon what part of a woman's body do her yet be located anyway?"
All board! Bodreau laid got up and walked out to the bus to go to Augusta. "I shore hopes there be work over dere in Augusta," Bodreau thought. "I don't ever want to come back to this here nowhere place."
[Dear reader, there's no particular order in these pieces. Some are stories that I heard growing up. Some go back as far as when I was in high-school. Some seem like there were just yesterday.]
One morning Bodreau went down to the Greyhound Bus Station in Columbia, SC. It was on Gervais St. Bodreau had heard that there might be work for an experienced sheetrock hanger over in Augusta, Georgia and Bodreau set out to take the bus to Augusta, generally a two-hour trip - if the bus were on time and left on time, that is.
As Bodreau waited, he watched the wall clock in the bus station. The clock showed 03:00 am. As he watched, he saw a fellow passenger discard the morning newspaper, the State Newspaper, on a nearby seat as he boarded his own Greyhound bus. Bodreau picked up the paper and scanned the headlines.
"Woman shot on S. Main St." it said. "Why, dat's only like fer instance, four to six blocks away from here, might be," Bodreau told to himself. He kept reading.
The writer reported how the woman had fought off her attacker but she got shot in the process and her pocketbook wasn't recovered. The article concluded with these words, "The woman, whose name were not given, is presently in the Memorial Hospital over on Sumter St. and doctors are operating on her at the time of this publication but they ain't found the bullet in her yet."
"Good heavens," Bodreau exclaimed as he laid down the newspaper. "Huh," he thought to himself. "Reckon what part of a woman's body do her yet be located anyway?"
All board! Bodreau laid got up and walked out to the bus to go to Augusta. "I shore hopes there be work over dere in Augusta," Bodreau thought. "I don't ever want to come back to this here nowhere place."
[Dear reader, there's no particular order in these pieces. Some are stories that I heard growing up. Some go back as far as when I was in high-school. Some seem like there were just yesterday.]
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