Bama

Once upon a time is such a cliche way to start a story, but here we are. I always knew I was destined to be the protagonist of someone’s story, but why did it have to be his?

Spring break 2003, we passed through Louisiana on our way to my friend’s lake house in Mississippi, it was a two-day trip. He was watching me then. We didn’t stay in Louisiana long, just stopped at Tulane to visit my friend’s boyfriend, Denny, and watch his fraternity’s intramural soccer game, the Predators vs. the Alpha Pis. They were the Predators.

He was there. How could nobody notice him standing there, on the campus of one of America’s most prestigious universities? This was also during a time when a lot of protests against the war in Iraq were happening, so the world was very cautious. I would say, maybe he blended in. But he didn’t. Everyone should have noticed he didn’t belong there. But its New Orleans, people wear leotards and walk each other on dog leashes up and down Canal Street and nobody says a thing.

He was wearing his usual attire that night. I remember it so vividly now. I too didn’t think anything of it. Just thought he was a regular spectator. Perhaps a professor stopping by before heading out for the weekend or a transient checking out the university. What professor wears camo, has a long beard, and looks like Duck Dynasty walking out of the swamps?

He did live in the swamps. Now that I think about it, he didn’t have his sunglasses on that night. It was almost 8 o’clock by the time the game was over. I remember because back then I had this thing where I had to eat before 8pm. I don’t remember his face, so I’ve never been able to give the authorities a description of him except for with his dark, black sunglasses on. His name still sends chills down my spine. Alabama Robinson. Bama.