The Little Man: A Cajun Classic
A "Short" Story
In South Louisiana, fishing is more than a pastime; it’s a time-honored tradition and a way of life. Fishing is core to many a Cajun’s existence. Cajuns set out in their bateaus and pirogues and traverse the swamps, marshes, and bayous incessantly. Their purpose is to harvest fish and other aquatic yummies, such as crawfish, crabs, and shrimp—this stands as many Cajuns’ income. Pierre, a local Cajun fisherman, spent his life participating in this beloved Cajun tradition. Through the week, he earned his wages as a deckhand on a shrimp boat hauling in the daily catch south of Morgan City, Louisiana. On weekends, he would escape to the Atchafalaya in an attempt to bring in his own bounty of catfish and sometimes sac-a-lait, a local fish, and a Cajun delight. Not only was it fun, but the sale of the extra fish supplemented his income nicely. His wife, Claire, cursed him because he always found excuses to escape her and make his way back to the swamp. But Claire, not being one to be sidelined, found other ways to spend her free time. She enjoyed the “Fais do-do.” This is a traditional event where locals gather to dance and drink on the weekends.
Late one Saturday evening, after a long day of fishing, Pierre came upon a stranded traveler deep in the swamp. Even from afar, he could see that the man had little by way of stature, a shirt that looked as though it was hiding a pumpkin underneath, and suspenders that were a cough away from breaking free from his pants—all of this shaded by a straw hat that had a notch in it that mirrored a bitemark. Pierre drew within a few feet of the man and asked, “You catchin’ anything?” The traveler responded with a thick Cajun accent, “No sir, me, I ain’t caught nuthin’. You see, my bateau motor gave out about tree-or-more hours ago, and I was gettin’ scared no one would pass by an’ hep me, an’ I was gonna have to spend da night here in the swamp an’ get carried off by the maringouins (mosquitos).”
Pierre paused for a moment, pulling at his suspenders and shielding his face from the sun with his hat. “Woo, chat!” He said while noticing that the man standing before him couldn’t be more than three and a half feet tall, and he started to giggle.
The little man, growing more frustrated, inquired, “Why you laughin’ mon cher? Me, I dun told you my plight, an’ it ain’t funny, no. Would you be a kind one an’ give me a tow back to da dock back dere? Me, I would be forever grateful. From dere, you can tie me loose, an’ I’ll be good. Now, allez, before you give me dat red ass!”
Now, as he laughed uncontrollably, Pierre replied back, “No can do, little man. You see, I got me a boatload of fish here and forgot to get ice this morning, me. It would take near ‘bout tree hours to tow you to dock and my fish would spoil, but sorry pad-nuh, I gotta roll. And on top dat, my old lady Claire will come at me with a broom a-swingin’ — she’s saucy, you know. And then, when I get pa-ya’d like always, she’ll whack me again for drinkin’. It’s a cycle, you know. She’s the cruelest kind — she’s cute but cruel, you know, man?” and chuckled lightly.
He stood in disbelief at the way Pierre acted. The little man glared devilishly, and in a low-toned, gravelly voice, further explained to Pierre, “You, you know the etiquette here in da swamp!” His face reddened, and spit leaped off of his lips. “You know you can’t never—I mean never—leave nobody like dis. You, Pierre, ain’t no kind of a man an’ I curse you. I curse you, an’ from this day on, you will never catch another fish, an’ your wife, if you got one even, will leave you for a much better kinda man. Now, me, I said my piece, now go you, you, tee-croûte.”
Pierre polled away back to the dock in his pirogue, leaving the little man cursing in the distance. All the while, Pierre couldn’t stop laughing and saying to himself, “Ain’t nobody gonna believe this. Now, me, I dun seen it all.”
Pierre made his way home. He hopped off his pirogue after tying it to the dock and strolling back up the drive to his little mobile home. He noticed that the porch light was off. Panicked, and thinking to himself that something was amiss, he burst through the door and yelled out, “Claire, mon cher, where you at?” There was no answer nor any sound; only crickets filled the outside air, and silence filled his home. He found himself there and in total darkness, alone. Knowing he still had fish to clean, Pierre took it to task and finished his day to retire for the night. Outside of the disgust of her usual absence, he had begrudgingly grown accustomed to her late returns, but in his mind, it just allowed him more hours on the water.
Pierre woke the next morning. Sunday came and went. There was still no sign of Claire. Knowing Claire would sometimes visit her momma without telling Pierre was an ordinary event, but never for long. He called Sheriff Broussard and explained. He told the sheriff that Claire was missing and there must be something wrong. And the sheriff just sighed. Knowing this day would come, Sheriff Broussard explained, “Pierre, my dearest of friends, I saw Claire just yesterday. We were right out front of the Piggly Wiggly, and she had the better part of a month’s worth of groceries. She told me that she was done with you. After that, I heard she was shaking it up at the fais do-do last night. Sorry buddy, she said she’s moving back to the trailer over in Amelia with her momma and wants nothing more to do with you.” Torn to bits, Pierre sobbed to the sheriff and thanked him for the information. For Pierre, the only way to escape his misery was to go visit his only true and faithful love, the swamp.
Months passed, and Pierre returned to the swamp weekend after weekend, never catching a fish. Tormented by his terrible luck, he gave up fishing entirely. The curse had taken over his life. Life was now devoid of any pleasure. Although she always cursed at him and hounded him to do his chores, he continued to miss the excitement that Claire brought to his life. Without fishing, his weekends were spent toiling away with the previously disregarded chores Claire had requested of him for years. The year passed, and Pierre’s place was immaculate. Not a crack creaked, nor a drip dropped, and he found himself without a thing to do but wallow in sorrow, all the while thinking of his dearest, Claire. But she was gone, and he thought to himself, “The hell with it, me, I’m goin’ fishin’ come hell or high water; we gonna pass good time!” And yet another day of fishing passed, and his stringer remained empty.
Having drunk all the beer he carried for his day’s excursion, he stopped off at the cleverly named Bayou Bait convenience store en route to his modest little trailer. As he exited the store and headed back to his truck, he heard a garbled voice and a familiar accent. He peered past the gas pumps and eyed the little man whom he had left stranded more than one year ago. Pierre saw him, and his eyes began to fill with tears, and his heart raced. He hurriedly approached the little man and, in a panic, offered, “Dear little man, I’m so sorry I left you that day in the swamp; I knew better, and I really am sorry. Since then I haven’t caught a fish. And worst of all, my wife Claire, she left me for another man. Would you be so kind as to lift dat dere curse you dun put on me an’ let me be whole again?”
The little man squinted his eyes and then burst out into laughter. His belly bounced against his suspenders, his white shrimp boots clomped, and he fanned his straw hat through the air. He laughed incessantly while dusting off his bottom. He tripped and fell to the ground—twice. “You fool,” he said with little composure, “there ain’t no such thing as a curse; I was just mad at you for leaving me back there in the damned swamp. About ten minutes later, another boat passed by and towed me back to the dock, so I got nothing for you. You not catching no fish? Ain’t nobody hardly caught nuthin’ in the last year on account of the water being so high from all that flooding up north.” With his shoulders shrugged and palms up, the little man scanned the group that collected as they bantered.
With his eyes milky from tears, Pierre responded, “Well, maybe so. What about the other half of the curse you put on me? You said my wife was gonna leave and dat part came true; explain dat to me.”
The little man came to a stop and slowly placed his hat back on his head. That devilish grin once again appeared. With piercing eyes, the little man in that low, gravelly voice replied, “Your undoing is all your fault; everyone knows dat if you want to keep your wife around, you must always take care of the little man in da boat! I’ll tell Claire you said, bon soir….when I kiss dem pink parts tonight!”
Jason Abshire is a writer, a Louisiana native, and graduate of Louisiana State University—in anthropology. Currently, he resides in Corpus Christi, Texas. His published works include The End of Innocence, Little Green Men, and numerous others. You can contact him on Facebook (Jay Abshire), Medium, or view his portfolio at www.theabshirestudio.com.