The Spectacle of the Body

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Me and him, we’re lovers. Sure, I know he’s a crazy motherfucker. And I’m the Banana Queen of Opelousas.

They say I’m the prettiest since Launa Lee. But you best clap your eyes on Jimmy — he is something, too. If you saw Jimmy down by the river in his pretty turquoise truck, you’d say, Jimmy Lucas, he’s plumb got everything, a dog in the back, banking turns, his Banana Queen right close. He’d lift a finger from the steering wheel, tip his head to mean something mean. It’s the way Jimmy is. I’ve seen it happen, I should know, I rode with him a lot.

Nights at the No Knees we ride to, Jimmy sets me up on the long bar. “Just look at you,” he says to me, his eyes wild and proud. “You boys come on, take a look at her. She is the Queen of Bananas.”

People know about me and Jimmy. Jimmy was the first, I swear it. When I try remembering, creosote comes back best — two coats tacky on the storehouse floor, black across my back and legs. Helps cure dry rot. Don’t I know? I slapped it on myself.

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