The Little Man

In South Louisiana, fishing is more than a pastime, it’s a time-honored tradition, and way of life. It’s 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, to harvest fish and other aquatic yummies, such as crawfish, crabs, and shrimp—this stands as many Cajun’s 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 shrimping boat hauling in the daily catch south of Morgan City. 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, the sale of some fish made a nice supplement to his income. 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.

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 no height, 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 coincidentally mirrored a bite from a gator’s mouth. 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 give out about tree-or-so hours ago, and I was gettin’ scared no one would pass by an’ help me, an’ I was gonna have to spend da night here in the swamp an’ get carried off the maringouins.”

Pierre paused for a moment to assess the situation. It did appear dire. He noticed 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? Me, I would be forever grateful. From der, you can tie me loose, an’ I’ll be good. Now, allons, 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 three 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.

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 leapt 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 kind of man. Now, me, I said my piece, now go 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 done seen it all.”

Having made his way home from 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 was usually dismissed and converted to a couple more hours on the water.

Pierre woke. 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 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. 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 apart, Pierre sobbed to the Sheriff and thanked him for the information. For Pierre, the only way to drown his sorrow was to go visit his only true and faithful love, the swamp.

Month’s passed and Pierre returned to the swamp weekend after weekend, never catching a fish. Tormented by his bad luck, he gave up fishing entirely. The curse had taken over his life. It was now devoid of any pleasure. And 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, and 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 the light that Claire brought to his life. But she was gone and he thought to himself, “The hell with it, me, I’m goin' fishing, 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 home. As he exited the store and headed back to his truck, he heard a garbled voice and familiar accent. He peered past the gas pumps and eyed the little man whom he had left stranded more than one year ago. Pierre hurriedly approached the little man and in a panic offered, “Dear little man, I’m so sorry I left you dat 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 Claire, mon cher, she left me for another man. Would you be so kind as to lift dis here curse you dun put on me, and let me be whole again?”

The little man squinted his eyes and then burst out into laughter. Hither and thither he bounced holding his belly as he continued to laugh incessantly. This included dusting off his bottom because he literally almost hit the ground with laughter. “You fool”, he says 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?”

That devilish grin once again appeared. With piercing eyes the little man and 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!”