A shrimp boat sprawls its arms out near the Beau Rivage. The usually brown water of the Mississippi Sound looks blue on the first Saturday of shrimp season. Life goes on in Biloxi, but a sense of dread rides the breeze.
I'm dealing with profound sadness, the kind you feel when an acquaintance dies. It must be a joke, all this oil gushing in my Gulf of Mexico.
When I get like this, shrimp makes me feel better. It instantly balances me. The blood in my upper cheeks lifts me up. My pH is perfect, my mood is good, and I get spiritual.
I'm on a last-minute pilgrimage.
At the Ole Biloxi Schooner, I eat half a shrimp po boy. The cornmeal-coated shrimp are so hot, I put my sandwich down and sip diet Barq's root beer. When I bite into my po' boy again, a shrimp the size of my index finger slips into the crook of my smile. A little girl in a yellow sundress sees this and smiles back.
It is the best shrimp po' boy of my life. Chilled tomatoes and lettuce, slightly fried shrimp and crunchy French bread commingle. The Ole Biloxi Schooner flattens po' boys old school. No puffy business here.
Before leaving Biloxi, I buy boiled shrimp for dinner. Later, I slowly peel each plump, pink-shelled shrimp. The sweet firmness reminds me with every deliberate bite that this could be a last supper.
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