A little trash talk helps keep mind off work

BAYOU METO WMA — Look closely, and you’ll notice distinct divisions in the littering culture.

Take the Mulberry Access on the Big Ditch, for example, where the third annual Bayou Meto cleanup began last Saturday. This half-acre clearing is a gathering place for drinkers. Even so, the place has a conspicuous dividing line.

The south side is the blue-collar district, as evidenced by a large conglomeration of Bud Light and Busch Light beer cans. The South Siders also seemed to enjoy canned oysters and sardines. I used to love canned oysters when I was a kid, but their massive amounts of monosodium glutamate gave me headaches. Then a cashier at a store where I bought a tin called them “Smoky Mountain oysters.” That did it for me.

Those who imbibe on the north side of the parking lot have more refined tastes, judging by the three empty Crown Royal bottles in the weeds. They were big bottles, too.

Talmon Prier of North Little Rock arrived right about the time George Cochran and Jimmy Jackson motored up to the boat ramp with a refrigerator that they had dredged from the muddy bottom of the Big Ditch. Jackson has participated in all three Bayou Meto cleanups, and Cochran said he is a tireless worker. Prier recently retired from Union Pacific Railroad and worked with Cochran in the 1980s before Cochran embarked on a career as a full-time professional bass fisherman.

“Talmon,” Jackson said. “I’ve never heard that name.”

“It’s from the Bible,” Prier said.

“Where in the Bible?” Jackson asked.

“Chronicles and Nehemiah,” Prier responded. “He was a gatekeeper, I think.”

Thus ensued an enthusiastic discussion about the role of gatekeepers in biblical history.

That was about the time that Steve Filipek arrived. Filipek is the Stream Teams coordinator for the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission. He came in full stream team regalia, including widebrimmed straw hat, trigger-operated litter grabber, metal hoop to hold open a trash bag and some really fancy Hodgman hip boots that inspired envy and covetousness. He meticulously separated aluminum cans from the rest of the trash and deposited them in a separate bag.

“Don’t tell my boss I made a buck-forty on this deal,” Filipek said.

Filipek is also a rabid Arkansas Razorbacks fan, but we got mighty put out with him for announcing that place-kicker Zack Hocker wouldn’t play against Louisiana-Lafayette. Hocker kicked two field goals and a boatload of extra points. Filipek swore his information came from a radio pregame show.

Jess Essex of DeWitt completed our quintet, and he arrived with an air of celebratory aplomb. He’s a jovial funeral director who talks really loud. It’s almost as if a party erupts wherever he goes. Essex and I have corresponded regularly by email for years, so I was very pleased to finally meet him. He spins a good yarn, too, which made the hours in the heat melt away.

Naturally, in a place like Bayou Meto, the subject of venomous snakes emerged. Filipek has encountered a lot of snakes in his Stream Team work, and I have actually been bitten by one.

“Being in the funeral business, I subscribe to a number of trade publications, including those dedicated to embalming,” Essex said. “There’s almost always an article about unusual situations, and occasionally they’ll have one titled Embalming the snakebite victim.” We were all ears. “The victim is almost always some Pentecostal preacher from east Tennessee,” Essex concluded.

We finished at the Cox Cypress Access, near Halowell Reservoir. This is a smoker’s hangout from which we removed scores of cigarette butts and an unusual amount of broken glass, as well as a automobile floor mat that Essex was delighted to get. It would cover a hole in the floorboard of one of his old vehicles.

Taking a water break, I asked about an odd-looking banjo in Essex’s van.

“A good banjo is a really fine, precision instrument,” Essex said. “This one is a beater. I use it on canoe and camping trips.”

He tuned it as he strummed.

“You know the best instrument for tuning a banjo?”I asked.

Essex shook his head suspiciously. “Wire cutters,” I said. Essex laughed and said, “It is the weapon of choice for the most feared folk singer in all of Arkansas.”