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Small Town Atavist Blues

 

 

About an hour north of Alexandria, on U.S. Route 167, lies the small town of Winnfield, Louisiana. The average visitor wouldn't notice anything remarkable there. A few fast food stops. The local high school. A Wal-Mart. Taking in what sights there are, he could reasonably conclude that Winnfield is just another small town. Nothing to see here. Move along. And this casual observer would simultaneously manage to be exactly right--and terribly wrong.

"Who you lookin' for? What was his name? You can probably find him at the football game."

The real intrigue in Winnfield lies beyond the small town facade of mom and pop businesses and good ol' boy charm. There is a distinct spirit in the air that can be felt after a few days' stay. Though most small towns have a somewhat inflated sense of community pride, few manage to make as tall of a mountain out of their molehill attractions as Winnfield. Despite the sheer mediocrity of everything the town has to offer, most of the locals still worship it. And every Friday in the fall, the cult comes out in droves to their holiest ritual--Winnfield Senior High football. Of course, every team has its fans, but Winnfield games are something different. Even those who couldn't care less about the game come out like antelope to the watering hole. It is not just a sporting event, but a social gathering, albeit one with different conventions than most. Looking through the stands, one notices immediately the de-facto segregation imposed. Not the usual separation of home and away, but of black and white. There are no signs declaring the policy, nor officers enforcing it, but the unwritten rule stands strong nonetheless. There are always some who don't conform, but they are, forgive the expression, the minority.

The game itself is always heated (at least in the stands) and win or lose, the crowd always seems oddly satisfied. The link between social activity and community pride keeps them all in line, acting as sinew between the bones and muscles of the snarling atavistic beast the town has become. Perhaps the official city website puts it best: "Visiting the city of Winnfield, Louisiana is like taking a step back in time."

"It's a small town son, and we all support the team. . ."

With the people providing the muscle they need, the higher-ups are free to does they please. Graft and corruption are not only rampant, they are points of pride for a town that bills itself as the birthplace of three (highly corrupt) Louisiana governors. Some locals will tell you as much, but most are content with the status quo. Any hint that there may be something wrong is quickly opposed and stamped out by the brainwashed masses. This is why key figures in Winnfield's law enforcement still receive support and defense from most of the community despite being federally indicted for drug trafficking. The people don't care about the facts. All they know is the way things have always been, and to them that is the heart of the community. Change and progress are viewed as threatening demons, and anyone brave enough to fight for them is deemed a treasonous dog.

Still the cycle continues, unnoticed by the outside world--with the exception of a few federal agents and a grand jury, that is. The politicians and old money give the people what they want, but not before telling them exactly what that is.

"Can't sell ya no beer."

Ignorant though they may be, the majority of the people are not stupid. Despite their inability to pinpoint it, many of them feel something wrong. Not knowing how to escape these strange rumblings of unease, they instead try to escape reality. Drink, drug, sex, whatever your vice may be, you can find it in Winnfield. But religion, a popular hallucinogen around those parts, puts some pressure on its competition. Alcohol isn't sold after 10PM on weekdays, and not at all on Sundays. The hypocrisy of the law is evident in the high alcohol sales on Saturdays. No one stops drinking, but appearances are everything in a town like this. And of course, on Sunday you can down your six-pack and shamble to church to hear your vice and all others condemned.

 

For those who prefer more exotic highs, Winnfield has a healthier drug and sex trade than anyone from the outside would suspect. After all, people need something to fill the void, and nature abhors a vacuum. While the quality may not be the best, the selection is varied, and the best dealers aren't left wanting.

Where there is money, there will always be a politician wanting a cut, and Winnfield is no exception. One of the town officials mentioned earlier was in fact indicted for aiding in the trafficking of a large quantity of methamphetamine, and feds suspect that particular case was only the tip of the iceberg. But no matter what comes of that trial, the flow of vice and money will not stop, and those feeding off of both ends won't be starving.

"Don't blink or you'll miss it."

Winnfield's brand of problems are the bulk of news material in larger cities, but the town itself receives little attention, no matter how bad things may get. In a world of big things moving forward, a small town going nowhere doesn't rate very high on the agenda. The town's leaders know it, and they couldn't be happier about it. So in Winnfield life goes on, same as it always has, and--possibly--the same as it always will.