“We’re all going to hell!” was
what I heard as I walked into “Jackie’s Cold Day Inn”. Opening the door to the
place meant letting light in, and that never failed to temporarily blind the
patrons.
“Hey, I been to hell already.
Lucky me she remarried. I don’t recommend it.”
It didn’t get a laugh maybe
because I’ve said it a hundred times before.
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| "Cold Day Inn", low maintenance, high quality |
Jackie’s was near the end
of Main St. in Panhandle, TX. There were a couple of other bars but it was the
oldest and the favorite one, the others being less than 20 years old, operated
by outsiders. It was a bit more than half full which was unusual for that time
of day except today. Most of us had been to the pastor’s funeral an hour
before. For this part of the world 100+ temperatures are standard from May to
October and Jackie’s had the best A/C in town. The only light came from the
tiny dingy windows in front. It was so dark it made everybody look acceptable.
Nearly everyone in the
congregation was at the funeral except the kids. Dressed in their church clothes,
the men pulled at their collars, the women dabbed their sweat with lacy
handkerchiefs and the Bishop under layers of vestments suffered, too, but not
enough to hurry things along. The moment of silence after the wooden casket was
lowered lasted about 10 seconds after which we practically ran for
shade.The men headed for Jackie’s place where it was cool and dark.
The women went home to get more covered dishes for the widow.
The official word from the ME’s
office was that the pastor died in his sleep at a motel two towns away. No
other details were given so naturally we took to inventing possible reasons why
he wasn’t at home dying on a Wednesday night and just how worn out he must have
been to die while sleeping; “dead to the world” while asleep and now dead
to everybody else alive. But it was too soon to joke or
gossip about it now. Maybe in few days.
Things brightened up some when
Jackie brought two more pitchers of beer and shots for everybody, on the house
just this once.
“If you guys don’t lighten up I’m
closing the bar and you can be gloomy at home”, she said.
Nobody wanted to go home. A
funeral is like a day off, not quite a 4th of July day off, but a
work-free day nonetheless.
Ray looked up from his beer and
said, “I remember when he arrived here in ‘96. He was all filled up with
the Fire of the Gospel in ‘im trying to save everybody all day, every day. Me,
I wondered what he was saving me from. I had a nice spread, a good herd of
whiteface, royalties from the three little oil wells in the back forty,
satellite TV, and a good wife. So far as I could figure, I sure didn’t want to
leave this place for some other place I never seen.”
Jackie looked about to smack him
with an empty pitcher. “Of all the good stuff you got, your wife is last, Ray?
After satellite TV? Tell me when you plan to show her your list. I really wanna
be there, help her clean up after she’s done with you.”
Ed downed his shot, took a gulp
of beer and said, “You’all remember Bobby Jean, I mean the way she passed while
playing Charades? Five other people there, including Will the EMS guy.
She died before they figured out she was having a heart attack right in front
of them. She’s flailing around and they kept trying to guess what she was
pantomiming. A breakdancer! A dolphin leaping out of the water! Oh, shit! A
heart attack! Will tried to bring her back but it didn’t work.”
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| Raging Bull! No! Horny guy! No! |
Looking around he said, “I don’t
see Ben here so I guess I can say “pneumothorax” and get a laugh instead of a
dirty look. We were working on the hay baler, me on top working the gearbox and
him underneath taking bolts off the tranny. Anyways, I hear him grunting and
huffing then he says god help me, I can’t breathe; hurts like hell. I’m gonna
die. Got him in the truck fast as I could, ran him to the clinic. Doc has a
look and tells him you’re not dying you have a pneumothorax. Ben says, what’s
that. That’s a collapsed lung but for billing purposes a pneumothorax costs a
lot more. Considering all the names you called me the last half hour I’m still
making up my mind which way I'm going to write it up.
“Ben says, ok, ok, but what’s the
cure? Doc says, nothing but bed rest coupla days; and hands him a bag of
balloons and a bottle of aspirin. Tomorrow morning, he says, start blowing these
up, aspirin whenever you need it. Call me if the pain gets worse.
“Well, Ben wasn’t having none of
that. He’s seen doctor shows on TV. There’s pills and operations for
everything. He can barely talk it hurts so bad but has just enough breath to
swear at the doc some more. Doc doesn’t pay any attention,
just writes something on Ben’s chart. Then he says, ‘Ok, Ben, pneumothorax it
is.’”
We laughed out loud even though
we’d heard the story before. It happened years ago but Ben still gets steamed
about it even after a doctor from Lubbock told him that doc’s treatment was
right.
The door opened, let the light in
and blinded everybody. Sheriff Tom stood in the doorway like a gunslinger looking
the place over. Seeing no malefactors he took a seat at our table, nodded at
Jackie to bring him a mug.
“Missed the pastor’s funeral. Had
to check out the Williams’ place. Somebody said there were strangers digging
near the hay barn. Wish the heirs would settle things and sell the place. It’s
not worth much but it’s more than all the money they found after Pop Williams
died. It was some kids from Canyon
State looking for Pop’s buried treasure. I told ‘em it had all been found
already, $500,000 in Republic of Texas dollars from 1846. Betcha good money Pop
Williams is laughing in his grave over his joke and he’s been gone now 20 years or
more.”
That was a story I hadn’t heard before. It must have shown on my face.
The Sheriff lit up a Cheroot,
leaned on his elbows and said, “Ain’t much to tell. When Pop died his will left
everything to his three ingrate sons. That and a map showing where he’d buried
half a million dollars he swore he found while digging wells on the south 40
back in the day.
“Trouble was there was no sign
about which way was North on the map or any landmarks so these fools turned the
map this way and that, dug up the land this way and that for months before they
hit paydirt. The field looked like home for a colony of giant Prairie Dogs big as
tractors. Those boys looked pretty foolish after bragging all over the county
how they were going to spend the old coot’s money soon’s they found it. Twenty
years on they can’t agree to sell it and I think the county’s about to seize it
for taxes.”
A couple of hours after sunset we were back to normal, taking turns ganging up on whoever was a good target at the moment. Sheriff Tom put some bills on the table and left to finish his shift. For some reason the empty chair made Ray think about the pastor.
He said, “I mean what does a
pastor do with his time? Give a sermon on Sunday, well that’s a couple of hours
plus the time to write it out during the week. Organizing fundraisers for folks
in need, getting stuff for the food bank, but what else?
“You know ranch life can be
lonesome for the wives. Think on it, the men are out in the fields plowing,
planting, harvesting but not by themselves or in town at the feed store,
socializing. With the kids in school it gets awful quiet around the home day
after day. A visiting pastor can be safe, welcome company once in while. It
might explain why some kids around here have dimpled chins just like the pastor.”
Nobody wanted to think too deep
on that so the talk went back to the pastor dying in Bixley.
Ed spoke up first.
“Maybe he was in Bixley banging something besides his bible. I heard Alice cut him off after that thing with
the organist what’s-her-name. She moved away. Maybe to Bixley?
“If not what’s-her-name what was
he doing in Bixley on a Wednesday night? Nothing there. All I can figure is a place called
“Betty’s Boop”, almost naked “girls” that make a sheep look good. I was there
one time saw guys putting dollar bills in the women’s bikini bottoms and
getting 50 cents change.
“I think Wednesday nights are
two-for-one drinks at “Betty’s”, Wednesday being the slowest night. I heard they tried
holding mud-wrestling contests but nobody showed up for the next one after the
first one. Guess they forgot most of the guys ‘ev seen plenty of hog wallows
and don’t care to see another one even if the drinks are cheap.”
True or not, everybody
laughed real hard except Jackie*.
RIP, Pastor Johnson
RIP, Pastor Johnson
*Author’s note: Jackie doubled
the bar tab that night. If anybody noticed they aren't saying.
