The Last Time

Beer & Whine at Billy's Last Stand

“It’s my old lady, man. Billy says she’s too drunk to drive and he’s holdin’ her keys. He says come down right quick, she’s raisin’ hell. If he has to call the Sheriff she’ll go to lockup for sure. You gotta go with me to get her and you drive her truck back, ok?”

Jim and his wife, Angel, are my neighbors in Carson County nearer to Hereford than Amarillo. We’re kinda like family. They don’t have kids and I don’t have a wife. I’m the timekeeper for M & G Drilling. Jim’s a roughneck, same outfit.

Wednesdays are Girls Night Out for Angel and two of her friends.

“Goddamit, Jim, it’s 2 o’clock in the morning! Just leave the truck there. We'll get it tomorrow.”

“No, man, Billy’s sure to have it towed. Last time cost me $150 and they scratched the paint.”

Oh, yes. I remember.

The last time…

It was about a month ago...

Friday being payday Jim and Angel plus some other couples decided to party at “Billy’s Last Stand”. Fair size place near the county line, neon beer signs, pool tables, all smoke and sweat, small bandstand and dance floor that almost goes all the way around the bar at the center. Cozy for maybe 100 people. I tagged along for the company but I couldn’t drink because I had a broken ankle and the painkillers that made everything look pink and gauzy don’t mix with beer. Also, sometimes you see scary things nobody else does. Damn roughnecks get nothing but scratches, bruises, and hard brown skin working all day on the rigs. Me, an office drone, skin so pale people think one of my parents was a polar bear, gets a broken ankle tripping on a printer cable.

Texas Pool Boy

After a few beers the men and women separated. The guys went to the pool tables for some high stakes gaming, twenty-five cents a pocket playing 9 Ball. The girls joined up at one table to continue drinking, gabbing, and sizing up the boys in the band; young, rangy guys, big hats, looking like they thought they could have their pick of the women. I couldn’t play pool or dance with the cast on my foot so I took my diet Coke to the bar to shoot the breeze with the bartender. Maybe he had something I could use to scratch the itch under my cast. 

Sometime around midnight everybody in the bar was friendly drunk, the band was playing loud. At the pool tables things got sloppy but nobody was getting mad. Even the bartender relaxed. Another two hours and he could shut down, count the take, and go home. Some cowboys at the far

At closing time everybody looks good

end of the bar called out wanting shots. He left so I turned around to look over the scene.

I saw Angel and her friends get up to dance. They knew they couldn’t get their husbands off the pool tables so they joined the line dancers. Even drunk, they danced pretty well; at least they didn’t fall down.

Then two things happened at once. Jim was doing ok at pool. He still had some bills in his pocket so he figured he was winning some. Suddenly, his opponent said something about Jim scratching. Jim said, no I didn’t, and you owe me $3. Over at the dance floor, Angel was smacking some yahoo in the face with a full can of beer. In some bars if a woman refuses an invitation to dance, she is definitely a Lizbin. Now, Angel can take care of herself just about anywhere she goes even if sometimes her payback exceeds the crime. Calling Angel a Lizbin is a high crime. After she bashed the guy with her beer, she kneed him hard. He hit the floor face down. Angel was on him fast, punching and scratching at his head.

At the pool tables Jim and his pool partner were staring each other down. Oh, yeah? Yeah. Oh Yeah? Yeah. Who’s gonna make me? You and what army? And so on. Jim had been in this spot before and he was all the time planning how to take the guy down and come away clean; a fast jab, center chest, right cross to the temple. Done.

Jim and Angel been married for 15 years or more and like most married folks can hear each other’s voices among a hundred others. So when he heard, “Motherfucking asshole!” ringing out, he knew it was Angel. Okay, time to go. Fast jab, center chest, right cross to the temple. Done. Go see what’s going on with Angel.

Angel and the guy were standing, squaring off when Jim came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. She whipped around and landed a gut punch with her elbow before he could stop her but he was ready, knowing all about her hair-trigger temper.

Righty tighty, lefty loosey? You sure?

The guy sized up Jim as Angel’s man right off but just couldn’t let a woman beat him up. Lose a lotta points that way. So he gave Jim a ‘come on’ sign with his hands waist high palms up. Jim works the chains on the oil rigs. His nose has been broken a few times. The scars on his face are evidence that he’s likely dealt a lot of punishment in the past. He’s also 6 foot a hundred, 210 pounds, 1½ oz of body fat. Instead of squaring off with the guy, he took one step forward, hands at his side, inviting the guy to throw a punch. The crowd was yelling, “Fight, fight, fight!” Then the guy made a mistake. He glanced away from Jim for an instant. Fast jab, center chest. Right cross to the temple. Done.

Unfortunately, the Sheriff witnessed the knockout as he walked in and had no choice but to arrest Jim. (Nobody owned up to calling the Sheriff). When the guy came to, he refused to press charges, insisting the he and Jim were good buddies, just fooling around and things got a little bit rough, so the handcuffs came off.

Nobody makes Sheriff Tom come out of his office, into his car, make him drive half way across the county just to make him out a fool after eye witnessing an obvious crime. Somebody had to pay.

He doesn't need you and he expects the same

“Now, Jim, I see you’re dead drunk. If you get in your truck I’ll arrest you on a DUI. Same goes for your friends if you get in with one of them.”

“Shit! Then I’ll walk home, Sheriff.”

Hearing that, the Sheriff drew himself up, put his hands on his hips and grew a lot bigger and wider.

“You do that, sonny boy, and I’ll get you for drunk and disorderly in the commons, maybe something worse if I put my mind to it. You’re better off spending some time in the tank. Come on, now. I’ll have you a hot breakfast when you wake up. On me.

“The rest of you, I’m taking Jim to the tank, then I’m coming back the same way or maybe I come back another way. I don’t want to see you and you don’t want to see me. Go home. Billy, time to lock up.” 

Jim didn’t get out of the tank Saturday morning like he expected, or Sunday either. Sheriff Tom and the County Judge went weekend fishing somewhere out of cell phone range. And there was another small detail. The Sheriff hadn’t logged Jim as a prisoner in the inmate register. In effect, he wasn’t there so there was no way the Deputy could release him because logic: If the books don’t show a prisoner arriving, then they can’t show one leaving either.  

Angel must have made at least 15 calls to Deputy Dudley Saturday but Dudley always did everything by the books. Nothing was going to happen until the Sheriff returned Sunday night. Sunday morning Angel and I went to the jail hoping that taking the Deputy some hot coffee and fresh donuts would help ease Jim out of his cell. 

Deputy Dudley was at his desk studying the Carson County Jail Regulations Manual when we arrived. He got up to set the coffee and donuts on a table next to the coffee pot. My ankle was hurting so I asked if I could sit at Dudley’s desk. He was busy slurping coffee and scarfing donuts and said ok. Angel was on him about letting Jim out but he wasn’t moved. "Rules are rules", he said. 

I’d heard Angel’s arguments too many times already so I amused myself by paging through the Rules Manual just for something to do. So many rules! Shape and size of cells, bedding accommodations, lighting, approved paint for the walls, calorie counts in every meal, use of handcuffs, weapons storage, and BINGO: Regulation 367.20 Cell Locks and Doors. 

“Deputy Dudley, it says right here in your book that if a cell in unoccupied it must be left unlocked and open. So if my friend Jim isn’t here as you say by your rules, then the cell he’s in should be unlocked and open. And if he happens to walk out and away, there’s nothing you can do because he isn’t here.”

“No! I can’t let him out. It’s against the…. rules. Anyhow, Sheriff Tom will have my hide when he comes back.”

“Dudley”, I said, “I think the Sheriff didn’t log Jim in because meant to let him out the next morning but he forgot; probably looking ahead to the whiterock bass waiting for him and the Judge at Red Bluff Reservoir. And it sure would look bad if you kept a law abiding citizen in jail for no legal reason. I’m smelling something. Angel, do you smell a lawsuit, too?

“Sheriff Tom’s gonna retire sometime. Best to have a clean record in your jacket if you want to take his place. Think about it, Dudley. The rules are all on your side now. You can save Sheriff Tom and yourself a lot of embarrassment. You don’t want to be the deputy to the next Sheriff do you?”

Near as I can tell Sheriff Tom returned to his jail Monday morning, saw everything in order and sent his Deputy home.

Now here I am, 2 o’clock in the morning, riding with Jim over to Billy’s hoping to get Angel out of whatever scrape she’s in this time, bless her heart. Stay tuned.