Friday Night Fights

We're gonna need a bigger horse, son.

A TV propped on a plank between two stepladders at the far side of the bar said it all… Jackie’s is giving in to the competition from the sports bars. There was a note stuck on the screen with masking tape. It was too far away to read so I got closer. The note said, “Nobody but Jackie turns it on. Violators will be required to settle their bar tab and go away until I say you can come back.”

Jackie came up from behind, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “That means you, too, city boy.”

This bar’s never had a TV or a jukebox. The regulars come here for a quiet place to have some drinks and conversation, or just to sit alone. Sheriff Tom is one of the regulars. Rowdies and troublemakers find out soon enough that quiet people can get rough if rough is what’s required to keep the peace. Nobody can remember the last time there was a fight at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn.

I come here to rest my mind after spending the day pitching farm equipment, trying to convince farmers to replace 40 year old machinery; or ranchers that they need to replace old-fashioned augers with new ones that dig post holes faster and with less chance of injury to their ranch hands.

When I say I pitch I mean I’m a major leaguer, throwing high fastballs and diving sliders one after another. My company says I’m a star salesman. Most of the time the farmers and ranchers are smart enough to figure out what’s coming and they hit homers off me more often than not. Even when they’re ready to buy they’ll make me keep pitching a while longer before they sign the dotted line. But I do well enough to make a living at it, plus I like driving all over the panhandle on deserted county roads to meet my customers. It feels like my minor league days going from town to town to play the local baseball teams. 

If my boss offered me twice the money to work at company headquarters I’d say no. I don’t know that I could stand it, sitting in an office, knowing the open road is out there without me. 

I got my drink at the bar and took a table near the door where Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris usually sit in the late afternoon.

No TV, no Jukebox, no whining

They turned up together and joined me. I asked if the TV was for a football game.

Les said, “Nope. Not football. Six o’clock press conference the governor is giving Johnny Summers a medal for winning the National Roping Tournament in Denver. He hasn’t lived here since he was 12 but he’s still one of ours more or less.”

Five minutes later Jackie turned the TV on, volume up high. The governor went on and on talking about everything except why he and Johnny Summers were there. An aide whispered something in his ear and the governor got down to the business of the day. He put a thick rope lanyard with a medal around Johnny’s neck and invited him to say a few words. Staring straight ahead, all the poor kid could manage was “Hi, Mom”. The governor slid in front of him and thanked everybody for being there and said goodnight.

I don’t know what else Jackie or the men in the bar were expecting. Maybe a fight? Or maybe the kid would hogtie the crooked governor, turn him over to the State Police. One or two of the patrons hooted and clapped when governor mentioned Johnny’s hometown, the rest went back to their conversations and drinks. Jackie turned the TV off.

Gary and Mike from the Conoco station, still in their greasy coveralls, were sitting at the bar telling Jackie some story about a fight they saw at Billy’s Last Stand. If I had to guess Jim and Angel were in it somehow but I was too far away to hear the details.

We watched Gary tell his story, punching the air with his hairy fist showing Jackie the hit that took a cowboy down. Jackie, head back, slapping her hands on the bar, laughing.

Gary finished his story and Jackie came to our table with fresh drinks and clean ashtrays.

Tom asked her who Gary was talking about.

“Jim and Angel”, she said.

Doc Harris pulled dollar bill from his shirt pocket and slid it into Les’s open palm.

At the far end of the bar Wendy was pouring coffee for a customer.

I pointed to the man and said, “Coffee?”

Les glanced over his shoulder and said, “Yeah, that’s Rollie. Been on the wagon off and on going on five years now.

“After he spent three days in the County Jail he made up his mind to stop drinking. Well, maybe not stop altogether but cut down some so that at least he could remember what happened the night before.

“The way I heard it, he’s doing all right first week or so, has three beers, then asks for coffee before heading home. Looking good except this particular night, Cindy, a waitress at the Itchy Kitty Topless Bar brings his coffee but all she’s got is Equal. He says, “Darlin’ this stuff gives me headaches. Can you get me some real sugar?” She goes back to the bar, comes back and says, no, this is all we got.

“He’s fighting the urge to say screw it, gimme me another beer. Instead he calls out to the bartender to get him some real sugar. Bartender shakes his head, no. That hits his last nerve so he makes a fuss over what kinda cheap ass place this is that don’t have real goddam U - S – A, All-American SUGAR.

“Mandy, she owns the place, was in the back room checking inventory, hears him hollering. She doesn’t need another ruckus that’ll bring the Sheriff. Just an hour before some jackleg got too familiar with one of the dancers. Tom here put him down with kick in the pants, sent him on his way. Anyway, Mandy, she goes over, stands behind Rollie and says real nice, ‘Cindy, is he getting fresh? Rollie, what do you want? ’

“He whips around, spreads his arms wide and says, “Mandy, all’s I want is a little sugar.”

“Mandy’s been in the business 30 years or more. It’s late, she’s tired, wants to go home. Randy cowboys are nothing new at the Itchy Kitty. She’s a big woman, 250 at least, hands big as fry pans. She slaps him upside his head, sits him down, tells him to stay, tells Cindy put a shirt on and bring back some menudo from the Mexican place three doors down.”

“Ah, menudo,” said Doc Harris. “The breakfast of people who oughta know better.”

Everybody, even the Sheriff, looked at Doc Harris. Menudo? Breakfast of what?

Doc leaned back in his chair, a sure sign he had a story. He took his time, slow sipping his bourbon.

“Long time ago, when Jorge was new in town I saw him come stumbling out of Chato’s late one night. Looked to me like Tom or Deputy Dudley would put him in the tank overnight if they saw him. I figured I’d save the Sheriff some paperwork and Jorge some embarrassment so I said I’d take him home but he said take me to Rosario’s Diner first.

“He said, ‘Amigo, the best way to fix a hangover or get sober is eat a big bowl of menudo at Rosario’s Diner.’ I asked what’s in it, he says, ‘Hominy, tripe, some other stuff. It’s not something you like right away especially if you’re in the kitchen while mamacita’s making it.

‘First she boils two pounds of chopped tripe in a big pot. It smells like road kill been sitting in the sun for a day. Once it’s cooked enough she adds her mother’s chili mix. Rosario says she uses four kinds of peppers. After that she adds some soup bones, salt, garlic cloves, and fills the pot with hominy. She lets it boil for a while, then sets it to simmer on the stove.

Four kinds of peppers and other spices Rosario will never reveal 

‘It doesn’t smell like road kill anymore and I can’t tell you what it smells like because I don’t care. I want some now. Serve it in a big bowl, add some chopped onions and oregano flakes, a hard roll on the side. Before you know it your sinuses are so clear you can breathe through your ears, you can focus with both eyes at the same time; your headache is going away. Downside is your mouth and throat’s burning up and you can’t stop eating.’”

The first bowl is only $1.75

“I got Jorge home safe and sound. Me being a doctor and all I gotta keep up with advances in medicine. If I can find some way to make menudo pills I’ll be rich. Might have to marry Rosario to get the recipe. Problem is, what to do about her husband, fittest man in the county, probly live to a hundred.”

Tom said, “Menudo. Maybe I’ll have Rosario fix me a batch to have at the jail on weekends. The closing time cowboy roundup usually means three, four of ‘em be seeing me or my Deputy come Sunday morning.”

Mike and Gary finished their drinks, paid Jackie. As they passed by on their way out, Les asked Mike what they said to Jackie to make her laugh.

Mike said, “Happened Friday two weeks ago at Billy’s. This guy, Donny, new guy on the road crew, starts ragging another guy just because. He likes to talk tough, start fights but only if there’s somebody there to stop ‘em before it comes to blows. The guy ignores him but Donny won’t let it go, starts getting personal. What he don’t know is the guy he’s ragging is Jim. His friends don’t know it’s Jim either. They don’t know his wife, Angel’s standing next to him.

“Now, all ah you know Jim never throws the first punch. If you wanna fight ‘im you better square up tight and don’t look at his face too long. More’n one cowboy’s backed off when Jim gets that killer look in his eyes. If anything, they oughta look out for Angel. She don’t wait for the first punch. First sign of intent, she’s attacking with everything she’s got. Man, woman, tall, short, don’t matter to her. Most times it’s Jim gotta pull her off.

“I tried to warn Donny but he laughed saying Jim was scared to fight ‘cause his old lady would cut him off if he went home all beat to hell. His buddies laughed and hooted, having fun.”

“Jim don’t say nothin’, looks around the bar, waves at some guys at the pool table in the back.

“Angel, she turns around facing the guy and says, ‘Cowboy, you got a wife or a girlfriend? What’s your girlfriend gonna say if you tell her you got beat up by girl?’

“Donny don’t even look her way, he says, ‘Baby, this ain’t your fight. Leave it to the men.’

“Jim says, ‘Angel, let it be.’ He turns his back and Donny looks around, showing off to his friends, makes like he’s gonna throw a punch. Quick as a cat, Angel gives him a knee in the crotch. He goes into a crouch grabbing the family jewels with both hands and she finishes him off with an overhand cross. BAM! Like this. Coupla Donny’s friends start to make a move but Jim looks them off, puts some money on the bar, takes Angel’s arm and they go home.”

No, not these family jewels

Tom said, “Wonder of wonders, the Deputy’s report said everybody in the bar was deaf and blind that night.”

Gary and Mike left. Nobody said anything for a while, probably filing the story away for retelling some other day. Tom puffed on his Cheroot. Les and Doc stirred their drinks with their fingers.

I said, “Why is it there’s so much talk about fights, even fights that happened a long time ago?”

They were quiet for moment, thinking. Tom was the first to speak.

“I think it's football”, he said. “You’ve been around these parts and you know how folks live and die by their team. Boys start young, peewee leagues, up through high school. They’re buttin’ heads and bodies against each other year after year then graduation and just like that it’s over.

Once you graduate, it's over

And I say unto you ... Touchdown!

“Early training like that don’t go away. Young fellas, years out of school, still feel that urge to hit somebody different from them, start fights for no good reason. Then the day comes when the bruises don’t heal so fast, or they see double too many days after. The blood cools, gets up to their brains and they think maybe fighting’s a waste of time and body. The boys become men. Look around, no boys in this bar.”

Tom stubbed out his Cheroot and leaned back.

In a low voice Les said, “You know folks here don’t have a lotta money for entertainment. Most days are boring from sunrise to sunset. Nighttime’s no better. Every day is near the same. Same cattle, cotton, rain, no rain, same troubles every day one after the other. Everybody’s day is the same as everybody else’s. Nothing happens that hasn’t happened the same way a thousand times before.

“Fights get the blood up, a few drinks on top of that and the fights get better and better every time you tell it. People listening eat it up. A two-minute fight can take 20 to tell if you do it right. And no two fights are the same. If two, three other people seen it, they’ll tell different sides of a story. Kinda like instant replay with lotsa camera angles.

“Think a minute. Nobody has cars or trucks worth a damn, besides we need them for work. Can’t race them, and truck pulls, mud rallies probly turn up bad trannies, stripped gears or worse. Can’t risk it. Talking fights beats sitting around watching TV preachers promising to save me from burnin’ in a ‘Lake of Fire’ for eternity if I give ‘em my money. Hell, I had a secret way to heaven I give it away for free.”

Doc chuckled and said, “And if you’re thinking about stepping out on your wife or girlfriend for something to do, well, don’t even try it. I’m not saying there’s not some cheating going on here and there but keeping it quiet only lasts a minute or two. Hang around Maggie over at the post office. Don’t know how she does it but she’ll know if you’re cheating even if you’re only thinking about it.

“Good news or bad, gossip travels fast. Truck breaks down, the news gets to town before you do. Swear to god, one time my truck quit on the 221 about 35 miles out. I hitched a ride with a tourist passing through. I get out of his car, go to the post office, Maggie hands me my mail, says, ‘I heard you left your truck on the 221.’”

A one minute story

The way he grinned I couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or lying.

Tom stood up, ready to leave. He put some bills on the table and said, “The next round’s on me.”

He looked at me and said, “Son, a truck breaking down ain’t much of a story, happens to somebody every day. Doc just told you the whole thing in two, three sentences, less than a minute. A good fight story, nobody knows how it starts or how it’s gonna turn out ‘til it’s over. Now which stories do you wanna hear?”

He put on his hat, nodded towards Jackie at the bar and went out the door.