Spring

Everywhere I looked in Panhandle someone was doing something preparing for the surge of outsiders who would make and spend enough cash to sustain the town through the summer and into the Fall when the harvests of cotton, alfalfa, and sorghum plus the sale of beef cattle would fatten bank accounts for the long, profitless winter months ahead. The activity made me think of places like Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where merchants eagerly await college Spring Breakers and their money, except that there are no beaches or bikinis in Panhandle.

It was late March. Cotton and alfalfa farmers were looking over fallow fields, planning acreage, reading long range weather forecasts, making decisions about exactly when to begin plowing and planting. Too early or late, crop yield could fail. A late frost like the one six years ago could wipe out any hopes of profit at harvest. They read weather forecasts from the AG agency, listened closely to the NOAA reports, studied the satellite pictures from NASA and kept a copy of the Old Farmers Almanac on the end table next to their recliners for backup.

Caravans of migrant laborers were due in a few days to prep the land. They would move on, working their way north to the vegetable fields in Wisconsin and Minnesota then back again in the Fall for the melon harvests in Marfa.

Cowboys from the western states were drifting in for the roundups and branding. Many of them liked to work in pairs while others preferred to go it alone, thinking their thoughts, perhaps not thinking, just doing a job. They’d be gone again by mid-summer, off to pastures in their home states where the seasons came and went a little later than they did in Panhandle country. In between, there were rodeos, where the young unbroken men would risk life and limb for prize money that would seem paltry compared to a broken neck.

Ok. We have all the brown ones. Now go get the black and white ones.

Oil wells have no season. The men who work the wells and pumps are here year round but their numbers swell and fall depending on the wildcatter’s luck at finding oil they can’t see, touch, or smell. A roustabout’s life is hard and the rewards few but they have a proud air about them, something they want everyone to see; that they’re tough men who work hard, play hard, die hard because nothing in life is easy but they can take it better than anyone else, especially you, whoever you are. It’s easy to knock the chips off their shoulders. Sometimes all it takes is a smile.

At the high school, the Senior boys and girls were giving each other final looks, making their choices for who they would marry in the coming months. Some set their sights elsewhere, like college or the Army. All of them are wistful about leaving childhood and anxious to get started on adulthood. Time was simultaneously passing too slowly or rushing by too quickly.

For Jackie’s bar, Spring brought more customers, longer hours behind the bar, less talk with the regulars. Rollie and Tim would do well recycling the empty bottles and cans in Jackie’s dumpster. They’re best friends, occasional handymen or laborers whenever they need money. Rollie, now in his 40’s never had a steady job and that’s how he likes it, his natural inclination being to do what he wanted when he wanted. Tim was a younger version of Rollie, an orphan who settled in Panhandle after finding life in big cities like Lubbock too stressful. If you needed help with anything involving manual labor you could usually find one of them where they lived in a trailer behind the bar.

Anticipating the Spring crowds, Sheriff Tom and Deputy Dudley prepared the drunk tank for receiving rowdy customers from the town’s four bars. Dudley laid in extra disinfectants, cleaning supplies and old towels in the cruisers and the supply closet at the jail. Mona, the dispatcher, threatened to quit every year around this time, complaining she didn’t sign on to wipe vomit off the floors and walls, and if the Sheriff didn’t like it, he could do the cleanup himself. The Sheriff just shrugged it off but to be fair, both he and Dudley did their share of cleaning.

Jackie’s is one of the four bars in Panhandle. Jackie’s Cold Day Inn got its name from an old timer visiting the bar the day it opened. When he learned the owner was a woman he declared it would be a cold day in hell before he ever came back.

If you’re looking for live country music, dancing, crowded tables, lots of noise, and watered down drinks you’ll probably wind up at Billy’s Last Stand. If you happen to be Mexican or some variety of Hispanic, Chato’s is the place to go. There’s a jukebox that plays Mexican country music, the drinks are reasonably priced and the beer ice cold. You can order Mexican botanas (hors d'oeuvres) from Mamacita’s Diner next door. Mamacita’s stays open from Friday night to Monday morning, serving up time-tested but unproven hangover cures.

If your tastes are more “refined” you’ll probably visit a chrome and leafy fern bar named Touch of Class, a place with low lighting, high prices, clean floors, table linens, and a pianist who plays so softly the music seems to be coming from across the street.

If you like what I like, you’ll go to Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. The drinks are mixed well and the beer is cold. (Sorry, but no craft beers are on offer. Water is served from a tap next to a dry sink full of chunky ice and cold beers.) It’s not a dive but let’s say the maintenance is casual. There is no jukebox and no live music. The patrons are people who like quiet conversation be it trivial or serious. Or others who want to have time for themselves and drink alone. I once overheard a pair of young ranch hands leaving the bar, one of them saying the place was like a library without books, and the other one asking when he’d ever been in a library.

Nearly everyone in town was busy getting ready for Spring except for me. This time of year no one wants to hear my sales pitches. They’ve already bought what farm equipment they needed last winter. If anything, I need to check with my home office to check on spare parts inventories. I know what equipment everybody has, how old it is, and a fair idea of which parts are likely to fail. It’s a good feeling to say, “Yeah, the torque converter is in stock, be here tomorrow by noon.” That earns me lots of atta boys and free drinks not to mention more sales later on. I love springtime. I can take my salesman hat off and drive from ranch to farm to ranch and talk to the men and women, human to human, hear their stories and tell them mine without a nickel changing hands.

And so it was that I was the lone customer at Jackie’s. Wendy and Jackie were too busy setting up extra mugs and bar rags, folding chairs and tables to pay any attention to me. Cases of beer and whiskey were stacked outside the storage room next to sacks of beer nuts the same color as the bags of kibble at Hanson’s feed store.

I went behind the bar and poured myself a Jack on the rocks, logged the drink next to my name on the ledger and went back to my table near the door. Out the window I could see Milo and Laurie across the street. Milo owns a crafts store and Laurie owns a gift shop a few doors down. Neither business gets much traffic from the spring visitors.

They appeared to be speaking cordially. Laurie’s hand kept going to her hair, brushing it behind her ear while Milo didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, in his pockets, out of his pockets while he smiled and looked straight at Laurie then breaking eye contact and looking past her down the sidewalk.

Those two had been seen at each other’s stores and, of course, that started rumors about them as a couple. Neither one has an ex-spouse and aren’t in a hurry to acquire one. I know both of them and it seems to me that they’re suited for each other but it’s an opinion I keep to myself. It’s town business and I’m from out of town. The Postmistress, Millie, whose uncanny ability to know things before they happen hasn’t said anything about it yet.

I stopped at Les’s General Store earlier that day to buy an extra pair of work gloves. The story goes that he opened his store with a $500 loan from the bank when he was just a 17 year old high school Senior with no collateral at a time when money was so tight the only credit you could get was for showing up for work on time.

He was busy arranging and re-arranging his stock when I walked in. Lucky for him he only sells dry goods, which means there’s no spoilage to worry about. What he does worry about is knowing which cowboy fashions are “in” this year. He still has an impressive inventory of Stetson knock offs that didn’t sell during spring four years ago. That mistake cost him several hundred dollars that he hopes to recover if that style ever comes back. I told him he should try removing the big fluorescent feathers and medallions on the crown. He fussed with a rack of belts and said he’d think about it.

Be back in style someday

Hand-tooled belts sell very well at Les’s. Stan, a former rodeo cowboy whose classmates used to call the Invisible Man, carves them. After a few years on the rodeo circuit he had had enough kidney-rattling bronco riding, came home and married a girl who was his opposite in every way. While no one, even his friends, can describe him without struggling a bit to find the words, no one has any difficulty in telling you about his wife, Corrina, a beautiful, vivacious woman everyone wants to know. How they ever got together confounds their friends to this day.

Bronc busting? It'll be fun, they said

I went to the bar to fix myself another drink. I glanced out the window and saw a delivery truck stopped in front of Doc Harris’s office unloading several boxes of what I guessed were medical supplies. Most bar fights that take place during Panhandle’s spring invasion aren’t too serious but Doc has to see all the injured. He stocks extra quantities of Ace bandages, surgical tape, cotton balls, antiseptics, and butterfly staples. During Spring he sleeps in his office on weekends so he doesn’t have to drive back and forth to his clinic every time he gets calls from the Sheriff. I think he gives the County volume discounts from March to end of May.

Doc Harris took over his father’s practice when the old man retired. People who knew the old Doc Harris swear his son looks exactly like he did many years ago. His medical diplomas from Baylor and Texas Tech hang on the far wall behind the receptionist’s desk so that you have to lean over her desk to read them, and Doris discourages leaners. Doc and Doris have been married for 20 years but haven’t bothered to go through the ceremony, so she’s still Miss Duncan to the patients, and nobody cares anymore.

I was still standing behind the bar when Mike rushed in and gave me a letter for Jackie. He touched the brim of his hat, said hi, and rushed out again. People who don’t know Mike underestimate him. They see his dirty hands and grimy coveralls and think ‘grease monkey’. The fact is, Mike works at his Conoco station and mechanic shop but he doesn’t need the job or the income. His money comes from land he leases to the Love's Truck Stop where the interstate intersects with SR1459. That intersection happens to be a crossroads for most of the trucking and tourism that passes on to South and East Texas.

Years ago when the slick moneymen from Dallas tried to buy three acres of his land he said no, but he’d lease it for a small percentage of the net income. Everybody thought he was a fool to pass up selling for a percent or two. Mike saw it differently figuring that the truck stop would be a success and would need to expand sooner or later --- on to ten more acres that he owned, at a higher percentage of the net income. Sheriff Tom told me Mike is doing what he wanted to do from the time he was a child, own a two-man gas station with a mechanic shop on the side.

To me, Mike symbolizes what the people of Panhandle are like. They know when they have enough. Their goals may be modest but they are achievable. Sheriff Tom sees everything that goes on in Panhandle close up. Cruising up and down empty county roads for years in a relatively crime free atmosphere, the Sheriff has a lot of time to think. He told me once that Panhandle was a town too small to grow and too good to die. It’s located in the center of a triangle of big cities that attract national business chains, medical centers, and universities.

Unlike at other small towns, the kids who grow up here go off to college or try their luck in the big cities often coming back to take over their parents’ ranches or businesses. Others who return take jobs in the big cities, combining small town life with big city wages. Look around, Tom said. Dying towns don’t have young folk like we do here. Well, I did look around. The Sheriff had a point.

I was mulling that over as I watched Jackie and Wendy wipe down the extra tables they’d set up. Those two get along so well you’d think they were mother-daughter or older sister-younger sister. It was half seriously rumored that Jackie had been married three times and had outlived the last husband with a well-placed shot between the eyes. To me, Jackie doesn’t seem the type to have led a wildly disordered early life. On the other hand I have witnessed her as an invincible she-bear when her friends are threatened. The set of her jaw and the glare in her eyes is enough to make most men wonder if maybe they’d be better off backing away. In a way she’s like a stick of dynamite, harmless until you light the fuse.

Jackie said something that made Wendy laugh. It’s hard not to look at Wendy. She is stunningly beautiful, and much to the sorrow of the young men of Panhandle, Wendy is gay. Doc Harris said it best when he remarked that at least one young gallant, Gary, would saw his fingers off one at time if that would make her straight. Sheriff Tom and Doc Harris are probably the most respected men in Panhandle. I was at Jackie’s with them one night when an exiting cowboy stage-whispered to us that Wendy was a #&#%$ queer. Both Tom and Doc stood up. Tom said, “So?” and Doc took one step towards the cowboy and followed him out.

Wendy and her wife, I think, are professional students who dabble in science then switch to the arts and literature, to history, to geology depending on who knows what. A good friend of mine is a professional student who by age 40 had accumulated enough credits for six unrelated degrees, and he wasn’t done. I haven’t heard from him in long time but I’m guessing he’s still piling up the credits toward some goal he hopes to find. Wendy’s most recent ambition is to become a teacher while her wife looks to have finally settled on a divinity degree.

Whatever they do, more power to them. I’ve been around long enough that I’ve learned not to judge. I’m a city boy born and bred. How I went from studying liberal arts and beach babes in California to selling farm equipment in Texas is a story I would tell if only I could make sense of it myself. One day I woke up, put on my jeans, boots, and hat, drove to my office in Amarillo where my boss presented me with an award for 20 years of stellar sales. There is no logic to my life nor can I find that moment when I said to myself that I was born to sell furrow makers in Texas for the next 20 or 30 years.

I know I’ve had too much Jack when I start thinking like that so I decided to go to my room at the Lazy Bones Motel, order some take out and watch TV but that plan went away when Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris walked in talking and laughing.

Tom was saying, “So when I said, ‘Doc, are you ready for the Poodle Shoot next Saturday?’ she screamed, hit me with her purse and kicked me in the shin.”

Jackie looked up and said, “Hold on, Tom. I wanna hear this one from the beginning.”

Johnny Buckaloo's Blues

“I know we weren’t supposed to laugh but, damnit, it was funny. Next thing I know his manager was in our faces yelling at us to get out. But we couldn’t stop laughing long enough to grab the change off the bar and leave.”

Milo, Doc Harris, Gary, Mike, and Sheriff Tom were at corner table at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn telling me about the dust-up at Billy’s Last Stand a few nights before. I had just rolled in from Pampa and I was the only one in town who hadn’t heard the story.

Jackie's was the same as it was the last time I was here three weeks ago except for a new Pearl Beer clock. By my count there were eight clocks now, none of which had the right time by several hours. 

Gary checked the bruise on his cheek softly before he spoke.

“There’s no doubt the kid has talent. He plays his guitar like a pro but if he’s going anywhere besides comedy clubs he’s gonna need somebody to write his songs or at least listen to ‘em before he lets them out into the wild; somebody that’s not his momma.

“He does all right when he’s singing other stars’ songs and does a fair job of imitating their style. Anyhow, he’s doing his show and we’re applauding at all the right places, encouraging him, give ‘im some hope that he’s got a future in the business. He does some Merle Haggard, Waylon, and Willie. Follows that with some fiddle work, Bob Wills style, and we’re with ‘im, liking ‘im more and more.

“So the stage lights go dim, just a spotlight on him, you could barely see the band behind ‘im. Somebody brings him a stool to sit on and he starts talking about the great names in country, how they inspired him as a little boy listenin’ to them on a tiny radio in his daddy’s house. His talkin’ voice is so soft we’re leanin’ in to hear his story. He’s got us ready for what’s comin’ next, which is when things went south.”

"Operator, put me in touch with tomorrow."

Milo scooted up on his chair and said, “He tells us he wrote the next song and it’ll be the first time he'll be singing it on stage. It’s all about a girl he loved once who left him high and dry. Turned his world upside down and all that. Now, he had some good lines that I don’t think made it into his song. Country song stuff like, ‘all it takes is the right girl, the right bar, and the right friends to turn your life inside out.’ I thought to myself, he ought to use that in his song. Maybe he did but we never got to hear him sing it.

“He started off playing a slow tune, kinda sad. Nice finger work between chords. Like Gary said, the boy has talent. He played like that for a minute or two. The place is quiet, nobody’s talking or clinking their drinks, everybody’s waiting to hear the song that goes with the music. He stops playing and says,

‘The Wind Whispered Her Name But Not Her Phone Number.’

“Okay, so yeah, we’d been drinking steady for a coupla hours and maybe I shouldn’t have said, ‘If your girl is Cindy Lou, her number’s on the wall in the bathroom.’

“According to Jim I said it loud enough so everybody heard it.”

  

I put my hands up chest high, palms out. I said, “You actually said that?” Milo nodded yes.

Doc Harris said, "We've been adding our own jokes all week. Listen to this one. 'You know how it is sometimes. You’re out in the back yard and the wind whips up and says, ‘The number you have dialed is not a working number.’”

Sheriff Tom couldn’t help himself. "Hold on, I got another one. 'I’ve heard a hundred songs that have the wind whisperin' stuff but I’ve never heard it recitin’ numbers.'”

The men whooped and high-fived each other for their cleverness, simultaneously sipping their drinks in salute.

When they quieted down Gary said, “Most times when there’s a heckler, the bouncer takes care of business right away and the show goes on. Thing is, this was Johnny Buckaloo’s debut so you can guess how many of his family and cousins was there listenin’ to one of their own break in to the big time. Milo mighta been the first one to laugh at Johnny but it didn’t take but a coupla seconds for a lotta other people to catch on and start laughin’, too.”

Milo pointed to his forehead and said, “The house lights come on, Jim headbutts me, throws me over his shoulder and lays me down behind the bar. After that, I don’t remember anything.”

Mike adjusted the sling on his right arm and tried to sip his beer. He winced when the mug touched his purple lip but took a long pull anyway and said, “I haven’t been in a free-for-all like that since my cousin married a Catholic. It was a whole show watching the minister and the priest goin’ at each other like they were rasslin’ Satan himself.

"Both 'em were up in years so they wore themselves out pretty quick, and at the end they looked like they were fightin' in slow motion. I wanted to stop 'em but everybody shouted no, let's see who wins. Looked like a draw to me. My cousin and his wife left town and never came back. Their families act like nuthin’ ever happened.

“But the fight at Billy’s was confusing. There was no way to know who was mad about laughing at Buckaloo and who was fightin’ just for fightin’ or only tryin’ to get out of the way. It wasn’t like one side was wearin’ one color uniform and the other side another color. Me? I don’t know who hit me or who I hit. For all I know it was Jim gave me the sore shoulder or me givin’ him the shiner.

“And the women – pulling each other’s hair. A lot of it came off. After it was over, I looked on the floor, there’s hanks of hair all over the place but no blood. My wife told me the women wear extensions and it probly hurts like hell when it’s yanked off.”

Nodding at me, Gary added, “You shoulda seen Jim and Angel knockin’ heads. Angel took two women down just like that and nobody went near her after that, standin' there with a hunk of hair in each hand. Jim, well, Jim is Jim. He fights hard but clean even if it’s two on one. I swear he was smilin’ the whole time, swinging left and right at whoever was in front of him. He took some pretty good licks but there’s no quit in ‘im. When it’s time for him to go, the Grim Reaper’s gonna need backup.

Sheriff Tom cleared his throat and said, “Saturday nights me and my deputy stay close to Billy’s figuring there’s good odds I’ll have to break something up. But that night we were clear over the other side of town helpin’ the State Troopers close down the interstate, four car pile up across both lanes.

“Billy called the dispatcher said get the Sheriff here fast. I told the dispatcher to call him back and tell him to pull the breaker on the lights so nobody can see what they’re doin’. He never made it to the power panel. Somebody knocked him out before he could cut the lights.

“We finally get there and right away I see there’s no way the two of us are gonna stop the fight without getting hurt ourselves so I draw my .45 and fire at the ceiling. Lucky shot, I hit something up there and the lights went out. The place got real quiet until the emergency lights went on. Whatever my bullet hit also turned on the sprinkler system, which is set up to send an alarm to the fire department.

“The place is barely lit, there’s water pourin’ down everywhere, people running around screaming, and here comes the fire truck, siren blastin' away.

“Now, there’s something I hafta tell you about the fire department. There’s two rookies on the squad. You know ‘em both, ‘specially, Don’s boy, Jeremy, who isn't the smartest pup in the litter.

“I was standin’ on a chair yellin’ at the crowd to settle down and line up against the walls, water’s pouring down, everybody’s shouting. I still got my gun out. Jeremy is the first one through the door. He’s carryin’ a fire axe.

Maybe they should let Jeremy hold the fire hose instead

“The way the emergency lights are set up, I’m lit from the front so all Jeremy can see is my silhouette. What he sees some guy standin’ on a chair, soaking wet, waving a gun around, ordering everybody to shut up. And Jeremy’s got a fire axe.

“A hundred people in front of me scream, Nooooo! Then bottles start flying past me at Jeremy. The bottles knock his helmet off. He drops the axe and runs out the door. The fire chief turns off the sprinkler system. Walked around the mess, shook his head, and said call him in the morning.

“Still holding my gun, I say everybody line up along the walls, told Deputy Dudley to cuff ‘em all.

“First thing I looked for was Jim and Angel, and sure enough, there they were, looking bored, knowing what was gonna happen next. Spent the next three hours filling out arrest reports and taking names for more questioning later. Then I told everybody to go home but stay close to home next few days while I sort this thing out. EMS told me nobody was hurt too bad, mostly bruises, sprains, and a few cuts. I could’ve arrested half of ‘em for D&D but I said hell with it and let everybody go. Turned out nobody wanted to file complaints against anybody so I 86’d the paperwork.”

I said, “Hold on, guys. I have a question or two. Milo, why were you at Billy’s with Jim and Angel and why did he headbutt you?”

Everybody started to answer but Doc Harris held up his hand and said, “Jim and Angel invited him go to Billy’s with them to hear the new country singer. Jim wasn’t at Jackie’s when Milo put Steve’s lights out. He thought Milo got in a lucky punch. So he got it in his head that Milo would probly get himself killed next time he got into any kind of fight, like with one of the roughnecks from the oil fields. He decided to make Milo his project, teach him how to fight Texas Panhandle style.

Sheriff Tom said, “Well, Milo knows how to fight his way and can handle himself but maybe Jim’s got a point. The best boxer in the world don’t worry about the second best boxer. He worries about a guy who’s never been in the ring before because that guy won’t do what’s expected. He could throw a punch he ain’t supposed to at a time he ain’t supposed to and lands the luckiest punch of his life. Roughnecks don’t know about rules or customs in bar fights and even if they did, the only thing that matters is who wins, do whatever it takes to make sure it’s them."

I said, "There's rules and customs in bar fights?"

Mike said, "Yep, just a couple. Number one, no hitting the other guy's privates. Number two, no hitting the other guy's privates."

Sheriff Tom said, “That's right. Anyhow, like Doc said, Jim didn’t know about Milo’s skills when he invited him to Billy’s, plannin’ to offer to teach ‘im how to fight dirty. So when Jim sniffed the air and smelled a fight coming he did what he had to do to protect Milo from getting hurt, headbutted him and put him safely away behind the bar.”

The Sheriff about to say something else but I interrupted. “So it was Milo’s heckling that started the fight but he's somewhere in dreamland while everybody else is busy beating each other up.”

Mike said, “Yeah, ain't that a pisser?”

Doc Harris waved at Wendy for another round of drinks. Changing gears he said, “Sheriff, you played football in high school, so did all of us here. If I remember you were fullback, Les played quarterback, Mike and Gary, linemen. I was the waterboy. Anybody remember who the placekicker was?”

The men stared into space searching their memories. Finally, Gary said, “Rogers. Sam Rogers.”

Wendy brought our drinks. Doc Harris thanked her, took a sip and said, “Sam and I spent all our football years sitting on the bench, side by side. Only time he was on the field was for the kickoffs, extra points, or field goals. He told me once that placekicking was the only position he ever wanted.

Count how many things could go wrong here

“’Just think about it for a minute, he told me. They never get tackled, they don’t have to do the hitting drills in practice. In a game they come in to win it with a kick, be heroes when it happens. Girls don’t turn ‘em down for dates. And bonus, their uniforms don’t get dirty and that makes their mommas very happy.’

“I was patching up the injured at Billy’s that night when Milo stood up from behind the bar. He wasn’t even wet. I thought of Sam Rogers. Milo was the only one there that didn’t get hurt, dirty, or wet. He reminded me of a placekicker coming off the bench, clean uniform, the other players looking like hell.”

Nobody said anything for a while. They were probably thinking about those long ago glory days on the football field.

I said, “It’s too bad about Johnny Buckaloo. His debut ruined, everybody mad at each other.”

Gary smirked and said, “Don’t trouble your mind over that. Most everybody there didn’t even know why they were fightin’. They’ll be talkin’ about it for a long time, what a great fight it was. Each one’s gonna be the hero when they tell it.”

Mike nodded, agreeing.

“Don’t worry about Johnny Buckaloo’s future either”, the Sheriff said. “He’s got one hell of an agent. After the foul up at Billy’s he went to Lubbock and Amarillo and talked to some friends of his at the newspapers. He spun a tale about Buckaloo’s debut turnin’ into a riot, started when some fans of old style country heckled him for ditchin’ his acoustic guitar for a Fender electric for a coupla songs, just like what happened to Bob Dylan a long time ago. They were too young to get the reference but that was ok ‘cause they dropped Dylan’s name into the story, punched it up a bit.”

Doc Harris showed me a folded newspaper he had on his lap and said, “It’s all here in the Lubbock paper. If things had happened the way it says here, I wish I'd been there.”

He tapped the newspaper with his finger. “Says the fighting was so bad the Sheriff and his deputy came in to Billy’s with guns blazing, shot out the lights but that wasn’t enough to stop the riot. The fire department had to use water cannons to end it. Over a hundred people arrested, loaded into prison buses and taken away. Buckaloo and his band barely escaped out the back. They’re hiding out for now until they think it’s safe to perform again. There’s a picture of Johnny, too.”

The Sheriff handed me the newspaper and said, “Pretty good story doncha think? Around these parts Lubbock and Amarillo are big cities. Small towns like this one don’t matter much to city folks. So instead of coming here to talk to people who were at Billy’s that night, the reporters sat on their butts and telephoned me. I gave them the short version: a heckler got the audience riled up. That started a fight. The Sheriff’s department broke it up and sent everybody home.

“The story I told ‘em won’t sell papers. They printed Buckaloo’s version and now he’s famous, booked for shows in Amarillo and Lubbock. Austin, Dallas could be next. He’s got the Panhandle Riot story down pat. If his lie don’t catch up to ‘im before he makes it to the big time, it won’t hurt him a bit.”

Don't Worry About Him. He Fights Like A Girl

Fresh off another sales call with old man Newman, I pulled into Panhandle looking forward to a few cold ones with my informal drinking buddies at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. I save my expense money for the time I spend in Panhandle. I usually stay there an extra day or two to rest and hang out with Sheriff Tom and his friends.

Jackie owns the bar and Wendy tends it when she's not taking classes at the community college. Jackie’s the type that’ll help anybody who needs it; a soft touch unless you want to drink on credit. Wendy’s a stunner who’s disappointed every male in the county by being married and gay. I laughed to myself, remembering a story about a young cowboy working hard to get a date with her knowing she was gay. He was convinced he could persuade her to switch sides. She cupped his chin with her hand, looked lovingly into his eyes and said, “Gary, suppose it works in reverse and I turn you gay?” He got out as fast as he could, everybody in the bar hooting and whistling at him. Jackie says that’s Wendy’s MO whenever the guys get too pushy.

I didn’t see Sheriff Tom’s cruiser when I arrived at the bar but he was there at the corner table. Doc Harris was there too. I took my seat, said hello, and Wendy hipwalked over with my drink.

Tom was leaning sideways in his chair, favoring his left side. He had some cuts on his face, purple, stitched up, and a cast on his right wrist. I knew better than to ask what happened but the possibility that Milo was involved passed through my mind. Whatever it was I knew the Sheriff would tell me if it was ok for me to know.

The last time I was here, Milo, a mild mannered newcomer to Panhandle (moved here three years ago), broke Steve’s nose and cheekbone with a single move so fast and decisive only someone trained in the martial arts could have done it. Milo’s sudden aggression made everybody wonder if he was somebody other than the quiet, unassuming man he’d been until then. I was willing to bet even money that Sheriff Tom would dig 'til he got some answers.

The Sheriff rested his good hand on the cast and said “Milo and I went fishing at the Sanford Reservoir. Did ok. On the way back a mule deer and her fawn jumped out of the culvert right in front of us. I swerved, lost control and we rolled over twice. I wasn’t hurt too bad; Milo was knocked out but breathing. You can see I broke my wrist, got some cracked ribs. According to Doc Harris here, Milo had a fair size concussion and a knot on his head from hitting the glass, some bruising but otherwise ok.

Thank you for your concern. The department will take
your suggestion into consideration.

“Cept for the rollover it was a pretty good trip. Got to know Milo a lot better. Interesting fella, more to ‘im than I expected. He’s still in the hospital, gettin’ out tomorrow but be laid up for another day or two. I won’t be telling any tales outa school by telling you what I found out about 'im. He said it wouldn’t do any harm.

“I didn’t plan to take him fishing, just worked out that way. The day before we went I stopped by his crafts shop, looking for shoelaces for my boots. Les didn’t have any at his store, said Milo might have some in his leather goods.

“I could see all the way to the back of the store where Milo was moving stuff around the storage room. He looked busy so I went to him, said hello, told him what I needed. He said he had some extra long laces he could cut but he’d have to find 'em. We talked some more then he raised his arms to put a box of ribbons on the top shelf. High up on his bicep I see a tattoo, looks like a military insignia. Couldn’t tell exactly what it was but it wasn’t a heart with “Mother” written across it.

“Well, ever since Milo busted up Steve’s face I’ve been thinking about who Milo really is. He looks and acts like a guy with street smarts but not how you think. In his case it’s Sesame Street smarts, if you know what I mean. The move he put on Steve made me doubt my powers of observation and that don’t sit well with me.

“Right then I decided it was time me and Milo oughta get to know each other better."

Doc Harris and I exchanged a smile that said, yeah, we figured as much.

Tom ignored us and went on, “I said, ‘Milo, a friend of mine at the VA told my you served three tours in ‘Nam’.

“He didn’t say anything just stared at me. I stared at him. He stared back.

“I’m good at staring, done it to a lot of perps in my time. Well, I tell you what, good as I am, Milo’s better.

“I said, it’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it. I unnerstand. I was there myself. He stared. I stared but he’d already beat me. I knew it. He knew it.

“All he said was, ‘That was a long time ago.’

“He took an empty coffee can filled it with cat chow from a sack on the floor, opened the door to the alley where there was a buncha cats standing around some food bowls.

“I tried one more time and said my friend at the VA said you were a Ranger, tough duty.

“He squatted to fill the food bowls and said, ‘These are feral cats, nine of ‘em now. I’ve been feeding them twice a day for three years and they still won’t let me touch them. I guess nature taught them not to trust anything but their instincts. The gray and white cat was the first one then he brought the others so maybe there’s some trust in them; they trust each other.’

Ferals share and share alike

"He stood up, stowed the coffee can and said, ‘Sheriff, tell me something. What does it take to get a little trust and stop being an outsider? I’ve lived here three years, been a good citizen, paid my taxes, voted. What does it take?’

“The way he was standing, feet apart, arms at his sides, I thought for a second he was fixin' to give me the same business he give Steve. I pretended not to notice; looped my thumbs on my belt all relaxed looking. He eased up too.

“I said, ‘I don’t rightly know how long it takes, Milo. Depends on who you are. Jorge Washington De La Cruz’s been here a lot longer than you and there’s still some folks treat him like a stranger they gotta be on the look out for. There’s still one or two give him room on the sidewalk, afraid he’ll whip out his Buck and cut their throats.’”

Buck knife costs 150 bucks

“Jorge Washington De La Cruz?”

“We call ‘im Washington DC for short. Mexican fella, has a little spread outside a Shamrock. Big mustache, dark eyes, Buck knife on his belt, makes him look dangerous but he ain’t. One time I saw him stop in the middle of the 826, traffic flying by, 70, 80 mile an hour, while he picked a box turtle off the road, moved it 50 yards off to the side. I stopped, turned on my flashers, slowed traffic down. A mean guy woulda run over that turtle, not caring. Rough and tough as he looks, that put him in my book as a good guy. You probly know his wife, Jenny, white woman, drives a red pickup.”

“Yeah, I do. I didn’t know Jorge was her husband. Slender woman, delicate, came here once asking if I knew how to make piñatas. I told her I didn’t but I saw a lot of them in LA so it wasn’t hard to figure out. She brought me some homemade Mexican sweet bread and I told her she should open a bakery. I even suggested a slogan, ‘Mexican sweet bread just like my Mother-in-Law used to make.’ I think the shoelaces you want are up front.”

“As he searched under the counters I said, ‘Fittin’ in in a new place is hard, ‘specially with folks who like things the way they are. You’re a different breed of cat from the West Coast. You could be anybody. Then you pull that stunt with Steve. There were a hundred people at Jackie’s that night. Only five or six of us actually saw it happen but there’s a hundred versions of what happened going around. That mighta set you back some.

“You oughta talk to Jackie about that. She says the first step to fittin’ in is for you to start droppin’ your g’s. Next thing is add a second or two between sentences. Dropping the g’s, makes you sound local. Second thing gives folks a little time to decide what you really mean when you say something, anything, even hi, how are you? You gotta take it slow, gradual like; grow on people ‘til they feel like you lived here your whole life.

“He grinned like he thought I was funnin’ with him and I was, but only part ways. He found the shoelaces, I paid for ‘em and I spied a cane fishing pole like we had when we were kids. 

“I said you like to fish? He said he did some beach fishing in LA and Santa Monica, some fresh water fishing at Big Bear.

“What say we go to the Sanford Reservoir Sunday. They got bass, walleye, and carp.

“Next day we unloaded our gear at the reservoir and set up to cast our fishing rods. I saw he didn’t put bait on his line but I didn’t say anything. I got some bites and missed hooking the fish. Of course, he didn’t even get a twitch on his lines. I reeled in my line to put more bait on my hook. Did that a coupla times. He just sat there looking at the water or reading his book.

“Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more, I said, Milo, you ever catch any fish in LA or anywhere else? He said no, had a deal with the fish. ‘I don’t tease them with bait and they don’t interrupt my reading. We don’t waste each other’s time.’ I couldn’t say anything to that and I said to myself, this boy’s gonna be an outsider forever. I let it go and didn’t say anymore about it. Later on, we’re eatin’ some nice walleye I caught and we talked guy stuff and about the book he was reading, something about how our minds work. Well, his talking made my brain work overtime, wondering if maybe he was studying me instead of the other way around. I’m not used to that.

Sportsman's MRE

“We had a few more Coronas while we fished and he loosened up some more. Told me he quit his teaching job ‘cause of an asshole department head that thought you don’t count unless your degrees come from a big name university. He was passed over for promotions too many times, quit and went looking for a place where knowing how to change a flat tire or use a hammer was more important than where you went to school. Panhandle looked like that kinda place so he settled here.

“We were done fishing, on our way back to town and I say, ‘Milo, about that beating you laid on Steve…’

“He let out a big sigh. ‘I know half the town’s thinking I’m with the CIA or I’m a specially trained spy. The other half wonders why I’m here and not where I belong… anywhere but here.”

“Turns out Milo did three tours in ‘Nam as a medic and didn’t carry or fire a weapon the whole time. Spent a year on medevac helo crews and two years attached to forward combat units. He was a conscientious objector but volunteered anyway, trying to do the right thing. And you know stateside people think conscientious objectors are as bad as draft dodgers or cowards. Worse yet, unpatriotic. Am I wrong or right? He said he saw things he’ll never forget and that’s all he’ll say about that.

“Well, that shut me up pretty good. I spent my one-year tour scared half outa my mind and I had a weapon with me the whole time. And here’s Milo, does three tours in a row, and he’s got nuthin’ in his hands but a first aid kit.”

Jackie called out from behind the bar, asking if we wanted another round. Tom said yes and while we waited Doc Harris said, “I didn’t wanna fight either, but there’s no way I coulda been a medic. Milo did three tours. Even if he did just one, the man deserves a lotta respect.”

Just then four rowdy cowboys came in and took a table at the far end of the bar. We watched Wendy take their order while they each tried to get her attention. She brushed them off with a smile as she always did, flirting back without coming on to them. The boys ate it up. She’d be hell on wheels in sales, I thought. I turned my attention back to my drink.

There was a shout from the cowboys’ table and we saw Wendy bending a cowboy’s finger back, not hurting him yet, but it wouldn’t take much to make it hurt a lot. I started to leave my chair, but Doc Harris put his hand on my arm and said wait a second. Tom sat back with his hands resting on his stomach, his head tilted like he’s asking a question, ‘Need help, Wendy?’

Still holding the cowboy’s finger, Wendy pointed at our table with her other hand and said loud enough for us to hear, “Now, cowboy, you’re as cute as can be, but you need to keep your hands to yourself. See that man over there, star on his chest, big ol' gun on his hip? That’s the Sheriff. Look around, everybody’s drinking and talking but their eyes are on you. What they’re doing is watching out for me. They know me. They don’t know you. All I have to do is say the word and nobody’ll ever see you again. Understand? Now, can I get you boys a drink?”

The cowboys were too embarrassed to leave, not sure what to do. They quieted down and went back to drinking. We watched Wendy move from table to table, tending to her customers.

Doc Harris turned to the Sheriff and said, “Hey, Tom, you know what I’m thinkin’? Milo could teach Wendy some new moves, show her how to fight like a girl. Either one gets hurt, he can patch it up.”

I looked at Doc Harris. “What do you mean teach Wendy how to fight like a girl?” Doc Harris dipped his head in Tom's direction.

No fair. She fights like a girl

Tom took a sip of his bourbon, took his time lighting one of his Cheroots and said, “Okay, here’s the rest of it. Milo and me, we’re driving along, headin’ home, nobody talking. Then he says, ‘Tom, I didn’t answer your question about what I did to Steve.’

“He told me a story about how he shared an apartment with a martial arts expert for eight years in LA. She was a phys ed teacher at the same college. She was so good she had trouble finding sparring partners and roped him into the life. Sometimes they practiced at home and had to move twice because the neighbors thought they were murdering each other and called the cops.

“According to him, Maryanne was a fine woman, better as a sparring partner than a wife. It worked for both of ‘em. She didn’t need a husband, he didn’t need a wife and I expect there were other benefits. Milo was her live-in sparring partner who paid half the rent, did some cooking and cleaning. It ended when she quit her job and moved to Oregon.

“She taught him well and he got pretty good, no way near expert level, you unnerstand, but good enough to take anybody by surprise if they didn't know 'im. The exercise felt good, staying fit, sweatin' off the tension from work, ‘specially the faculty politics. Those were the best years of his life. Both of them were young, money in their pockets, moving up in their careers.

"At the gym where they trained, Maryanne would push newcomers to start off light, sparrin' with Milo who looked like a soft target. ‘Don’t worry about him. You’ll see. He fights like a girl.'''

The End

It's Okay in Texas, Part 2

“The State Trooper clocked you at 85 coming down the 207 from Borger. Lucky for you Officer Denny’s my nephew, talked him into lettin’ you go, ‘cept now I owe him one. Easy come, easy go, I guess. I never known you to be in a hurry about anything. What gives?”

“Well, Tom, when I was in Panhandle two weeks ago you had a dead minister and some rumors about him being the earthly father of a bunch of kids. You had Reg Hartsell up for homicide or accidental shooting. I like murder mysteries and if there’s sex involved, more so. I plead guilty to cutting my sales trips short to get to Panhandle as soon as I could to see how you worked it out.”

“You missed your calling, son. You shoulda been a cop. You oughta quit tractor sales and join the force. We might have an opening now the city’s grown some.”

We were at our usual table in the corner, near the door at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn waiting for Doc Harris and Les. Jackie and Wendy were busy getting ready for “Women Only Night.” One night a week the bar was closed to men and the townswomen were invited to meet and spend an evening free from kids, husbands, boyfriends, and bosses. Jackie was expecting 30 women to show up and one or two newcomers.

Doc Harris and Les showed up, waved to Jackie at the bar and sat down with us. Jackie brought their drinks and Tom asked her to join us.

Tom said, “Jackie, I was telling our friend here about what happened with the minister and Reg and how my powerful mind figured out what really happened. But the other stuff, you know, about the dimpled chins, I think you and Doc tell it better ‘n me. You okay with that?”

She nodded, waved to Wendy for a drink and grabbed the chair next to me.

Les winked at me and said, “I’m gonna spoil it for you. The coroner ruled accidental homicide, Tom’s a master investigator who believes in talking dogs.”

Tom shot Les a sharp look but I could tell he didn’t mean it. He lit one of Cheroots, took a deep drag like he always does when he’s warming up to tell a story.

“In the end it was Buckshot’s testimony that made up my mind for me”, he said. “Buckshot’s one of Reverend Randolph’s hunting dogs in case you didn’t know. There was Reg’s account of how he shot the Reverend square in the chest; the hair trigger pull on the shotgun the gun expert from Lubbock showed us, and a dead jackrabbit. It all added up to accidental death.

“The dog’s testimony, Tom?”

“I know, I know, it’s hard to believe but when you put everything together it makes sense. According to Reg’s statement, it happened like this:

“Reg and the Reverend had just set out for quail, the two dogs were up field about 30 yards, maybe another 20 yards apart. The dog on the right, Riley, spooked some quail. Reg got ready to aim and shoot when the Reverend shouted, “Buckshot!” That startled Reg, he turned quick, tripped and pulled the trigger as he fell. The autopsy showed the blast going upwards which made sense if Reg was falling back.

“I been Sheriff here more’n 20 years. I look for what fits, what don’t. If it don’t make sense I have to prove it don’t. So I’m looking at the scene. Reg’s story about what happened that day made sense but he’s the only witness so I gotta think could it happen some other way that it wasn’t an accident? I’ve known Reg all his life. I like ‘im, he’s a good man, fine father and husband, but if he committed a crime, all that good stuff don’t mean a fart in the wind.

“Could be the Reverend did him wrong some way we don’t know about. Maybe seduced his wife or took something didn’t belong to him, who knows? There’s those rumors about the Reverend, you know. Maybe the Reverend caused Reg some misery that made him lose his mind for just a second. But I’ll tell you what, the law doesn’t care how crappy your day, your week, or your life is, you commit a crime, only the crime matters. Whatever prison you wind up in, it’s the one you fixed up yourself.”

“Tom”, I said. “The dog, Buckshot?”

“Hold on, I’m gettin’ to him. I’m looking around where the Reverend was shot. Truck is back aways, Reverend’s hat and shotgun are a coupla feet from the body. And there’s Buckshot to the left a bit. He’s sitting looking at me proud like, waggin’ his tail and there’s a jackrabbit at his feet. Fresh kill, neck’s broke.

“So I say, ‘Buckshot’, did you get this rabbit?’ Ole Buckshot wags his tail some more, I swear he smiled.

“Put two and two together and I got an accidental shooting. So I say kinda stern, ‘Buckshot did you go chasing after this rabbit when you were supposed to be looking for quail?’ His head went down a tad, no tail wagging now. ‘Buckshot, you know you did wrong. Am I right?’ Ole dog dropped his head, wouldn’t look at me.

“I squatted next to him and said, ‘Buckshot, it went down this way. You went chasing after this jackrabbit, your master yelled at you. Reg turned around, tripped and fell. He didn’t mean to pull the trigger as he fell. Is that what happened?’

“He didn’t have to say a word. He hung his head down almost to the ground. Right then I knew I had the truth.”

“’Course, I didn’t tell it this way at the inquest. I made it sound like I figured it out by myself, kept Buckshot out of it. The squirrelly DA might wanna charge him with reckless endangerment or something.

"Wait a minute, Tom", I said. "You had it figured out before the coroner's inquest?"

Tom looked at me squinty-eyed. "Sure, I knew how it happened but I didn't have the autopsy or ballistic reports yet. How would it look if I go to the DA with -- accidental death, this here dog told me so. Got any doubts all you gotta do is make 'im raise his right paw, swear 'im in.

"I swear to tell the truth..."

 "The ballistics guy from Lubbock PD testified that the shotgun’s sear was worn out, making the trigger pull less than half what it oughta be. Long story short, the coroner’s judgment was accidental shooting, told everybody go home.”

Les shifted around in his chair, cocked his head sideways and said, “Tom, remember we were thinking the Reverend Randolph might be the daddy of some of the kids around here, the ones with dimpled chins? Maybe Reg shooting him was accidental but if Reverend Randy was fishing in somebody else’s pond, he might be a dead man sooner or later anyway.”

Doc said, “Les is probly right about that, Tom. Cheatin’ on your spouse is as low as you can go. For most folks, the wife or husband cheatin’ means the end of everything that matters.

“But a couple of days ago I called a friend of mine at Texas Tech, heads up the biology department, told him about the dimples and what we all were thinking about the minister. I’m embarrassed to tell you he lit into me for starting a rumor that could cause innocent people a lotta hurt. Don’t know how long he cussed me out before he gave me lessons in modern genetics, what we know now that we didn’t know 25 years ago when we were in med school together.

I told him he could watch Netflix on it

“Oh, he gave me chapter and verse on recessive genes, alleles, autosomals, dominants and I don’t remember what all. Didn’t stop talking for 30 minutes. When he ran out of wind I said, ‘Does that mean dimples could be almost from anybody?’ He started up again schoolin' me about gene pools in small communities being narrow but deep and how I should shut up about dimples on kids or anybody else. Like I said, I’m embarrassed but on the other hand, all of us here know more than we did two weeks ago. Most of all don’t count dimples.”

We all nodded in agreement except Jackie. She was slumped in her chair, drumming her fingers on the table, looking at each of us like we were five years old, caught fibbing to our mothers.

“Yep”, Jackie said. “We should all keep our mouths shut when we don’t know what we’re talking about. I’ve been bartending most of my life and I’ve learned a lot about men and women. One thing is that men ain’t any different from women when it comes to gossip. All of you, think a minute about the things you talk about among yourselves --- how could so an so afford that new truck, and what about the time we saw JimBob getting friendly with Marsha down at the bank. Surprise, boys, you just gossip about different things but it’s still gossip.

“Bartenders hear lots of stories, always from the point of view of the one telling it, never hear the other side. I suppose that’s a good thing, otherwise Tom’d be here every night breakin’ things up. But I’ll tell you something, somebody’s telling you their story, the truth is in the spaces between the words. That’s how truths are told. You listen close, you can hear the other side. In the little bit of time between the words, they’re looking for an innocent way to say the next word. You find out blame goes both ways, more here than there maybe but still both ways.

“I’m not supposed to tell what we talk about on “Women Only Night”, but anybody can guess the last two meetings all we talked about was Reverend Randy. The shooting was an accident, of course. Tom proved that at the inquest. There was a lotta talk about what a good man the minister was, how he comforted us when gramma or grampa died, when things weren’t goin’ so well at home, money problems and so on. How he worked to help people who were hard up, whole families just passin’ through, clothes, food, money if he had some.

“I won’t say who, but one of the women wondered if sinnin' with a man of the cloth was a worse sin than adultery with any other man. That started up another conversation. The church ladies thought it was sinful to even talk about that but they talked about it anyway; saying the Almighty would not look kindly on the Jezebels, send them to a special hell. Others weren’t so sure about that. What about if the minister was the one taking advantage? Would he get a special hell and the women get a pass? I listened hard to everything. And there it was, between the words. The truth. Two women told the truth and nobody knew it but me.

“I know you’re gonna ask who it was but I’m not telling. You can ask Buckshot.”