Baby, you can drive my car...

The town of Panhandle (pop. 2655) has cattle ranches, thousands of acres of cotton, alfalfa, broom corn and a few oil derricks. It's not known for anything in particular and its citizens like it like that. It's the kind of place where if your cousin sends you a postcard from across the country you might not get it delivered until everyone who visits with Millie at the Post Office has read it.

Panhandle's too small to have a full fledged police department and barely big enough to need a Sheriff and a deputy or two to keep the peace. Busy time is Friday and Saturday nights when oilfield roughnecks and ranch hands come to town to spend their pay and time drinking and brawling. The tests of strength usually begin around 10 o’clock. The Sheriff's Sunday mornings are spent bringing the drunks to court, Judge Porter dishing out small fines. The rest of the week, when he's not at the bar, Sheriff Tom is driving around the county, stopping now and then to pick up gossip that he'll feed into the stories he loves to tell at his favorite bar.

I tour eighteen Texas towns up and down the Plains peddling farm equipment and I have friends and customers in each town, but Panhandle has my favorite bar, Jackie's Cold Day Inn. There's no TV, jukebox or live music at Jackie's. The oakwood floors are worn smooth, sharp edges on the tables and chairs are only memories. None of the seven beer clocks over the bar tell the actual time. The object of this bar is to kill time instead of it killing you. Young bucks look in, declare the place dead then head out to Billy's Last Stand where the air is thick with loud music, pheromones, cold beer, and hot women.

Jackie's is the Sheriff's unofficial office. You're likely to find the Sheriff there at any hour of the day doing bits of paperwork in between sips of whiskey and puffs on his Cheroots. The bar is named after the owner/bartender, Jackie, a tough little Texan who's nicer than she sounds and rough if she has to be no matter who's right or wrong. The half-size Louisville Slugger resting on the back bar is her equalizer. Troublemakers are wise to quiet down if she growls.

Sheriff Tom slouched at his table at Jackie’s bar surrounded by a dozen townsfolk including Les, Wendy, Doris, old Ben, Jackie, and Doc Harris when I walked in. They stood around him, drinks in hand, listening to the Sheriff spin another tale. It was StoryTime for grownups, in a bar, not a library.

The Sheriff's white Stetson sat high on the back of his graying head. He wore jeans, an official tan sheriff shirt, silver star over the left pocket, steel toe boots. A pager dangled from a belt loop on his right hip. His gun belt hung on a nail on the wall behind him.

He waved me over to an empty chair next to him while Jackie poured my Jack&Coke at the bar.

Doc Harris said, “You're just in time. Tom's just startin’”.

“I arrested Marcy at home last night. The security camera at the truck stop caught her rippin' the windshield wipers offa Tiffany Martin’s Lexus convertible.”

He lets his stories out a bit at a time between sips of his bourbon. The end of this story wasn’t out yet. Only he knew how it ended and he was milking the moment. Someone once said that the longer he strung out a story the better his friends liked it. A smart storyteller, he didn’t mind interruptions. Sometimes they helped move the story along.

Les said, “I heard Marcy laughed when you arrested her."

“Yes, she did. When she answered the door she snarled, ‘Ya got me, Copper’, like a gangster in an old movie. Kinda threw me, thought she was drunk, but I know she don’t drink.

“She laughed all the way to County, giggled right through the fingerprinting and the mug shots. First time I seen anybody take a happy mug shot. Had to shoot it five times before the deputy gave up tryin’ to make her stop grinnin'."

Glancing at Jackie he says, “The booking clerk who's gotta be somebody's idiot cousin, he's known Marcy all his life, he says, ‘Ma’am, please state your full name’. She says, ‘Lois Carmen Denominator’. The kid's starin’ at the booking form, pen at the ready, tongue stickin’ out the side of his mouth, ‘Can you spell that, please?’' Jackie's chin dropped and she covered her face with both hands.

I didn't know Marcy so I looked at Doc Harris for help. "Marcy and Harvey's divorce was big news a while back," he said. "Like most kids, 'cept for the ones who go off to college or leave town, they got married after graduation. Fourteen years married he drops divorce papers on her. Now mind you, she worked two jobs and ran their ranch while he went to college in Lubbock. Harvey got a job at Bankers Trust and eventually made VP. That's when he lost his way. Along with the promotion he got a corner office and a private secretary. About that time he met Tiffany. Pretty soon Harvey's drivin’ all the way to Amarillo gettin' his hair styled, fancy suits, the whole nine yards; picture of a hotshot struttin’ around, rubbin’ elbows with us peons.”

Doc Harris paused, rattled the ice cubes in his drink and said, “I've known Marcy since she was born. One thing about her, she gets even in small ways and keeps it goin’ ‘til she settles the score. I remember it was the last days of school, her Senior year, I heard some girls ganged up on her, makin’ fun of her Prom dress. 

Well, there was no way to prove Marcy did it but somebody messed with the ringleader's ChapStick. Made her lips swell two, three times normal size, couldn't kiss her boyfriend for two weeks. I examine her, nothin' serious. It didn't hurt her but it sure made her look funny on graduation day, 'specially in all the pictures, coverin’ her lips with her hands. Her folks couldn't even look straight at the camera.”

Doris, Doc Harris’ receptionist, spoke up, “Marcy took the divorce hard, said she didn’t see it coming, no hint of anything wrong. At first, she tried to figure out maybe it was her fault. But when she caught Tiffany and Harvey chewin' each other's faces behind the bank she got mad and started thinkin’ that becoming a widow wouldn't be so bad.”

Doc gave Doris a sour look but Doris said she wasn’t telling about the pills Doc was giving her, only about what Marcy told her in the waitin' room, everybody heard it. Doc put his hands on the table, palms down, and closed his eyes.

Sheriff Tom lit another Cheroot and said the truck stop video was the big break in the case. Tiffany’s car had been vandalized five times before. “Naturally, I suspected Marcy. Nobody else had a motive, ‘cept maybe some of her friends from the Women's Club, but they’re too proper to let air outa the tires, or bust out a headlight, stuff like that. No, no, it had to be Marcy. Problem was catchin’ her in the act.

“Nobody thinks about windshield wipers until you need ‘em. Sure enough, when that big storm hit, Tiffany flips the wipers on and nothin’ happens. She raises holy hell with me and the Mayor and now I gotta figure out where she and Marcy coulda been in the same place at the same time. The only thing they have in common is where they buy gas. Mike told me Tiffany never buys gas from him and Marcy lives close to the Love's truck stop. Bingo! But I had to watch three week's worth of people pullin’ in and pullin’ outta Loves before I see Tiffany's car and Marcy's truck at the gas pumps. Tiffany goes into the store to buy some coffee. Marcy sneaks up to the Lexus, snaps the wipers off, tosses them in her truck and drives off. I felt bad about arresting her but I sure didn’t think she’d laugh at me.”

Old Ben said Harvey got off easy in the divorce settlement. He got most of the money and cars. Marcy got the ranch and some grazing land but alimony was a lot less than usual considerin’ the money Harvey was making at the bank.

Wendy said, “If I was Marcy I wouldn’t let Harvey or Tiffany get off so easy either. Ran into Tiffany at the Farmers Market before the divorce. I thought I’d seen her and Harvey at a hotel bar in Amarillo the week before. I didn’t think much of it at the time, so I joked about her and Harvey sitting a little too close together at the bar.

“Well, you know that drippy Georgia drawl of hers? It totally disappeared. She studies her fingernails like she's wonderin’ if it be worth it to break ‘em on my face. (Laurie told me it costs like $75 to get your nails done in Amarillo!) Anyhow, she says real catty, ‘Wendy, honey, Harvey’s mine so don’t go shakin’ your little behind his way. Marcy’s history. You’ll see.’”

Jackie ambled over with a tray of fresh drinks and clean ashtrays. As she set them down she said, “I remember the first time I saw Tiffany she had more makeup than a weddin' cake has frosting. Had to wonder the first time Harvey saw her without it if he thought somebody'd switched women on him during the night.”

Tom sat up, swept his eyes over the people standing around the table. It was time for the closer. “Don’t worry, folks. Marcy’s back home free and clear. I was filling out the arrest paperwork still thinking about why she laughed so much. Then I saw the registration for the Lexus. I called the D.A. and told him to let her go. The Lexus is registered in her name. She can set the car afire if she wants and there’s nothin’ anybody can do about it.”

Hearing that, the women whooped and the men guffawed. Everything was right with the world after all.

“I let her out of the cell, apologized and said I'd drive her home.

“We get to her house, and I say, ‘None of my business, Marcy, but if the Lexus is yours why didn't you take it in the divorce settlement? She just grins innocent like. She says, ‘Oh, hell, Tom. I didn't want a goddamn Lexus for my birthday. If he'd only asked I woulda said buy me an old F-150, five speed stick, so I could go up in the hills, not have to worry about gettin’ it dirty or scratchin’ the paint. The title says it's mine but it's his name on the loan. I'm thinkin' take it home set it up on blocks. What do you think?'."

"Marcy," I said, "I think you oughta leave the top down."

Taps

I wrote this Memorial Day story five years ago in memory of the men and women who died fighting in Vietnam a half century ago. Some of them were my friends. Though the characters, settings, and events in this story are fictional they are partly based on actual persons, settings, and events. 

Taps, Arlington National Cemetery

The Judge sat on a park bench in the shady town square across from the Panhandle courthouse. He was feeding bits of his sandwich to some pigeons fluttering at his feet as they crowded each other out for the nearest morsel. 

He was filling in for the vacationing Judge Porter. Just one more week then he could go back to White Deer (pop. 955), an even sleepier town than Panhandle in the Texas plains.

On the opposite side of the square Sheriff Tom was making his way to Mamacita's Diner to grab some lunch. He took a detour towards the Judge but hesitated, thinking the Judge might want to be alone after a morning spent listening to bombastic lawyers and their clients fulminating about justice, their gawd-given rahts, and the American Way.

But the Judge saw him coming and nodded. Tom touched the brim of his hat and said, “May I approach the bench?” It was an corny joke between them going back years.

The Judge motioned towards the bench in front of him. “Sit down, Tom.”

“So how are you, Judge?”

“Fine -- $25”, he chuckled.

The Judge pointed with his chin at a family walking on the other side of the square. Jorge, his wife Jenny and two kids. Jorge's little daughter sat astride his neck. He and Jenny held hands while their son raced ahead of them and rushed back laughing.

“Just can’t tell by lookin’ can you?” the Judge said. “You see that fella by himself you’d never take him for a family man. Looks kinda mean, doncha think?”

“Jorge's ok. Like to see more like him than some folks around here. Never seen ‘im in a fight except one time my deputy had to pull him off one of the Carson boys. Seems Harley sucker punched him just because Harley's Harley and Jorge's Mexican. Harley's got 30 pounds and 10 years on ‘im but Jorge pinned him down in nothin’ flat, Buck knife in his right hand, a hunk of Harley's hair in his left. My deputy pulled his gun and saved Harley from a real close haircut.”

The Sheriff shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. He wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand and said, “Jorge's a hard man to know. ‘Cept for me I don't think he talks to anybody else... well, I'm sure he talks to his wife but you know what I mean. Whatever he's thinking you could be guessin’ for a hundred years and never get it right.

“I remember one time me and Jorge were riding out near the springs, just riding and talking about nothin’ in particular. We saw something shiny on the ground. Jorge got off his horse and picked it up. It was an Army medal. Vietnam. I had one just like it. Jorge handed me the medal, got on his horse and didn't say nothin’. I said, ‘I got one of these. How about you?’

“Well, you know how it is with vets. We can talk about being in a war, lyin' about the fun we had; the bars, the whores, but we skip the bad parts like shittin’ your pants ‘cause you're sure the next mortar's gonna find you. But Jorge, his face went slack, no expression to tell if he was mad, bored, or sizin’ you up for a whippin'. Then he says, ‘I saw a dead man walk over there. On patrol. We're moving through a trail in the bush. Chucky Cheese, he’s walking point, raises his arm for us to stop. He looks to one side then the other and starts walking. Two seconds later his head explodes. His body took two more steps, shook all over then fell. When the medevac showed up we sent him home.’

“I thought he was gonna tell more but that's all he said. It's bothered me for years thinking about what he said, how he said it, like it didn't mean a thing. Why would he tell me something that way? Still think about it.”

They watched Jorge spin his daughter round and round as she giggled, “Stop, Daddy! Stop!” Jenny smiling up at them.

The Judge fed the pigeons some more bread crumbs and said, “My grandfather was a grunt, First World War 1918. I asked him about it.

“I was just a kid. I'd seen a lot of war movies. Audie Murphy, John Wayne. Lots of guts and glory stuff. And, of course, the Allies were the winners every time. Nazis were the bad guys, evil. At the beginning the Storm Troopers are like super men and we're sitting there watching this and getting mad even though we know that about halfway through the movie things are gonna start going our way except for a battle or two. Along the way we lose some nice guys who won't be going home to wives or sweethearts. Every war movie has some pathos, sad music. Last part of the show our heroes step up, fired up with courage and bravery they go on to win the war. Hooray.

“Well, Grampa didn't talk about his war. My daddy wouldn't talk about World War II. For years I thought they were just being tough guys like you see on TV or read about in books. You know, hidden sorrows, stoic, humble, manly. Name it, it's what I thought about them keeping quiet. Gotta admit I admired their toughness. But, you know, I've had a lotta time to think about that. They were tough alright, but not the way I thought they were."

He turned to look at Tom, elbows on his knees, leaning in. “I think Jorge told you real war story. It didn't make you feel proud of our boys or teach you anything about bravery or patriotism. It was just a story about what happened the day his point man was killed. They loaded the man's body on a helo, just doing what needed to be done. No heroes that day, Tom. Not a one.

“If you were waiting for the moral of the story or uplifting talk about ‘the ultimate sacrifice’, a noble death in the service of God and country, you missed the point of Jorge's story: that war is vulgarity writ large, a filthy inhumanity visited on the guilty and guiltless alike; a savage obscenity whose awful consequences pass from one generation to the next. This country loves heroes and Jorge doesn't want to be one, not then, not now.”

The Judge glanced at his pocket watch and announced that he had to get back to his courtroom. Gently patting Tom's shoulder he said, “Don't think on it too much, Tom. You'll never know who left that medal out in the middle of nowhere or why he did it. Sometimes knowing is worse than not knowing.”

But Tom had thought about the “who” and the “why” off and on ever since the day he and Jorge found the medal. It could have been a 19 year old widow or a girl he didn't return to marry. A grieving mom or dad. Or maybe it was a Vet himself who lost something in the war; something he knew he would never have again.

Near sunset that long ago afternoon the medal was still in Tom's shirt pocket as they rode along Newman's fenceline. They came to a red shale outcropping about three feet high. Jorge stopped and asked Tom for the medal. He dismounted, dug a deep hole with an entrenching tool, dropped the medal in it, filled the hole and tamped it down. 

Tom bid the Judge goodbye and watched Jorge and his brood going into Les's General Store. A shopping day like any other, excited kids jumping up and down, Jenny admiring something in the window. Jorge stood facing the street, scanning it slowly.

Tom's thoughts went back to the day his friend Dave Tipton was laid to rest. He was KIA, Vietnam, not the only one from Panhandle, just the latest one. Tom and some other vets formed the Honor Guard. Remembering that day made Tom choke. Why in God's name do we think it's such a great idea to fire guns as a tribute to a dead soldier; saluting him with the very things that took his life?

He couldn't forget Dave’s young widow sobbing graveside. The Honor Guard fired the first volley. Cynthia flinched and looked up as though begging them to stop. She held her arms tight against her body when the second volley crashed in her ears. Then the third volley. She howled, curled up in a ball in her father's arms. Tom almost broke ranks to console her, but he held fast. He had a terrible thought at that moment: Who was better off? Dave or Cynthia?

Tom's ghosts from the war had faded gradually and when they made occasional comebacks he forced them into the past where they belonged. When young men asked about his war, he put them off. Sure in their youth, confident in their immortality, they would not believe that knowing was worse than not knowing.