Not Always Right But Never Wrong

Drive friendly, now

The story was in all the papers statewide. A Texas State Trooper had overtaken a car being pursued by the County Sheriff’s car, forced it to stop, and then discovered that the driver of the ’57 Chevy was not a criminal but a Deputy Sheriff. And the person driving the County Sheriff’s car was a civilian. Of course, there were pictures of the Deputy, the civilian, the cars, and the State Trooper, and much more.

The year was 1958, the Deputy’s name was Thumper, and the civilian was Juan, a teenage shade tree mechanic from Balmorhea. The stories in the paper gave the Trooper’s account big play mostly because the Balmorhea County Sheriff ordered his Deputy to say nothing to anybody, and because Juan’s mom, Rosario, kept him indoors and made reporters understand that crossing the property line to her home would result in consequences they would regret. The long axe handle she carried out to the fence line whenever reporters approached said everything she needed to say.

In the end, Thumper didn’t get fired but he lost his seniority and suffered public humiliation for months afterwards. The judge remanded Juan to his mother’s custody figuring from the looks she was giving the kid that no court ordered punishment could surpass what Rosario had in mind.

The whole mess started when Mike Bennett Jr., ran his dad’s 57 Chevy off the road to avoid hitting a family of armadillos. He was going fast despite his promise to keep his speed under 60, swerved off the road and drove over a low pile of rocks. Luckily, there wasn’t any damage to the bumper or the body but the muffler had a gash from one end to the other and a hole the size of a silver dollar. However, even if you couldn’t see any damage, you could hear it. Before the damage the engine sound was a low rumbling whisper. Now each explosion from the eight cylinder engine sounded like a gunshot.

 

Mike Bennett Sr. didn’t buy the armadillo story and revoked his boy's driving privileges for 50 years.

Juan was a self taught mechanic just turned 19. He was known for honest work, low prices, and a scrupulously clean garage. If you needed a tool he would gladly lend it to you but would give you the dead eye if it wasn’t clean when you returned it. He looked at the hole in Mr. Bennett’s muffler and said he could rivet a patch over it and the thing would be good as new. No problem. You can pick it up tomorrow.

As promised, the car was ready the next day. When Mr. Bennett came by to pay up, Juan got in the driver’s seat, started the motor and revved it twice. The sweet sound of the 283 V8 was sublime to Juan’s ears. At that moment he would be hard pressed to choose between the Chevy and his girlfriend. He left the engine running and got out of the car.

“Sounds real good. Whada I owe you, Juan?”

“Ten dollars. I checked the oil and water, too.”

Mr. Bennett pulled a 10 out of his wallet. Juan rested his behind on the fender, looked at the money then back at car.

“Tell you what, Mr. Bennett. I’ll trade you that 10 for your permission to drive the car from here to Fort Davis and back. It’s only 40 miles and it’ll blow out the carbon on the valves. Deal? I’ll be back before you know it.”

The deal was struck. Bennett went to Rosario's Good Luck Bakery for coffee and a donut while he waited for Juan's return.

Three minutes later Juan was on SR17 heading south from Balmorhea to Fort Davis. He cruised at 60 for a while then took it up to 70, then 75 by the time he whooshed past the Balmorhea State Park where Deputy Thumper was waking from his usual morning nap under the trees.

Balmorhea is farm and ranch country out in the West Texas desert 200 miles east of El Paso and 350 miles northwest of San Antonio with nothing in between. 

 

Balmorhea, the Oasis of West Texas

Where the deer and the antelope play Country Music 24/7

It isn’t a big place. In '58 it had a thousand residents most of whom probably knew more about each other than they did about themselves. Deputy Thumper  knew everybody and what kind of car they owned. That white-over-powder blue Chevy that just flashed by was Mike Bennett’s car but there was a brown kid behind the wheel. Something wasn’t right. He turned his siren and flashers on and tore out of the park behind the Chevy.

It took a minute for Juan to notice the cop car closing fast behind him but when he did he knew he was in a lot of trouble; not for speeding, not for leaving his driver’s license at home. No, his big trouble was scarier than any judge, jury, or jail. It was his mother, Rosario.

Rosario was a very old forty-two. Her family had come to Texas as migrants to work the melon fields sometime in the late 1930’s. They followed the harvests across the country year after year. Spring and summer they worked the melon fields in South Texas then moved on to the upper Midwest to the cranberry and bean harvests; back to Texas in the Fall for the dreaded back breaking short hoe [1] work in the lettuce and onion fields. The men and women who wintered in the Midwest worked construction jobs or found work in slaughterhouses and kitchens. It wasn’t a way of life for the weak. The ones that survived were tough. 

Back breaker

Sometime in 1938 Rosario married a young man from Balmorhea and she stayed behind when her family moved on to the harvests in Minnesota and Wisconsin. Soon after her son was born she was left to fend for herself when her husband was killed in a hay baling accident. A young woman with a baby, no husband, and no family, she found work cleaning ovens and scrubbing baking pans in a bakery. A few years later she opened her own bakery.

Years of keeping a low profile because of her immigration status taught her to obey every single ordinance, law, and local custom to the nth degree. Ever mindful that she and her son could be deported for the smallest infraction or social slight she made certain that Juan knew those risks as well as the dangers of disobeying her. So as soon as he saw the Deputy’s cruiser in the rearview mirror, Juan worried about what his mother would think and what she might do. 

Thumper recognized Juan in the driver’s seat and canceled the stolen car call to the Sheriff’s office.

“Nice day for a drive on the open road, son, but by my reckoning you were a good 20 miles over the limit. I know I don’t have to check with Mr. Bennett to see if you’re telling the truth about your deal. On the other hand, I can’t let you go so easy. I have a sworn duty to uphold the law. Speeding is a public hazard and you don’t have your driver’s license either. ”

Juan remembered Rosario’s rules: Never argue with a policeman even if he’s wrong. Never beg for a break because it makes you look weak. But despite his mother’s admonitions he tried to explain.

“I just couldn’t help it, Thumper. You know my car. I work on it all the time but there’s so many things wrong I can’t drive it over 40 miles an hour. A car like this is a dream. It’s solid and the V8 has more power than any car I’ve ever driven. I just had to do it just once.”

Thumper stepped back a couple of paces and looked at the white-over-powder blue Chevy and had to admit to himself that he, too, coveted a car like that; great styling, beautiful interior, a powerful short-block V8, and PowerGlide automatic transmission. For a long moment he imagined himself in the driver's seat, left hand on the wheel and his right arm over his girl’s shoulders, cruising to all the way to Midland for a night out on the town.

“Juan, I’m going to propose something but you gotta promise it’ll stay between you and me. Anybody finds out I could lose my job and you might go to jail.

“The next 15 miles the road is straight as a ruler. You and me trade cars, drive as far as mile marker 98 and trade cars again. Nobody finds out. Nobody. I let you go like nothing happened. Ok?”

  

Juan didn’t know what to think. He twitched when he thought he heard his mother say, “Don’t argue with a cop even if he’s wrong”.

“Well, ok, Thumper, but only to mile marker 98. And go easy. I don’t want anything to happen to Mr. Bennett’s car.”

 

The road's straight. The car's pointed straight. What could go wrong?

Off they went, Thumper in the lead, Juan in the cruiser close behind. At first, the Deputy stayed at the speed limit and Juan was having fun driving a cop car. But guys are guys and cars are cars. Put guys and cars together and they'll find a way to get into some kind of trouble. It doesn’t take long.

Thumper stepped on the gas and the V8 jumped from 50 to 60 in a flash. Seeing the Chevy accelerate like that, Juan sped up to keep pace. The speed was addictive, the race was on. Juan goosed the cruiser, speeding up until he was parallel with the Chevy. Thumper bumped it up to 70 and Juan did the same. They were bumper to bumper then Thumper floored the gas pedal and the Chevy bounded ahead.

They were having so much fun neither of them saw the State Trooper idling on the shoulder. He radioed Trooper headquarters in Fort Davis and the Sheriff’s office in Balmorhea reporting a deputy sheriff in hot pursuit of a white-over-powder blue 57 Chevy. With lights flashing and siren whining he took off after the cruiser and the Chevy. To his surprise, the cruiser pulled over right away but the Chevy kept on going.

What the hell? Some kid was driving the cruiser. There was no time to ask questions so he took the keys out of the ignition, handcuffed Juan to the steering wheel, jumped in his car to catch up to the Chevy.

And a dozen to go

Sheriff Jaxson was at the drive in window at Rosario's Good Luck Bakery on a donut run when the dispatcher relayed the State Trooper's hot pursuit call. He ordered a deputy to find Thumper's cruiser on the 17 and report back. Rosario, who was at the drive in window, overheard the radio call and knew instantly that the car was Bennett's Chevy and the 'kid' was Juan. Thinking fast about what Bennett might do if he heard something was going on with his car, Rosario casually asked him to mind the bakery while she went to the Post Office to get some packages. Oh, and help yourself to some more coffee and donuts --- on the house. She was out the door, in her truck, and on SR17 South in under a minute.
 

Thumper was in trouble. The accelerator linkage had jammed when he floored the gas pedal. He was now traveling at 85 miles an hour with no way to stop. He tried to remove the key but the PowerGlide transmission’s safety pawl was designed to prevent accidental or intentional removal of the key while the car was in Drive. He dug his foot under the gas pedal, frantically trying to pull it loose. The soft metal rivets on the muffler patch melted away, the patch fell off and the suddenly roaring V8 sounded like a runaway freight train.

In the meantime, the State Trooper was catching up while a few miles down the road other Troopers were setting up a roadblock.

The Chevy wasn’t slowing down even though there was no way the driver hadn’t seen the State Trooper's flashing lights. They continued this way for several minutes then the Trooper decided to force the Chevy off the road but when he pulled up door to door he saw it was Thumper driving. He was red faced, twisting around in the seat, and yelling something that the Trooper couldn’t hear over the Chevy's thundering exhaust.

They were still going bumper to bumper when they saw the roadblock a quarter mile ahead. At that speed there was no way to avoid a roll over if they went off the road. The Trooper slowed down and watched as the Chevy barreled towards a collision with the barricades at 85 miles an hour.

Thumper closed his eyes, resigned to whatever fate would follow. Fate obliged by sucking up the last drop of gas in the tank. The surging V8 stalled and the Chevy rolled to a stop a few feet from the barricades.

A cub reporter from the Daily Excuse made his bones and earned a byline that day. He took dozens of pictures --- the Troopers at the barricades, guns drawn, watching the hurtling Chevy limp to a stop; pictures of the Troopers, no longer grim professionals, laughing and mugging for the camera. He took twenty photos of the Balmorhea County Sheriff arriving at the scene, haranguing his humiliated Deputy without pause for a solid 12 minutes. And a single closeup of Rosario getting out of her pickup, her eyes fixed on Juan in the Deputy's car.

Footnote [1]

 Short Hoe

http://www.farmworkers.org/shorthoe.html 

 

---

[1]

As American As Cherry Pie

When I heard that Deputy Mike was in the hospital following a burst appendix I called “The Guys” to let them know. What we had in common was Valley Falls, Vietnam, and Deputy Mike. 

In our high school years he had been our nemesis in our quest to vanquish persistent virginity among our female cohort. He forcefully “counseled” us against drinking beer and driving our hot cars fast; opposing both the alcohol and the speed individually and in combination. He seemed to be everywhere breaking up our impromptu drag races or illicit beer runs to the next county.

Jimmy was the attending doctor when Mike was admitted. He was one of “The Guys” that had remained in Valley Falls. The rest of us had scattered far and wide. Mike was in bad shape and might not make it, he said. I emailed everybody in our group. Those who could afford it or had the time said they would go see Mike to pay their respects. After all, Deputy Mike was part of our history and coming of age.

He was a harsh enforcer whom we feared, not only because of how he treated us in particular but because of how we saw him deal with wife beaters, bullies, and thieves. The fact was that some kinds of transgressors received tough but measured rage, and that was what we really feared. What if he had turned on us?

By the time we arrived at the hospital he was dead. There was nothing for us to do except wait for the funeral director to finish his job and let us know when and where Mike would be buried. I suggested that we hold a wake with lots of beer under the trees by the lake next to the falls at the edge of town.

Valley Falls was a small town of a few thousand in farming country in the Great Plains. People generally knew each others business and actively participated in each others lives. When the Vietnam draft came to Valley Falls in '67 and '68, all of us who didn’t have college or physical deferments went and fought. Those that came back resumed their lives, more or less. As time moved on we scattered all over the country but “The Guys” kept in touch sporadically for years. The small town beginnings and our common experience in the war bound us more tightly than even some family ties.

Deputy Mike was exempt from the draft because of his job and because he was 26, the high end of eligibility. But he resigned in 1967, joined the Marines just in time for Tet and served two tours. In its mysterious selection process the Marines made him a medic. He earned three Purple Hearts and half dozen other highly regarded medals for his gallantry under fire. One old WW2 vet, himself a bemedaled grunt, said that if Mike didn’t have a medal for general badassery, he deserved one.

Being the state’s most decorated Marine, Mike got a hero’s welcome parade. He rode on a platform in the bed of the Mayor’s pickup, waved at everyone, then gave a two word speech in the town square. “Thank you,” he said. The next morning he dug a deep hole in his yard, buried his medals and his uniform and never mentioned the war again. A week later he was rehired as a deputy sheriff. He succeeded Sheriff Corky Adams and held the job for 30 years mostly dealing with small town crime and teenagers gone wild just as he’d done when “The Guys” were in high school.

The Wake

On the way to the lake we picked up enough beer for two wakes, ice, and the biggest cooler in the store. Once there we sat in a circle on lawn chairs under the trees, sipping beer. We reminisced about growing up in Valley Falls and how much it had changed. I wanted to talk about Deputy Mike but I couldn’t think of a way to do it without sounding sappy. I don't know what the others were thinking but I guess they didn't know where to start either.

We told more stories and drank more beer. Then Jimmy broke the dam. He told about the time Deputy Mike had fought off Danny Poage and his baseball bat. Jimmy’s mom called saying Danny was slapping his wife around again. It wasn’t the first time but this time Danny came out tapping a bat on his thigh when the Deputy drove up. It was gonna be a showdown.

Mike took off his gun belt, put it in the cruiser, and came up with a rope. The drunken Danny was confused. He was thinking of going down swinging. Instead, he went down when Mike snapped the weighted end of the rope like a whip around his ankles, jerked back hard, putting Danny flat on his back.

Mike straddled Danny and gave him two hard backhand slaps.

“Danny, four times you made me make this call. Four times I took you down. There will not be another time, you understand? I get this call again, folks around here will wonder where you’ve gone. Truth is I hope you try. Betty's tired of you. This town is tired of you. But most of all, I'm tired of you." 

Joey told about the time the Deputy had arrested a poacher, strapped him and the buck he killed to the bumper of the cruiser and sped down 20 miles of the 86 at 90 miles an hour before putting the guy in the back seat on the way to the county jail. The poacher’s lawyer couldn’t find a single witness to corroborate the bizarre tale though his client swore at least a dozen cars whizzed past in the opposite direction.

I saw Eddie reaching in the cooler for another beer and rubbing his head with his open palm.

“Is that the bump Mike put up side your head?”

“Yeah, going on 50 years now and it’s still there. Amazing. I never understood what he had against underage drinking.”

The Guys looked at him, recalled the old story and laughed.

“I was coming back from Maytown on the 86. I had friends there who could get me beer. Anyway, I drank a six pack plus another two brews and I was feeling pretty good. I hit the 86 just out of Maytown and opened her up. The windows were down, the radio was on, and I was doing 75 when I hit the county line. Deputy Mike ran me down; took his time getting out his cruiser, wrote down my license number on his little pad. He had his hand over his gun as he leaned close so he could smell my breath, I guess. He straightened up put his hands on his hips, looked me square in the eyes.

"He said, “You drinkin’?

"And I said, “You buyin’?

“Next thing I know he’s slamming my head on the fender and I’m seeing stars. He took my keys and told me to stay in my car until he came back. I sat there for three hours, not moving, worrying about what would happen next. Swear to god, I never got sober so fast.

When he came back he tossed the keys on the ground and said, “Now, Eddie, you do understand that there will NOT be another time like this, right? Go home.”

Joey took a deep swallow of beer, raised the bottle, a silent toast to Deputy Mike.

“I was just thinking about the time Bobby, Eddie, and Jimmy got locked in the trunk of my car at the drive-in in Maytown. It cost a dollar a head to go in so we figured three of us could hide in the trunk then get out and see the movies for free. We got in alright but when I went open the trunk, the key broke.”

Eddie:
“The three of us were packed in tight and it was hot inside. We could barely move then Jimmy farted like he always did after a few beers, except now it wasn’t funny. Bobby threw up and Jimmy farted again.”

Joey:

“We couldn’t start the car without the key so I went to the concession stand to get help. The manager, I can’t remember his name, was really pissed but came out to help. We tried to pull the backrest off the back seat but it was stuck tight. Guys in the trunk were beginning to panic, kicking and yelling “Open the trunk! Open the trunk!”

“Well, the manager went and called the Maytown County Deputy Sheriff who came over and yelled at the guys in the trunk to shut up then asked my name and who was in the trunk. I followed him to the concession stand where he phoned Deputy Mike.

“Mike, this is Deputy Bill from Maytown County. I’m at the movie drive-in here and I got four of your boys sneaking in without paying. Three of them are locked up in the trunk, key broke off. They’re from your county and I don’t have time to waste on these pissants. I got an 18 wheeler jackknifed at the crossroads I gotta take care of. Yeah, you guessed it. Gonna spend all night rounding up the strays. So, what do you wanna do with these kids?"

"He listened for a minute then said, “Ok. If that’s how you want it,” and hung up.

“The Sheriff turned to me and said that Deputy Mike was sending Rick and his tow truck to take us back to town. He left the guys in the trunk just like Deputy Mike told him. Rick made the 30 mile trip to the drive-in driving slow, owing to bad bearings on the front wheels. The trip back was even slower; Jimmy farted every time we hit a bump.

“Deputy Mike met us at the county line. He popped the trunk with some kind of cop tool and let the guys out.”

“I called your folks and told them you’d be home by and by. They won’t be coming for you so you better start walking now.”

"He unhooked the tow truck, got in his cruiser, and drove away. I caught holy hell from my Mom and Dad when I finally got home. We all did”

Bobby:

“Mike caught me and Jenny once behind the covered bridge off the 27. Jenny was a real tease, remember? Well, one night after the game I got some beer and convinced her to have some with me. She got silly pretty fast and I didn’t have to try too hard to convince her to give me some loving. So we drove down the 27 to the covered bridge. I parked the car, had some more beer and we started making out. It felt like an hour before I got her sweater off and I was unhooking her bra when Deputy Mike put his flashlight in my face. I let go of the bra and it flew open shooting wads of Kleenex all over the place.”

“Unless you’re going to blow your nose with all that Kleenex, Sonny Boy, I suggest you put it back. Take Jenny home NOW.”

“He turned his back while Jenny fixed her clothes then followed us to Jenny’s house. I walked her to the front door and her Dad saw the cruiser, jerked Jenny inside and slammed the door.”

Eddie tossed his empty can at me and said, “How come you never had run-ins with Deputy Mike? You weren’t exactly a Boy Scout.”

Now that Mike was dead I could tell my story about catching him and Cherry having a quickie in a corn field when I was 16. I had sworn I wouldn’t tell and he said he’d back off some. I was so scared of what he might do that I didn’t even think about getting on his bad side. A cop on duty having sex with an unmarried girl would get him fired lickety split in those days. Like a man holding a million dollars and no way to spend it, I had a power I didn’t dare use.

Mike and Cherry were an item and everyone assumed they would get married but something happened. They broke up. She married someone else. 

“Hmmmm. I remember Cherry. Wow, she was a real looker.”

The guys started commenting on Cherry as though they ever had a chance with her and I decided it was time to bring out the letter that the Head Nurse at the hospital had given me when I asked about Mike. "It's from Mike to you", she said. I read it in my motel room and brought it to the wake.

The Letter

"Guys, this letter is from Mike. He wrote it a few days before he died. It says...."

 

I don’t know why I’m writing this now. Both of us are old enough to tell the difference between things that matter and things that don’t. Maybe when you get to this stage in life it's time to settle accounts. I don't know.

You promised not to tell what you saw in the cornfield a long time ago and I know you’ve kept your word. Not that it matters anymore or that it mattered so much then.

Cherry was the girl all the guys wanted and all the girls wanted to be. She was beautiful and smart; didn’t have an enemy in the world. I loved Cherry more than anything in the whole world and she loved me, too.

Well, you know the story. She married somebody else and lots of folks gossiped and speculated about what went wrong with us.

What actually happened was we had set a wedding date in the summer of ’62. In the meantime I had my annual physical for my job and the doc noticed that I had had Chicken Pox when I was a kid. Long story short, the tests showed that I was sterile. I told Cherry and it nearly killed her to know we couldn’t have kids.

In the Senior Yearbook in the section “Future Plans” where everybody wrote they wanted to join the Peace Corps, or become movie stars and such, she wrote: “ I want to get married. Raise kids and pigs.” We all laughed, it was so funny. But she was serious. Remember, she was an orphan, raised by her grandma.

We talked about adopting but her heart wasn’t in it. It was clear she wanted her own brood with me as the daddy. The need to have her own flesh and blood was just too powerful for her to give up. I could understand that in my mind because I wanted kids, too. I could understand that she'd grown up without a  mom and dad, sisters, brothers, or cousins and that more than anything she craved to be close to her very own babies. It wasn't long after that we broke up.

It tore me up something awful to lose her and I tried to find someone else but Cherry was always on my mind. Sometimes it hurt so bad it made me howl. The pickings got less and less as I got older and I gave up looking. I still think about her now and then, what might have been.

You, Eddie, Joey, Jimmy, Bobby, Jenny, and Tommy became my kids, my family in my mind. I watched you close to keep you out of real trouble that could wreck your lives. And a couple of you came awful close. You all did lots of things that could have gotten you arrest records that would deep six your college applications or good jobs in the future. Instead, I was rough on you, maybe outside the law sometimes but I figured your parents would know how to punish you best.

I kept an eye on all of you all grown up, looking you up on the internet, asking about you here and there and I’m deeply gratified that “my kids” turned out as well as I expected.

 I don't have any family other than you to carry out my last wishes so I'm appointing you my executor. My lawyer says this letter is enough. If it isn't, sue me. I've already sold my place to the Jensens so you don't have to bother about that.

1. I wish to have my remains cremated and given to you.

2. You will organize a wake for me in which you and the others will lie about me shamelessly and also tell whatever truths you see fit.

3. You will consume as much beer as you can hold. I've notified the Deputy Sheriff to arrange transportation for you when the wake is over. He'll be in touch with you soon.

4. The following day, at sunset, you and the others will proceed to the cherry orchard next to my place and scatter my ashes there.

Mike 

Mama Bear update

UPDATE 5/24/2013
One of my readers sent me the following message.

Mama Bear

I didn’t see this but I heard it happened in a small West Texas town in 1955 or ‘56.

The annual 4^th of July Seniors Softball Game was in the 7^th and final inning. There were other games for younger citizens but you had to be over 40 years old to play in the Seniors contest. The games weren’t intended to be taken seriously, of course. They were meant to put a couple of hours between lunch and beer time. Most of the players were in their 50’s or more and out of shape. Besides that, July was a hot, humid month. Outfielders were known to stroll rather than run after balls hit in their vicinity and this led to scores more suited to college football. Last year’s contest ended with the Red Team winning 42 to 37. Slow underhand pitching made it possible for even the ladies on the team to hit the ball with some regularity. Or put another way, it was almost as easy as Tee Ball.

This year the Blue Team was at bat, two out, bases loaded, and Bill was the hitter. He was a pretty good and even a single would bring in at least two more runs. A double would put the game away. They were leading 26 to 21 but the Red Team still had a chance to win at their next at bat if the score held. They had last bats.

The Honorable Magistrate, Larry Wilson, was the umpire as usual. He seemed a wise choice being a judge and all but he had been known to favor the underdog in these contests especially when calling balls and strikes; balancing the scales of justice, so to speak. So when Larry called Bill out on strikes, he didn’t take it too well.

He flung the bat to the ground and began yelling at Larry who wisely kept his protective mask on. “Yer outa here,” he yelled back and folded his arms across his chest. Old Bill was furious but he stomped off. The spectators thought this was so much fun. They booed good naturedly at either Bill or Larry; you couldn’t tell which. Bill didn’t make it back to the dugout. Instead he came back to home plate and got in Larry’s face again. Larry gave him the “yer out” hand signal again and puffed his chest out like a banty rooster, putting on a show for the spectators. More hoots and boos.

This didn’t sit well with Bill either. He gave Larry a hard two handed push to the chest that sent him crashing into the backstop. Now Larry’s wife, Nana, played third base and was the cleanup batter for the Red Team. While most people thought of her as a mother hen who indulged her children and her husband, no one ever thought of her as a She-Bear. But when she saw her husband crash into the backstop and Bill looking like he wasn’t done, she picked up a bat, ran over and stood between Larry and Bill. Larry recovered from the push and saw Nana winding up to swing the bat upside Bill’s head and tried to stop her. As she reared back she struck him on the backswing. She heard the "thunk" as the bat made contact with her husband’s skull and tried to stop but it was too late. As her swing came around the bat flew out of her hands into Bill’s forehead, knocking him unconscious.

A few seconds of dead silence was followed by hysterical laughter from the people in the stands. Nana stood between the two men lying on their backs over the batter’s box. Larry was the first to recover his senses and Nana checked the lump on his head. Bill’s wife, Marsha, came to her husband’s side and helped him sit up. She cupped his head in her hands then slapped him awake. Others came to help the men get on their feet. The game was called. The scorekeeper announced the beginning of the watermelon eating contest at the far end of left field.

As Nana and Marsha escorted their dazed men to left field, Nana mouthed “I’m sorry” at Marsha who only winked and gave Nana a discreet thumbs up.

The Kentucky Bar on Avenida Juarez

It was easy to make phony ID cards in the 60’s when I was a teenager. Not that we needed them. The drinking age was 21 and we didn’t have the courage to try buying a drink in El Paso with phony ID anyway. On the other hand, if we wanted to drink all we had to do was go across the border to Juarez, Mexico where nobody cared about ID. We left the car on the U.S. side, put two pennies in our shoes, then walked through Mexican Customs and on to the strip.

The act of putting two pennies in our shoes dated back several decades. In order to return to the U.S. from Mexico, one had to declare citizenship and pay a two cent toll. Crossing to the U.S. was, back then, a simple matter of saying “American” to the U.S. official then dropping the two pennies into a slot in the toll both. The older men of our generation would tell us to put two pennies in our shoes just in case we lost our wallets or spent all our money while partying in Juarez. I never knew anyone whose citizenship was questioned but the two cent toll was never waived.

The only instance of entry denied that I know of came from a story my uncles told me at a family picnic. They had been forced to spend the night sleeping in the alleys in Juarez after disrespecting a U.S. Border Agent. The pair had spent a Saturday night cruising the bars along Avenida Juarez and paying street musicians to play their favorite songs. They were three sheets to the wind by two A.M and ready to go home. A pair of drunks staggering towards the border crossing was common enough. Most times they were singing or talking very loudly to each other. In other words: stupid-drunk but harmless.

When the Border Agent asked my Uncle Juan’s citizenship, he replied “American Cheese”. The agent frowned and made him stand aside while he dealt with my other uncle who was busy digging into his pockets for the two cent toll. Not finding the coins, he kept searching his pockets over and over.

“Citizen?” he asked.

“U.S.”, said my Uncle Tomas.

He tried hard to stay on his feet while searching deep for the missing coins but finding only the family jewels he looked quizzically at the agent and said, “Figs? I don’t remember buying figs.”

The bars in Juarez catered to the GI’s going through boot camp at Fort Bliss. Back in the 60’s thousands of kids passed through the camp before being shipped to Vietnam like so many disposable towlettes. After eight weeks of hard training they were given Cinderella furloughs which they spent drunkenly all along Avenida Juarez or the red light district on Calle Mariscal nearby.

As soon as you crossed the border, the bars were there. A single block could have as many as 10 bars side by side. Some were clean and well lit, but for the most part they were dark and cramped. American kids looking for booze would be assailed by barkers at every bar entrance. “Come in, boys! Nice girls inside! Cheap!” Of course, there weren’t any nice girls inside but I guess that was the point. Their job was to entice the guys to buy grossly overpriced “drinks”. Most of us were too scared to go in those places. I peaked inside once and saw a row of fearsome women who looked like peregrine falcons with their hoods removed perched on barstools along one wall. We looked for bars that had live music and cheap drinks instead.

On weekends Avenida Juarez would be filled with groups of young American soldiers in civvies walking or staggering from bar to bar, their buzz cuts clearly marking them as prey; lots of horseplay and friendly swearing, all the time checking their watches. They had to be back on base by midnight or else. The MP’s waited at the toll booth on the other side of the border to gather up the boots who were too drunk to make their way across town to the base.

I was reminded of my own teenaged adventures on Avenida Juarez the other day when my MP3 player selected a Mexican tune played on marimbas. The band was playing a Cumbia, a type of music that combines tropical musical instruments and complicated rhythms with traditional Mexican instruments. The marimba sound reminded me of the Kentucky Bar on Avenida Juarez.

I didn’t go to Avenida Juarez unless I went with a group or with my friend Gabriel. Gabe and I would go to there on weekends if we weren’t otherwise busy with our girlfriends. The bar itself was just a large, well lit room about 30ft by 50ft and a fairly high ceiling. As you entered, the bartender was on the left side serving up drinks from the rows of bottles on the counter behind him. Mirrors reflected the long, narrow bandstand on the opposite wall. On the bare wooden floor, in between the bar and the bandstand there were about two or three dozen small wooden tables that would seat four customers each. Thanks to the 12 foot high ceilings a blue/gray haze of a hundred lit cigarettes floated about eight feet above the floor. The place smelled of sweat, beer, and old tobacco smoke. The light green walls were stained and smeared with grime from years of neglect. The attraction for me and Gabe was the six member marimba band. 

These Marimberos are from Guatemala

My memory isn’t very clear about the marimba itself. It may have been one 15 foot long instrument or to two shorter ones pushed together. Gabe, who eventually became a professional musician, marveled at the absurdity of hearing Frank “My Way” Sinatra, or Barbara “People” Streisand songs played on marimbas and with a lilting, happy go lucky Afro-tropical beat. All excited, Gabe would tell me to watch what the third marimba guy on the right was going to do next, then listen to the second guy pick up where guy three left off. On and on he went until he broke the songs down to their minutiae. The band played a mix of popular American and Mexican music with occasional forays into excerpts from well known classical favorites like the William Tell Overture. They didn’t play requests.

On Fridays the bar was always packed with GI’s when Gabe and I went but we were usually able to find stools at the bar. The boots were there because it was only a couple blocks from the border, the beer was cheap, and solo women were not allowed. They were noisy and rude to each other but we never saw any fights. Gabe’s theory was that the GI’s were scared straight by tales about Mexican cops and their inventive forms of law enforcement. It was at the Kentucky Bar that I first heard this joke:

You’ll get along in Mexico if you learn three phrases in Spanish:

Donde esta la cantina?          Where’s the bar?
Buen dia, Juez.                     Good morning, Judge
Cuanto es la multa?              How much is the fine?

It was Gabe who first discovered the marimbas at the Kentucky Bar. He wanted me to go with him but he wouldn’t tell me why. I went.

We crossed the border, pushed past the slimy barkers and the throngs of GI’s crowding the sidewalks, to the Kentucky Bar. The six marimba players ranged from early 20’s to mid 50’s by my reckoning. The leader was the last man on the left though the others switched positions according to which song they were playing. Gabe and I were just sipping our first drinks when they began to play “Amazing Grace”. It sounded so happy and lively I couldn’t believe I was singing along in my head. I looked at Gabe. Grinning widely, he slapped me on the back and gave me a thumbs up. Yeah, I wasn’t leaving until I ran out of money.

In the next 30 or 40 minutes they played a variety of American hits in their signature Cumbia style. I loved every second of it. I wondered if they knew how much they were changing the meanings of the songs by adapting them to tropical rhythms. I concluded that the band members didn’t understand the English lyrics but they liked the melodies and they were playing for a largely American audience. And like 17 year olds looking at a new car thinking, “If that were mine I’d put on some whitewalls, Baby Moons, lower the rear springs, and add fender skirts”, they must have listened to the original recordings and thought, “Ok, good melody. Can we make it fit our style?”

Then, as the Marimberos began plinking out the notes of a new song one by one, modifying and upping the tempo as their learning curve grew steeper, they arrived at their own, signed version. That night, the smarmy Pat Boone lament about his harrowed heart, “Love Letters in the Sand” sounded like an upbeat dance tune for a beach party.

When they finished playing the remodeled and improved “Love Letters in the Sand”, the bandleader announced that they were taking a break. I started to get up to go to the men's room but Gabe made me sit down. “No, no! This is the best part. You gotta hear this. You won’t believe it.”

“Para los soldados Americanos” (For the American soldiers), said the band leader and launched the Marimberos into a furious rendition of “The Stars and Stripes Forever”. The GI’s gaped open mouthed as the fired up band pounded the marimbas’ rosewood bars through every note of the American military classic. A few seconds into the piece the GI’s began stomping their feet and clapping to the rhythm. Every morning for eight weeks they had heard the U.S. Army Band rehearsing it. Now here, in a foreign country they were hearing it as they’d never heard it before, played by six Mexicans on marimbas. The ones who made it back from the war had at least one good story to tell about what happened one night when they were at the Kentucky Bar on Avenida Juarez.

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This link will take you to a performance of Stars and Stripes Forever.

U.S. Marine Corp. Band

This a sample of Cumbia music. It's a popular dance genre throughout Latin America.

 La Pollera Colora -- Carmen Rivero 

This link is just for fun. These Marimberos really love their job. The guy in the dark suit and the drummer give outstanding performances.

Note from Time Served: 

The Kentucky Bar may not be the actual name of the bar about which this story was written but it's the only name I remember now (drinks were very cheap $0.50 for bourbon and coke). There is one place I do remember well ~ Las Cavernas. It was a tiny bar located in a basement below another bar. The entrance was made to look like the mouth of a cave. Inside, the walls and ceiling had the same motif. The "charm" of the place was that the only lighting was black light which made teeth, eyeballs, and light clothing glow slightly blue. The effect was strangely appealing at first, but several dates I took there asked to leave after a short while. They were creeped out, they said.

 

Dunc

Now that the Class of ’65 reunion was over, I decided to spend another day to look around the city I’d left 20 years before. I headed south to the farming area where the narrow county roads were always good for small adventures. One time my wife and I wandered onto a dirt road that abutted a farm that raised miniature horses. At first we thought the herd we saw was at least 200 feet away but they were actually just 50 ft away. The little horses were just two feet high at the shoulder. Months later we tried to find them again but didn’t succeed. Another time we followed the flight of an egret, not a native bird in the Southwest, and found a hidden wild bird sanctuary in an artificial lake.

This time, when I saw the amateurish sign “Caesar’s Palettes” written large on the side of an old barn in the Lower Valley, I just had to stop, look, and ask. The tall brush and huge cottonwood trees obscured the front of the barn so I couldn’t see the enormous piles of wooden palettes, the kind used in warehouses all over the world to carry stacked goods.

The barn was about 300 feet from FM78, the farm-to-market road that ended just five miles south where it joined State 20. I drove over the rutted driveway to the open barn doors, got out of the car to the sound of rock music blasting from a pair of tower speakers located on each side of the doors. Grace Slick and the Jefferson Airplane were just finishing “White Rabbit”. “…..feed your head, feed your head…”, she wailed. No sooner was she done than Janis Joplin implored me to “take another little piece of my heart….”

Thinking I must have made a mistake and wandered into Psychedelphia, circa 1968, I turned back to my car.

“Mex!”

I hadn’t been called “Mex” since Vietnam. I whipped around to see who’d called me. It was a tall old man, sunburned to a crisp, who looked a little like somebody I used to know.

“Mex! It’s me, Dunc. Dunc McGregor.”

The Dunc I remembered from ‘Nam was a lean, broad shouldered guy, about 6ft a hundred, messy red hair, a droopy Fu Manchu mustache, every bit as tough as he looked. This guy was tall and wide like Dunc; graying red hair tied up in a pony tail, no mustache. I couldn’t place him.

“You don’t look 18 anymore either, Mex. If it wasn’t for your big nose I wouldn’t recognize you any more than I could find Waldo. It’s me, Dunc. ‘Nam, ’68, best friend you ever had.”

“Dunc? Where the hell’ve you been for the last 40 years? I’ve been looking for you all over the country all this time and you’ve been holed up in my own home town? I’m here to collect the $8 gas money you borrowed in LA.”

“No. You got it wrong, Slick. It’s you that owes me. Forty years, compound interest adds up, boy. Cash only, please. No checks.”

Like old times we did the dozens, matching wits, each trying hard to top the other until we ran dry.

“Dunc, ‘Caesar’s Palettes’?”

“Long story, Mex. Come on inside. I’ve got some cold beer and some candy ass soda pop just in case you’re still a wimp.”

He pulled two beers out of the cooler, turned the volume control down on the stereo and led me out a big cottonwood next to the barn. We sat down and looked at each other wondering if we looked as old as the guy we were looking at.

When our enlistment was up it was Dunc who saw me off at the Greyhound Bus Station in LA in ’69. I was going home to Texas. Both of us had mustered out of the service at the same time a couple of months before. He was getting up the money to buy a Harley then head home to Mississippi. We tried to stay in contact at first but it didn’t last long. I hadn’t thought about him in years.

His family was what’s called white trash, meaning poor, uneducated, and in some ways proud of being ignorant. He grew up in Mississippi among similarly poor blacks and Mexican migrant workers working alongside them in the watermelon fields and pecan orchards. When that work thinned they went to work in the poultry farms slaughtering and cleaning chickens from sunrise to sunset. Every man was a human being to Dunc.

His relentless energy as a linebacker in high school earned him a scholarship to Mississippi State where the team elected him defensive captain in his sophomore year. He was always the first to ‘hit the hole’ where the ball carriers were most apt to run but at 6ft. 3, 190lbs, was judged too small and light to play in the NFL. Unfortunately, the war in Vietnam was in full cry when he graduated and he was drafted immediately and sent to boot camp where it took three DI’s nine weeks of mighty effort to break him.

It wasn’t but two days after he reported to his base commander in 'Nam that Dunc was brought before his CO for fighting. Pecking orders are fact of life everywhere in life. Factions form, each with its leader and followers. Dunc, being Dunc, refused to kowtow to one of the self-described ‘leaders’ and was beaten badly but he wouldn’t back down. Eventually, he got the upper hand, so to speak, and broke the leader’s wrists -- both of them. To save the paperwork and hassle of a court martial Dunc was sentenced to three weeks latrine duty and was never challenged again. The guy he’d injured was sent stateside.

“Damn it, Mex, last time I saw you was at the bus station in LA and you borrowed $8.00. Saw Russ and Sergio in San Francisco in ’72. They told me Spence was living in Trucknutz, Arizona or something like that.”

I said, “We had some good times while we were waiting to muster out, remember?”

“Yeah, those girls who came to the parties over at Russ’s place? That redhead with the short dress, hair up high; that little girl had legs that went all the way up her………..”

“Dunc, you’re talking about my wife.”

“Oh, shit, man. I didn’t know. She married you? I gave her more credit for brains. Man, you got the better part of that deal.”

Still not believing, “The redhead and you?”

I nodded, yes.

Now really curious, “How’d you do it? I was gonna make a run at her but Marc had dibs already from being her pen pal or some shit.”

Catching himself now, he put his hand on my knee, “Hey, Mex, I didn’t mean nothing by that. I’m sorry, man.”

I told him no problem. It was a long time ago. Anyway, I told him, we had bunch of kids, owned a small business until we retired to Florida. Got another beer?

As he walked to the barn for the beer I laughed quietly at the idea that Dunc would make passes at my girlfriend, now wife. Back then Dunc looked like and acted like the bad boy that women are powerfully attracted to when they’re bored with their boyfriends or just looking for something out of the ordinary. Good looking, friendly, approachable, a sort of wild, unpredictable attitude about him. He was a dynamo in a crowd but tongue tied and hugely bashful whenever he was alone with a woman. One of the girls told me that she tried everything but strip down to get him to make a move on her. When she got real close he fumbled his drink, spilled it on her dress and on his pants then spent the next two hours apologizing.

Fresh beer in hand I said, "I was just thinking about you and the Harley you bought in LA to drive home.”

“That was a sweet ride, a 19 and 69 Harley Sportster. Took me 23 hours non-stop, ‘cept for gas and food to get to Clarksdale. My dad saw me drive up. Didn’t say anything right off. He just put me in his truck and took me to the ER. The nurses thought I was in a fire, my skin peeling off me, bleeding. It was windburn on my face, arms, hands, feet; even parts of my body that were covered. Doctor said he’d never seen windburn that bad. I was laid up in the hospital for two weeks, mostly knocked out with pain pills. Took a long time to heal up and I had to stay out of the sun for almost a year. Wasn’t allowed to drink either. I was a scary sight, too. My skin was blotchy all over, looked like I had some disease. If I was a horse or a cow no problem with being multi-color but hard for a man to get dates looking that way. It wasn’t exactly the homecoming I had in mind. Crazy times. Crazy man.”

Dunc may have been crazy but he was an educated crazy man. He had a civil engineering degree and was 23 when Uncle Sam drafted him. They offered him a commission as a 1^st Lieutenant owing to his degree but he turned it down saying he’d be nuts to be frag bait. He’d just as soon be a grunt, do his time, and go home. Two years later when we mustering out we were required to listen to a non-com try to talk us into reenlisting; get bonus money, go up at least one pay grade for two more years.

Dunc only spoke to the non-com for two minutes. Everybody else spent at least 20 minutes listening to the pitch.

“Dunc, what happened?”

“Nothing. The guy said my name and serial number. I said it was me. Then he said, have you thought about reenlisting?

“I said, no, reached across his desk, took the form, signed it, and left.”

We laughed at the memory of the lifer just sitting there with all his medals and stripes, expecting respect and admiration and getting neither from a grunt with a thousand yard stare.

“Mex, of the all the guys you were my best friend, kept me out of a lot of trouble like that time in Bangkok with the Marines.”

I thought about the time he told everybody in a bar in Singapore that he was going to kill me. Before that he’d protected me from the rednecks in our unit where being brown, black, or different was an invitation to abuse and insults. When they wouldn’t stop harassing me, he spoke up. “Listen up”, he said. “Nobody but ME calls this spic a spic. You think otherwise, let me know now; save me some time looking for you later.”

“I was your best friend? You forget you what happened in Singapore?”

“Jesus, Mex, what’d you expect? You called me a queer.”

“I didn’t call you a queer. You just thought I did.”

We were on R&R in Singapore. The bunch of us had rented rooms in a cheap hotel near the bars and whores but Dunc had other ideas. He rented a motorbike to go up to the mountains about 50 miles away. All excited about driving up there, staying at a good hotel for a change, he invited me to go with him.

“It’ll be nice. Real cool up in those mountains, rain forest, sleep on clean sheets on a bed that’s only used once a night. We’ll have fun.”

I was thinking about how I wanted to spend my R&R and I said, “Nah, I’m not that kind of guy.” It was a joke but Dunc heard something else.

According to Russ, on the last night of our R&R Dunc and the other guys were in a bar drinking as much as they could hold before going back. They were laughing, joking, and insulting each other as usual except for Dunc. He slugged down one beer after another, looking pissed.

Around midnight he slammed his bottle on the table looked around at the guys and said, “Nobody calls me a queer. I’m gonna break that wetback in two, then I’m gonna stomp his scurvy body flat as a goddamn tortilla, then I’m gonna cut him up in pieces and feed ‘em to the sharks. Anybody know where that sumbitch is? I’m gonna do it right now.”

Russ, who was bigger and meaner, pulled him outside and calmed him down. The next day all was forgotten in the dense fog of massive hangovers.

“Well, hell, Mex, you know I didn’t mean it. That was more'n 40 years ago. Damn, this is the second time I’m apologizing to you today. You the Ghost of Christmas Past or something? What’s next? You’re gonna tell me my future? Remember the MP’s in PI? I saved your skinny ass that time.”

What actually happened in PI was different from his recollection. My memory is better. I wasn’t drunk but I was high.

On that R&R, Dunc announced that he was going to get laid by all the Filipino bargirls in one bar. Two things argued against the success of his mission. We were going to bars that had at least 20 hostesses. That would mean five women each day for four days. Dunc was extraordinary in lots of ways but that fantasy would never happen. The other factor was bar etiquette among the working girls. If a girl succeeding in getting a guy to buy her drinks and maybe her favors later on he belonged to her as long as she wanted. If he came back the next day she would still own him unless she cut him loose for being cheap or whatever reason and he became fair game for the other girls to try. A guy who tried to have his fun with more than one girl in the same bar was risking plenty. He could instigate a fight among the girls or could become a victim of violence himself.

We were all in it together for good or ill so we came up with a plan to keep him and us safe. One of the guys was on his third tour and knew all the hot spots during R&R excursions. He told Dunc that he knew a pimp who could arrange a barfull of girls for him but that he moved around a lot. For the next six hours the gang went from bar to bar drinking at all of them and never finding the imaginary pimp. It was half past eleven. Time to go.

The regs were that we had to be off the streets by 12:00 AM or the MP’s would pick us up. Dunc was blind drunk and mad as hell as we staggered towards our hotel. A block away from the hotel Dunc stumbled and fell on his back, stared at the sky admiring the stars and started singing a nursery rhyme. A pair of MP’s drove up and demanded ID’s; asked where our hotel was. It looked they were going to let us go but then Dunc began swearing at the MP’s, jarheads, if you want to know. He was still on his back struggling to get up. He rose to his feet wavering back and forth still swearing. I cut in telling the MP’s I could handle Dunc and get him off the streets. I grabbed his thumb and started leading him towards the hotel. Dunc cussed at me and for the umpteenth time vowed to break me in two, stomp my scurvy body until it was as flat as a goddamn tortilla; then he was going to cut me in pieces and feed 'em to the sharks. He didn’t stop yelling even after we arrived at the hotel going up the steps to his room with me still pulling him along by his thumb. The guys said I looked like I was walking a big dumb ape. I pushed him on the bed and waited until he fell asleep.

In Dunc’s version it was me that provoked the MP’s. He threw me over his shoulder and took me back to the hotel.

I decided not to challenge his recollection about what actually happened in PI so I changed the subject.

“I went over to my old house on North Loop by the Indian Reservation. The house and the pines I planted in ’85 are still there but all the neighbors are different, not friendly like the old ones. Seems like the city’s grown and the community’s shrunk somehow. Nothing’s the same as it was 20 years ago.”

“Ain’t that the truth? When I went back to my folks’ place in Clarksdale all the small farms were gone. All the land was just one big ass spread owned by a syndicate that doesn't give a good goddam about the land. I couldn’t stay. Plus I was all fucked up in my head from the war anyway. You weren’t much better off if I remember.

He was right about that. A lot of us weren’t right after Vietnam and nobody seemed to know what to do about it. The visibly disturbed ones were put in VA hospitals for untested therapies and drugs that probably made things worse. The rest of us lived with whatever was in our heads. Some did better than others.

“Soon as I healed up from the windburn I went back to LA, married a sweet girl but it didn’t last long. She couldn’t take the flashbacks and not knowing what I would do next. Three years, she was gone.

“After she left me I kicked around the country not looking for anything in particular, just moving around until 1984. By then I was on VA disability. The doctors gave me pills for depression but I stopped taking them because they were making me more depressed. The only good thing is the pills made me lose my taste for alcohol. Smelled like old piss. Kicked it except for a couple of beers now and then.

“I went up to Seattle and spent a couple of months at my sister’s place. Her husband’s doing real well; some kind of marketing genius, so they let me stay and wouldn’t let me pay for anything. When I had to move on again they staked me $500. That, plus my uncashed VA checks got me to Las Vegas where I lost most of my money.

Marsha and I met there. She was a cocktail waitress and at first I thought she was just cozying up to me for the money which was fine by me. What’s money for anyway? But she stayed with me after it was gone, been with me ever since. She’s at her mom’s now, up in Utah for a month. I remembered you and we decided to come here and look you up sometime around ‘96. You were gone by then. Some snotty asshole, said he knew you, told me you’d gone to Florida to sell TV’s or something.

“We were out of money so I went to work as a warehouseman and Marsha found work as a receptionist in a lawyer’s office. We were doing ok. My boss liked me, gave me extra hours and responsibilities. One day some dumbass kid ran over my foot with the forklift, broke my ankle. Doc said it would take months to heal right. The bossman felt bad about it, like it was his fault, so he gave me a job I could do, gimpy leg and all, fixing broken palettes. New palettes cost about $22 and there were always broken ones laying around. Good times ‘til my boss had a heart attack and died. The new owner fired me.”

The sun was taking away the shade so we moved our chairs to another cottonwood. I could see his house, a utility shed, and a wire pen with a couple of dozen chickens pecking at the ground.

Dunc pointed to the house and said, “We had a little money set aside and put it down on this place; house, barn, four acres. It was touch and go for a couple of years. We almost lost the place; fell in arrears more than once but made it through. I couldn’t find a steady job so I started going around to warehouses offering to fix their busted palettes. Two months trying and nobody took the bait. In the meantime I picked up broken palettes from dumpsters all over town. Then I had an idea. Why not show up with a pickup load of rebuilt palettes and trade them one for one for broken ones plus $10 each for the good ones. It didn’t take a genius to figure out it was a good deal. It was good for me, too. My only cost was for the spiral nails and my time. I had lots of that.

“I did that for a year or so, barely getting by. Been doing better every year after. Got contracts with a couple of small warehouses; going for a Walmart contract. If I get that I’ll need to hire some help.”

Dunc went to get us another beer. Just for something to do I tried to estimate how many palettes Dunc had on his lot but he was back before I could finish my calculation.

Now that we know what to call it, I said, “How are you doing with PTSD, Dunc?”

“Oh, sometimes good, sometimes bad. It’s dogged me all my life. I couldn’t keep a job; pissed off all the time. Some nights I didn’t want to fall asleep, you know why. Next day I was a wreck, started fights, got fired. Drank too much. Just pissed at the world. You know, Mex, all my life I’ve wondered who I might be if not for the goddam war. I’m a goddam civil engineer for god’s sake.

“Marsha’s the one who kept me halfway sane. I don’t know how, she understands what I need when I need it. She’s there. Hate to say it but I thought a lot about killing myself. Last few years though, I’m not pissed anymore. I just feel bad sometimes about the things I did over there. It’s different, you know? Anger’s not the same as grief; grief’s a lot heavier. It’s less now. I guess I’ve paid off some of what I owe.”

The moment over he looked up and gave me a little smile and said, “Whatever happened to Dr. Tim?”

That wasn’t his real name and I don’t remember now why we called him Dr. Tim. He was a few years older than the rest of us; a sage, a guru of sorts. After we were discharged Dunc and I fell in with a small group of anti-war students and Dr. Tim. They weren’t full blown hippies but they occupied an area between pro-war patriots and the anti-war protestors. They dressed down fashionably like hippies but bathed regularly, drank cheap wine, liked to party. Guys like us, back from that lousy war, were guests of honor. There was sex, drugs and rock & roll enough for everybody.

One night after a party, Dunc and I crashed at Dr. Tim’s house. About two o’clock Dunc had a flashback. He sat up hollering, “Incoming! Incoming!” He jumped up and started pushing the furniture against the door, yelling and crying at the same time. Dr. Tim rushed in and got him in a tight bear hug, talking softly. In a little while, Dunc went slack in is arms and began sobbing so hard I started sobbing, too. Whatever he had, I had it, too.

“Dr. Tim? Don’t you remember? He was grad student at UCLA, working on his Master’s, Dunc. Psychology, maybe Sociology, I think. Spence told me a long time ago that the VA hired him right out of college. Still there. Heads up a big department.”

“All the pills and stuff he had. Really good weed, too. I think we were like lab rats to him. Remember the time he tried to give us LSD? I said hell no, but Mex, you took it. I thought you were gone for good. All the while Tim had his arm around your shoulder, humming some shit; rocking you side to side, the crazy music.”

My brain felt like it exploded when the LSD hit my nervous system. Everything glowed. The green carpet, the white beanbags, my shoes, the posters on the wall shimmered intensely like hyped up neon on the edge of bursting. I was afraid. I closed my eyes but the electric colors continued, swirling, combining. I heard Dr. Tim murmuring over and over, “It’s ok. Just let it go, let it go. Everything is possible. Let it go. Everything you see is real. Let it go.”

I don’t know when it happened but I began to enjoy the experience. Everything was new. Everything was possible as soon as I let it go. My mind was free to go anywhere it wanted; no barriers, no warnings, no stop signs, no looking back. Everything was possible. Hours later, when I felt normal again it was with a clarity I had never experienced before. It would be more than ten years before I had another flashback.

The sun was setting now. We moved our chairs under the shade again and continued talking about the other people we knew, Russ, Max, Spence, Marc, and Sergio. I told him about our reunion in Florida and how my lawn was set on fire, the dorky fire chief, and the neighbors’ little spat in my back yard.

“I wish I’d been there. I haven’t seen anybody but you since ’72. Next time see if you can get the guys to come out here. Not much to see but sand and jack rabbits but, hell, we can have fun just laughing at each other. I’m being polite now, Mex, but I cracked up when I saw you getting out of your car, your belly hanging over your belt, squinting like Punxsutawney Phil on Groundhog Day.”

I agreed that it would be fun to get together again, said I’d update the guys about his whereabouts as soon as I got home.

As we walked to my car I saw his sign again: Caesar’s Palettes. I had to ask.

“Where did that come from?”

He turned towards the barn, hands on his hips. Real proud. “When Marsha and I wound up here all we had was a few bucks and this.”

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a five dollar Poker chip. Caesar’s Palace.

“Just about all we had left after Vegas. Don’t remember if I thought it or Marsha. Either way it worked.”

Driving north on FM78 I pulled over to the side of the road a mile or so from Dunc’s place.
I felt bad for him. I felt bad for me. I felt bad for everybody.