In Vino Vertigo, or something

The party was over by midnight and nobody complained. They’d been drinking and dancing since sunset and tomorrow was church day anyway. The occasion was “Jackie’s Cold Day Inn” 20 year anniversary. Nobody was exactly sure how the idea of the celebration came about but it was early September when at last, the temperatures were cool after sunset. A little drinking, dancing, socializing sounded like a good thing before the heavy work of harvesting or rounding up the herds for market began.

Kill me now

It only took 20 years for “Jackie’s Cold Day Inn” to become an institution in Panhandle. There were other bars where you could drink and dance; cleaner places with ferns, salad bars, and live bands playing loud enough to make the deaf complain. Jackie’s was dark and sweaty. Nobody went there to preen.

The mayor and the sheriff agreed to block off part of Main St. in front of Jackie’s so that barbeque grills, tables, and tents could be set up outdoors. The Sheriff, who’s job it was to keep track of such things, estimated that 300 ~ 400 people showed up. There were two bands. Inside the bar a country band played old favorites. Outside, a fiddle band played even older bluegrass. The younger folk danced indoors, the older ones tapped their feet to the music outdoors.

By 1:00 AM, the fire in the grills had been tamped down, tents and tables folded up. It was a unanimous decision to sweep up the trash in the street the next day.

Sheriff Tom, Les, Jackie, and I sat around a corner table having a nightcap or two, winding down from the party and the frantic lead up to it.

Jackie said, “I’m so tired I can hardly raise my drink to my lips, and if I lower my head to it, I might fall in.”

Les picked her glass up and brought to her lips. “Darlin’”, he said, “Just take a sip. If there’s any left over, I’ll take care of it.”

He owns the general store and the feed store across the street. Les and Sheriff Tom are lifelong friends going back nearly 60 years. When Jackie asked him to help plan and fund the party he did both. The Mayor kicked in a few bucks. Even the new pastor, not sure if his congregation would approve or disapprove, put $10 of his own money in the pot.

Sheriff Tom leaned back in his chair, tucked his thumbs in his belt and declared that the party was an easy time. “Only had to break up a couple of disagreements. Old man Newman got het up when his handyman, Ray, said the Oakridge Boys were better than Flatt & Scruggs. I sent Ray indoors and sat with the old man ‘til he calmed down. Even Jim and Angel behaved themselves. I guess Jim remembers spending a weekend in jail while I was off fishing with the Judge.

“You got a good little bar here, Jackie. I remember when you came here in, what was it, ’94, ’96?”

“94, Tom. Just me and my pickup. Drove up to the Panther Bar and bought it. The rest is history, or something.”

The sheriff rubbed his shoulder and winced. Les said, “Still hurts some, huh?” Then looking at me he said the sheriff had been shot breaking up a robbery at the Credit Union a long time ago. He was famous; one sheriff, two robbers, a hero for the ages.

“Well”, Tom said, “you know how it is in the law enforcement business. You’re nobody ‘til somebody shoots you.

“One of the robbers said the dynamite on his chest would blow up if he let go of a switch. City slicker all the way, shiny shoes. Around these parts anybody over eight years old knows the difference between a road flare and a stick of dynamite. Anyway, the other one shot me and passed out after I coldcocked Mr. Dynamite.

“My granddaddy and my daddy were sheriffs here before me and they never even drew their guns. I’m just lucky, I guess.”

Studying Jackie now, he said, “I was thinking back to when you bought this place. Orville told me you paid him in cash, took the money out of your backpack. Nothing unusual considering, but then Les here told me everything you bought at his store you paid in cash. Most out of towners have credit cards for everything except for you. It set me to wondering so I looked for your name in public records all over the country and didn’t find anything after you ran away from home. Now here we are 20 years later and you still pay cash, no credit.  If it’s none of my business say so but I gotta ask, you got strong feelings for cash?”

She looked each of us in the eye and said, “You guys are my best friends. You’re more family than I ever had. My father was a hard man with large appetites and few graces; my mother was like a ghost. A day didn’t go by we weren’t ripping strips off each other.

“But there’s more to it than that. You remember how it was in 60’s, Tom. Girls spent their high school years figuring out which boy was gonna be her husband. If you hadn’t picked one by Senior year you took the best you could of whatever was left. By Junior year I’d blossomed a bit and a few guys sniffed around but I’d already seen the future by looking at the girls that graduated a year or two ahead of me.

“For a while gettin’ married was like extra high school. They hung around with the same people and did the same things. A couple more years on, there’s kids, layoffs at the plant, money gets tight, and the fighting and discontent begin. Six, seven more years and by then some of them start to hate each other but they stay married anyway. It wasn’t what I wanted for me. I was just turned 18 when I ran away from that and my family. Wound up in California.

“I got lucky in Seal Beach and found a job as a barback. The owner, Cap’n Jack taught me how to mix drinks and bartending. He fired me on my 21^st birthday but got me job in Las Vegas. That lasted ‘til the liquor board pulled the license. From Vegas I went east, spent a few years in Arizona, first Flagstaff, then Tucson where I learned Spanish. Those Mexican boys thought it was a hoot to hear a redheaded white woman speak their language. Sometimes they would order extra pitchers just to hear me say their names again, real sweet and slow. The Alacrán was the happiest bar I ever worked. I left after a while, going east again.

“You wanted to know about me and cash. Maybe you’ve forgotten or maybe you never saw it close up, Tom. Back in the 60’s and 70’s women couldn’t have credit cards or a checking account without their husband’s co-sign and permission.

“When I was working at Cap’n Joe’s I tried to get a credit card and a bank account so I could manage my money better. No husband? No card. I had no choice but to pay cash for everything. The unfairness of it gave me such a royal rash I made up my mind I was going to do things my way as much as I could. I rode buses, hitchhiked or walked, rented places near where I worked. Cash, cash, cash, and a money order to the IRS once a year.

“Never bought a car or truck until ’94 when I came back to Panhandle. Bought it off a guy and ripped up the title. DMV doesn’t know I own it. Have look at the license plate. It’s been expired for 22 years.”

She poured herself another shot of whiskey and smiled at me. “I don’t get tickets for it ‘cause once in while I forget to charge the Sheriff here for his drinks. Hell, one time he caught some tourist trying to steal it for his antique collection. Made that sucker put it back then ran him out of town. Other than my expired plates, I’m a model citizen.

“Been all over, Baton Rouge, Galveston, Mobile. By 1992 I was bartending in Denton when some drugstore cowboys came in; four of ‘em, new boots, creased pants, big hats, and soft hands. I heard one of them say he was originally from ‘Pampa, shitkicker capital of Texas.’

“Pampa, only 30 miles from my hometown. That’s when it came to me that ever since I left California I’d been working my way back home to Panhandle; that crappy little town I ran away from more than 20 years before.

“So two years later, there I was sitting in my pickup at the Panhandle city limits sign, 41 years old with nothing but my life savings under the seat. I drove around town looking for familiar things. The house I grew up in was still there but strangers living in it. The high school was the same except the football field had fake grass now. 

 “Going down Main St. I saw that the shops and stores had new tenants, new names, and new purposes. The Panther Bar & Grill was still there near the train station. Goooooooo, Panthers, yada, yada. So the town still lived and breathed Friday Night Football.

“I parked in front and went inside. The bartender looked me over, then past me like he was waiting for my man to come in behind me. When my man didn’t show, he said, ‘You lost, Ma’am?’ I said, no but I’m looking for a bartending job. He looked me over again and said he didn’t have any jobs but the way things were going he’d sell the place for cheap. He wasn’t kidding. I bought the place for cash, cheap.

“News about the Panther being sold didn’t take long to get around. I scrubbed off as much grime as I could and opened up. No more‘n 10 minutes later, a classmate recognized me. My Grand Opening turned into a class reunion; everybody was older and fatter but still recognizable. An old coot didn’t like me at all, said it’d be a cold day in hell before he set foot in here again. That’s how this place became “Jackie’s Cold Day Inn”.

“At first I tried to keep the place neat and tidy but a bit rough seemed to suit my regulars better. I wasn’t long before I was dropping my “g’s” like I’d never been gone. I’d just moved here so technically I was an outsider. On the other hand, I was raised here so one cancelled the other. You know, weird small town math.

“You didn’t ask for my life story but there it is. In vino, vertigo or something, I think, I forget. I’m ready for another drink, anybody else?”

She went to the bar for another bottle of Jack. Tom looked at me and Les, down at his drink, shifted around in his chair, then looked up like he'd made up his mind about something.

Jackie freshened our drinks and put the bottle down.

None of us said anything for a while then the Sheriff put his hand over Jackie’s and said, “I told you once that I didn’t know anything about your folks but the fact is, I do.

"My daddy was Sheriff around the time you left home. Your daddy said you eloped, moved to Alaska, and broke with the family.

"I didn't know your daddy that well but I got a pretty good idea about him from my daddy. No doubt the man had a hard bark on him. Everything in his world was black or white with nothing in between. It was like he enjoyed scraping on your nerves, always on the other side of anything you said or were. According to my daddy, he was the only man who could make Jehovah Witnesses say, 'Whoa, look at the time. We'd better go'

Jackie nodded, "That's him."

“What I’m gonna tell you now may not be complete or accurate in every detail but it’s all I got. He told me he ran your folks out the county back in ’82, ’83 or thereabouts following a snakebite incident that nearly killed Beau Jackson. He was just a kid at the time. Anyway, tent revivalists come around every Spring and Summer, set up their tents, take money from the locals and move on. I try to move ‘em along before they do any harm.

“Near as I can piece together, your mom and dad got the Holy Fire in their souls from this one preacher, a serpent handler he called himself. So after my daddy run him off, your daddy goes out and catches some rattlers. My daddy heard he was fixin’ to start his own revival operation here, permanent like, so he tried to warn him off. Apparently not soon enough for poor Beau who was praising and praying along with others in your daddy’s back yard one night. All the congregants were up in lather, speaking tongues, writhing on the ground just like you’d ‘spect at such a ceremony. Your daddy brought out the basket with the rattlers, reached in and pulled one of ‘em out. He’s holding it up, the thing’s twisting and turning in his hands, Beau rushes up to the snake and gets bit on the nose just like that.

“Hurts like hell, he’s screaming, the venom’s working fast. Lucky for him law requires Sheriffs have anti-venom serum in our cars. My daddy got to him just in time.

“Well, there’s no law against handling snakes or getting bit by one so legally there was nothing my daddy could do ‘cept try to run your daddy off. Turns out that wasn’t necessary. His followers abandoned him after Beau’s misfortune. His only option was to move away and try his luck someplace else.

“My daddy watched him load his truck but before he left daddy told him he’d better figure out how to milk the venom outta them snakes before turning ‘em loose on his followers again.

“Real loud he says, ‘That’s the first thing you learn at Snake Handling University, you ninny. Keeps you from dyin’ if a rattler takes a shine to your arm.’ Your daddy’s eyes went wide like he was hearing something very, very important, something he shoulda known before but didn’t. He was shaking, got real pale, ghost-like, jumped in his truck and drove off. That was the last anybody saw of him or your mom.”

I travel all over south and west Texas on my sales route and I hear the same stories repeated dozens of time. This one was new. None of us had heard it before. Once we began laughing we couldn't stop. Jackie spilled her drink, gasped for breath. Les, holding his sides, gave Tom a look, is it true? Tom nodding yes and we laughed harder at what was a brand new bar story. I could tell Les was already practicing how he was gonna tell it next.

It was about 2:30 when Rollie walked in carrying a shotgun, saw us giggling and said, "Can I have some, too? 

"You guys gettin’ ready to wrap things up? I gotta clean the bathrooms, sweep, and take out the trash before Olson comes by for it.”

“You don’t need a gun for that, Rollie. Gimme that thing. Come by my office tomorrow, you get it back.”

“But Sheriff, me and Tim are supposed to stand guard on the stuff outside. Jackie said so. There’s kegs, a reefer full of frozen pork ribs, the grills, and other stuff.”

Rollie and Tim are handymen of sorts. There isn't much they can't do, trouble is they don't want to do very much. They work when they need money and refuse steady jobs. Jackie hired them to clean up the bar after closing in exchange for some money and a beer or two while they worked. They're indifferently reliable but honest.

“Gimme the gun, Rollie. Deputy Dudley has the night shift and he’ll be close by if you need him. I’m going home.”

Shotgun in hand, he left Jackie’s and the rest of us followed, still laughing.

Jackie's Cold Day Inn

“We’re all going to hell!” was what I heard as I walked into “Jackie’s Cold Day Inn”. Opening the door to the place meant letting light in, and that never failed to temporarily blind the patrons.

“Hey, I been to hell already. Lucky me she remarried. I don’t recommend it.”

It didn’t get a laugh maybe because I’ve said it a hundred times before.

"Cold Day Inn", low maintenance, high quality

Jackie’s was near the end of Main St. in Panhandle, TX. There were a couple of other bars but it was the oldest and the favorite one, the others being less than 20 years old, operated by outsiders. It was a bit more than half full which was unusual for that time of day except today. Most of us had been to the pastor’s funeral an hour before. For this part of the world 100+ temperatures are standard from May to October and Jackie’s had the best A/C in town. The only light came from the tiny dingy windows in front. It was so dark it made everybody look acceptable.

Nearly everyone in the congregation was at the funeral except the kids. Dressed in their church clothes, the men pulled at their collars, the women dabbed their sweat with lacy handkerchiefs and the Bishop under layers of vestments suffered, too, but not enough to hurry things along. The moment of silence after the wooden casket was lowered lasted about 10 seconds after which we practically ran for shade.The men headed for Jackie’s place where it was cool and dark. The women went home to get more covered dishes for the widow.

The official word from the ME’s office was that the pastor died in his sleep at a motel two towns away. No other details were given so naturally we took to inventing possible reasons why he wasn’t at home dying on a Wednesday night and just how worn out he must have been to die while sleeping; “dead to the world” while asleep and now dead to everybody else alive. But it was too soon to joke or gossip about it now. Maybe in few days.

Things brightened up some when Jackie brought two more pitchers of beer and shots for everybody, on the house just this once.

“If you guys don’t lighten up I’m closing the bar and you can be gloomy at home”, she said.

Nobody wanted to go home. A funeral is like a day off, not quite a 4^th of July day off, but a work-free day nonetheless.

Ray looked up from his beer and said, “I remember when he arrived here in ‘96. He was all filled up with the Fire of the Gospel in ‘im trying to save everybody all day, every day. Me, I wondered what he was saving me from. I had a nice spread, a good herd of whiteface, royalties from the three little oil wells in the back forty, satellite TV, and a good wife. So far as I could figure, I sure didn’t want to leave this place for some other place I never seen.”

Jackie looked about to smack him with an empty pitcher. “Of all the good stuff you got, your wife is last, Ray? After satellite TV? Tell me when you plan to show her your list. I really wanna be there, help her clean up after she’s done with you.”

Ed downed his shot, took a gulp of beer and said, “You’all remember Bobby Jean, I mean the way she passed while playing Charades? Five other people there, including Will the EMS guy. She died before they figured out she was having a heart attack right in front of them. She’s flailing around and they kept trying to guess what she was pantomiming. A breakdancer! A dolphin leaping out of the water! Oh, shit! A heart attack! Will tried to bring her back but it didn’t work.”

Raging Bull! No!      Horny guy! No!

Looking around he said, “I don’t see Ben here so I guess I can say “pneumothorax” and get a laugh instead of a dirty look. We were working on the hay baler, me on top working the gearbox and him underneath taking bolts off the tranny. Anyways, I hear him grunting and huffing then he says god help me, I can’t breathe; hurts like hell. I’m gonna die. Got him in the truck fast as I could, ran him to the clinic. Doc has a look and tells him you’re not dying you have a pneumothorax. Ben says, what’s that. That’s a collapsed lung but for billing purposes a pneumothorax costs a lot more. Considering all the names you called me the last half hour I’m still making up my mind which way I'm going to write it up.

“Ben says, ok, ok, but what’s the cure? Doc says, nothing but bed rest coupla days; and hands him a bag of balloons and a bottle of aspirin. Tomorrow morning, he says, start blowing these up, aspirin whenever you need it. Call me if the pain gets worse.

“Well, Ben wasn’t having none of that. He’s seen doctor shows on TV. There’s pills and operations for everything. He can barely talk it hurts so bad but has just enough breath to swear at the doc some more. Doc doesn’t pay any attention, just writes something on Ben’s chart. Then he says, ‘Ok, Ben, pneumothorax it is.’”

We laughed out loud even though we’d heard the story before. It happened years ago but Ben still gets steamed about it even after a doctor from Lubbock told him that doc’s treatment was right.

The door opened, let the light in and blinded everybody. Sheriff Tom stood in the doorway like a gunslinger looking the place over. Seeing no malefactors he took a seat at our table, nodded at Jackie to bring him a mug.

“Missed the pastor’s funeral. Had to check out the Williams’ place. Somebody said there were strangers digging near the hay barn. Wish the heirs would settle things and sell the place. It’s not worth much but it’s more than all the money they found after Pop Williams died. It was some kids from Canyon State looking for Pop’s buried treasure. I told ‘em it had all been found already, $500,000 in Republic of Texas dollars from 1846. Betcha good money Pop Williams is laughing in his grave over his joke and he’s been gone now 20 years or more.”

That was a story I hadn’t heard before. It must have shown on my face.

The Sheriff lit up a Cheroot, leaned on his elbows and said, “Ain’t much to tell. When Pop died his will left everything to his three ingrate sons. That and a map showing where he’d buried half a million dollars he swore he found while digging wells on the south 40 back in the day.

“Trouble was there was no sign about which way was North on the map or any landmarks so these fools turned the map this way and that, dug up the land this way and that for months before they hit paydirt. The field looked like home for a colony of giant Prairie Dogs big as tractors. Those boys looked pretty foolish after bragging all over the county how they were going to spend the old coot’s money soon’s they found it. Twenty years on they can’t agree to sell it and I think the county’s about to seize it for taxes.”

A couple of hours after sunset we were back to normal, taking turns ganging up on whoever was a good target at the moment. Sheriff Tom put some bills on the table and left to finish his shift. For some reason the empty chair made Ray think about the pastor.

He said, “I mean what does a pastor do with his time? Give a sermon on Sunday, well that’s a couple of hours plus the time to write it out during the week. Organizing fundraisers for folks in need, getting stuff for the food bank, but what else?

“You know ranch life can be lonesome for the wives. Think on it, the men are out in the fields plowing, planting, harvesting but not by themselves or in town at the feed store, socializing. With the kids in school it gets awful quiet around the home day after day. A visiting pastor can be safe, welcome company once in while. It might explain why some kids around here have dimpled chins just like the pastor.”

Nobody wanted to think too deep on that so the talk went back to the pastor dying in Bixley.

Ed spoke up first.

“Maybe he was in Bixley banging something besides his bible. I heard Alice cut him off after that thing with the organist what’s-her-name. She moved away. Maybe to Bixley?

“If not what’s-her-name what was he doing in Bixley on a Wednesday night? Nothing there. All I can figure is a place called “Betty’s Boop”, almost naked “girls” that make a sheep look good. I was there one time saw guys putting dollar bills in the women’s bikini bottoms and getting 50 cents change. 

 

“I think Wednesday nights are two-for-one drinks at “Betty’s”, Wednesday being the slowest night. I heard they tried holding mud-wrestling contests but nobody showed up for the next one after the first one. Guess they forgot most of the guys ‘ev seen plenty of hog wallows and don’t care to see another one even if the drinks are cheap.”

True or not, everybody  laughed real hard except Jackie*.

                                                 RIP, Pastor Johnson

*Author’s note: Jackie doubled the bar tab that night. If anybody noticed they aren't saying.

The Last Time

Beer & Whine at Billy's Last Stand

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, yes. I remember.

The last time…

It was about a month ago...

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

Texas Pool Boy

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

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

At closing time everybody looks good

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

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

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

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

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

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

Righty tighty, lefty loosey? You sure?

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

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

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

He doesn't need you and he expects the same

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

“Shit! Then I’ll walk home, Sheriff.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hizzoner de Mare – a story

  

“Mayor Mike Wilson, 69, died in his sleep last night. His wife, Mary Ann, told our reporter that he had gone to bed around 9:00 PM and when she went to check on him an hour later, she found him sitting up in his bed with an open bible on his lap. The distraught widow refused to answer any questions, begging callers to leave her to her grief.”

So read the top story in the “Rancher’s Weekly” in Shorthorn, TX (population 6000). Only four of those 6,000 knew that the Sheriff, responding to a frantic call from an unknown female, found the Mayor out behind the stockyards, stone dead, next to his car, with his pants down. The caller was never found.

The death of a small town mayor is usually not news anywhere except among the locals who then gossip about it for years afterwards. But in the faraway capital, Austin, the news was a shock to legislators and lobbyists who depended on Mayor Wilson in every election. It seems he had a gift for supplying whatever numbers of votes were needed to swing a victory for his party. How a small city in a small county could routinely provide more votes than there were eligible voters was a mystery no one in Austin could fathom but none of them cared to wonder about for too long.

Mike Wilson had become very rich during his 30 year tenure as mayor. His second wife, Mary Ann, 28, had once been 2^nd runner up in the Miss Dairy Queen pageant, 2^nd runner up in the Texas Teen contest, and 2^nd runner up in the Miss Texas competition. Now she was the 2^nd richest widow for 500 miles around.

By the time the real truth of the mayor’s death became known six months later, Wilson’s heir apparent had re-established the connections to Austin’s grifters, and the graft resumed as before. But at least the locals had the mayor’s inglorious death to sift through; and small town grist mills grind exceeding fine.

I was a traveling farm equipment salesman at the time, ranging from the Panhandle to Brownsville in South Texas. Shorthorn was on my route and I had made a habit of stopping for a beer at the “Almost OK Corral Bar & Grill”. Jesse the bartender set a mug of beer at my usual place at the bar when he saw me drive up.

“Hey, it’s good to see you again. How ya been?”

“Doing ok. Sales are better than last year. The new Slice n’ Burn nutcutters are a hit with the ranchers all up and down the Panhandle. I think it’s the mother-of-pearl inlays on the handles and the built-in cauterizer that does it; all electric, two lithium batteries; go all day. Bull to steer in under a minute. Probably sell just as good here. Might even sell some to the Mexicans across the border.”

Early prototype of "Slice n' Burn"

The three cowboys sitting at the far corner of the room began laughing loudly. One of them said something else and the laughter got louder.

“What’s that about?”

“Oh, you heard about how Wilson really died, right? Well, since the truth came out that’s all anybody is talking about. First, they said they were shocked. Then they said, oh yeah, I knew all about it. Then with each telling somebody added a new tidbit, true or not. Then when that game got old they started making jokes. They’re telling jokes about Wilson’s young widow being the 2^nd easiest lay in the county; the cowhands going back for seconds, that sort of thing. Not saying she’s slow witted or anything but you ask her anything and she says, “Just a second.” Tending bar I hear all this stuff over and over.”

The front door opened and a man stood there for a moment as though he had forgotten why he’d come.

“That’s Cal”, said Jesse as he set a longneck on the counter. “He must be at least 80 by now, lookin’ better n’ me and I’m only 60.”

He was 170 pounds of old cowboy, sunburned sinew and gristle spread over a 6 ft. 4 inch frame. He took off his greasy hat, gave it a slap against his thigh, grabbed the longneck and sat two stools away from mine. He gave me a squinty sideways look that told me he’d decided I was harmless, took a long swallow of beer, and signaled Jesse for another.

The cowboys started laughing again and Cal snorted in disgust. “Sumbitches call themselves cowboys. Just sittin’ there gossiping like a bunch of old hens. Don’t know shit about cattle or horses. What’r they cackling about now, Jesse?”

“Same as yesterday, the Wilsons.”

“Shit.”

He caught me looking at him. Turning to me he said, “You’re not from around here, I can tell. California, I bet.”

Before I could answer he said, “Mister, Mike Wilson was the slickest Texas politician you never heard of. I didn’t like him much but then there’s damn few people I do like. Wilson had the good ole boys in Austin eating out of his hand for years. Imagine that! A dirt poor cattle rancher become a millionaire from miscounting votes. Paid off for Shorthorn, too -- a rodeo arena and Community Center that holds more people than live in the whole county for god’s sake. You tell me how a pissant town like this gets the State and the Feds to build us brand spankin’ new courthouses. First Class all the way, too. A lot of money got spent out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“So how did a dirt poor cattleman become mayor?”

“Well, now we’re talking about the mayor’s race in ’81. That’s how he got in the first time. He won again two years later. After that nobody bothered to run against him. But that first race --- that was something to behold. There weren’t no TV commercials and stuff. It was just old fashion rallies with lotsa speechifying. Hell, nobody running had any money; and besides, this county’s so poor there wasn’t any spare money to donate. The campaign signs looked like “Wanted” posters.

“Jesse, do you remember the first time Wilson got elected?”

“Yeah, I thought the town had gone nuts. Five candidates for a job that pays nothing.”

 “Yep. Crazy, alright. It was Big Bill, Randy, Cody, the blind Meskin guy Raúl, and Wilson.

“What a hoot! Big Bill ran his campaign from the county jail. Randy was in the psych ward in Amarillo. Everybody knew Cody was nuts. And Raúl was blind and deaf!”

I looked back and forth at Jesse and Cal. The hook was set. I swallowed it and followed with the line and sinker. I put a twenty on the bar and asked for a round of beer.

Cal paused and waited until Jesse came back with fresh beers, including one for himself, pocketed my twenty and laid a stack of ones next to my mug.

“Big Bill had a fine opinion of himself and he liked his guns. He strutted around town campaigning suited up like a TV gunslinger; six shooter strapped low, snug up against his leg. His big idea was to bring law and order to Shorthorn, except the only crimes we had were petty vandalism. Hell, the last big crime was the Calahan boys rustling a half dozen steers back in ’62. Them dumbasses got lost out past Wild Rose Canyon. Me and the boys rescued them a week later nearly dead from thirst. Had to keep their daddy from beatin’ ‘em to death.

“Jesse, you were at Big Bill’s last rally, right?”

What Big Bill saw in his mirror

“Yeah, I was. Ole Bill was holding a rally at the town square going on and on about how he didn’t want Shorthorn to become like the big cities full of crime and drugs. Some guy standing in the back asked if he knew who was shooting campaign signs full of holes. Big Bill ignored him at first but the guy kept on about it. I was standing next to a guy who was holding up a sign with a picture of Cody’s face on it. Big Bill saw it and pulled out his shooter and put two bullets in it. One in each eye, quick like. The people that didn’t scatter hit the dirt except for the Sheriff who stood his ground and arrested him. Judge Porter put Bill in the clink for a 30 day stretch at county."

Cal said, “UFO’s. Ever see any? Randy did. Don’t rightly know what UFO’s had to do with being mayor but he ran for it anyways. For years Randy told the folks about triangle shaped aircraft flying over his land but nobody else ever saw ‘em. Everywhere he went, everybody he talked to got an earful about his visions. Nobody believed him, of course. Some of us laughed in his face. About a month before the vote he started hallucinating about being abducted by aliens and being probed like a hamstrung hog. That last thing made the folks at his rallies kinda uncomfortable, but I think it was the tinfoil covering the windows in his house that made his wife commit him to the psych ward in Amarillo for six months.

Got Milk?

“The hell of it is that in 2005, the flyboys at Lackland AFB in San Antone, fessed up about experimental, triangle shape aircraft they had secretly tested about the same time that Randy said he saw them. Now he won’t stop talking about how the Air Force was just covering up the truth about alien visitors.”

“Then there was Cody”, Jessie said. “Lotta folks here and about thought maybe he spent too much time alone in the desert. He had a fossil museum over on Third and Main. Visitors would go in and look at the fossils he’d dug up over the years, which was fine until Cody went into his talks about how the earth was 6,000 years old; how his bone collection proved beyond a doubt that men and dinosaurs walked the earth at the same time. Some tourists stood and listened (he could go on for hours). Most of them backed out as fast as they could.

“But, I gotta tell you. At one of his rallies he did say one thing that almost made sense.”

Cody's Flintstonemobile

 Cal’s eyebrows shot up and he glared at Jesse.

“Now, don’t look at me like that, Cal. It’s crazy, I know, but it made me stop and think for a minute. He was telling the crowd that Shorthorn would do itself real proud if it elected him, a God fearing Christian. There were some ‘Amens’ in the crowd. Then a kid in the front row asked how did Noah get the dinosaurs into the Ark? The crowd got real quiet, like they never thought of that before. Thinking, HOW?

“’That’s easy,’” Cody said. “Eggs”.

Cal said, “Nobody ever thought Big Bill, Randy, or Cody stood a yella dog’s chance of winning but there ain’t much to do on market day after the shopping’s done so going to the voter rallies was a way to pass the time. Make a day of it, you know?”

Jessie added, “Well, with the three of them out of the way, that left Raúl and Wilson as the only candidates with any chance of winning. Which I thought was kinda funny because I didn’t figure Raúl had any chance at all, being a Meskin and all of us being whites but people were talking him up. The tide was moving his way just 10 days to go to Election Day. Didn’t I say things were crazy? Maybe something in the water.

“I couldn’t figure it until he came into the bar one afternoon and started talking to me about my ex-wife. He knew stuff nobody else could know except my divorce lawyer and my ex.

“That’s when I knew that blind and deaf Raúl was blackmailing the whole town. He mighta been half blind but his hearing was real good.

“How did he do it? Raúl made his living by being a gopher and courier for a lot of the lawyers working out of the old courthouse. They paid him a buck or two for each delivery. They gave him contracts, settlements, and decrees to deliver from one lawyer to another. He wore bad suits, looked sloppy, didn’t ask any questions, and was always available. Everybody knew him and paid him no mind. He just hung around the offices, listening to lawyers talking among themselves or on the phone. He read the documents they gave him to deliver. So, if the Sheriff got you on a domestic beef, Raúl knew all about it. Divorced --- details. Bad debts – details. Raúl was the fly on the wall in the town’s livin', breathin' soap opera.”

I know everything. Everything

Jesse took the empty bottles off the counter and went to fetch another round.

Cal cleared his throat and said, “Only thing Wilson was good at was lyin’. Smart people thought he was dumb. Yes, sir. He was so dumb he got rich. He didn’t know much about ranching but he knew people. You might say he was coyote smart. No matter what you did to protect your chicken pen or your pocket, he’d find a way in.

“He always had big plans that never worked out, like the idea to make his place into a Dude Ranch. Or the time he thought NASCAR would come to Shorthorn if it was promoted right; always looking for an easy way to make a fast buck. Couldn’t rightly tell why he wanted to be mayor. The job wasn’t much at all.

“Ya know, the Meskin, Raúl, almost won, too. If it wasn’t for the County Clerk giving Wilson the votes we woulda had a blind, deaf, Meskin mayor. If anybody thought there was something fishy they didn’t say nothin’. Wilson wasn’t anybody’s idea of a mayor either, but at least he was white.

I must have made a face because he added, “Things ain’t like that anymore. Town’s changed; people changed.” Glancing over at the laughing cowboys in the corner, he said, “Well, most of us anyway. Maybe you can leave one of your nutcutters with me on account. Might have a need for it after all.”

Jessie set the longnecks on the counter and said, “Best move Wilson made was to marry Betty Jo, the County Clerk, a few months after the election. Folks scratched their heads over that. Betty Jo was plain as can be; thirty years old, a spinster for sure. But when Wilson looked at her he saw a beautiful thing. He saw POWER and an easy way to get it. With Betty Jo counting votes he could sell Shorthorn County votes to Austin --- as many as they wanted. All he had to do was propose to Betty Jo and win the first time.”

It only matters who counts the votes

                         

Author’s Note:

This story is fiction. However, some of the characters in it are based on an real election that took place in a real town in Texas in my lifetime. For the purposes of this story, the candidates’ attributes were modified to make the story believable. They were more bizarre in real life.

When the bartender rolls his eyes

South of the middle of nowhere

I arrived in Eagle Pass from El Paso around 4 o’clock, hungry and thirsty after seven hours driving. Bypassing the usual national chain fast food joints I stopped a place called Barney’s Bar & Grill, Best Eats, Coldest Beer in South Texas. Inside, Barney’s looked like a hundred other mom & pop eateries I had visited over the years; outdated tables and chairs, neon signs advertising beers that no longer existed, dog eared menus with old prices inked out, new prices added in ballpoint pen; a jukebox whining predictable country music.

I sat on the barstool nearest the door, ordered a beer, and studied my grandfather’s hand drawn map showing how to find the five acre property he’d given me in his will. The bartender brought my beer and scanned the map.

Coldest beer in South Texas

“That’s next to the Double Aught ranch. Real nice there by the river, cottonwoods all around the house. Mr. Gonzales and his wife been taking care of the house for years. You thinking about buying it?”

“No, Don Francisco was my grandfather. He died last year and left it to me. I’m just here to look it over.”

“Oh. Sorry about your dad. Your map looks good but just in case, stop at the Texaco outside of town on the 480 Loop. Pedro’ll tell you how to get there.”

A customer came in and sat on the bar stool next to me, dropped his worn leather gloves on the bar and ordered two Lone Stars. The bartender nodded and looked at me questioningly, how about you? I nodded back, sure.

There was a sheen of sweat on the guy’s face and his hair was pasted to his skull under his cowboy hat.

“Hard day? Damn hot, gotta be over a hundred,” I said.

“Yeah, and it’s even hotter when you’re working on asphalt.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m the crew chief for the road team. Maintain the roadways in the county. Fix potholes; sometimes there’s accidents. We clean up after.”

“How long have you been on the job?”

I ever tell you about the time me and..

The bartender was setting the beers in front of us, looked at me, and rolled his eyes thinking Ben's gonna talk this guy's ear off.

“Been at it near 24 years now. By the way, my name’s Ben Cooper.”

He half turned on his stool to face me and rested his elbow on the bar.

“I said I was the crew chief. Well, I am and I’m not. I only got one guy on my crew so it’s not much of a crew. We do all the repairs on two, three hundred miles of county roads hereabouts. Used to do it by myself but fifteen years into the job, the powers that be musta took pity and hired a guy to be my assistant. Sometimes, I wonder though, if maybe they gave me more work to do by adding the kid.

“Most of my time we’re in the truck going up and down looking to see if anything needs fixing, potholes, pick up the roadkill. Got most of the tools in the truck so if we see something we can fix it right off. Log everything we do and file a report with the state.”

“Ben, what did you mean about having more work to do with an assistant? Seems to me, the helper would do just that – help.”

“I thought that, too, but I guess it depends on if you’re helper is smart or not. And, come to think of it, some days a dumb one is better than a smart one and vice versa. Know what I mean?”

I shook my head, no.

“You seen those steel barriers on the road every time you cross over an irrigation ditch or canal? They’re put there so cars don’t fall in the canal and the passengers drown. Used to be those guardrails were so strong cars would crash into them, get totaled and the rails would hardly get a scratch. Good for the barriers but bad for the people that hit ‘em. Some bright engineer figured that maybe it would be better if the rails broke off if they got hit. That way the impact wouldn’t be so hard and the humans might get by with a coupla broken bones instead of landin' in the morgue." 

He sipped his beer, shook his head and said, "I'll betcha the Chief Engineer wondered what kinda engineers Texas Tech was puttin' out these days. 'Boy, we don't build stuff that's gonna break.' But higher ups musta figured different so now we got these break-away barriers. Praise be."

Lonesome roads

“Ok, but what does that have to do with your assistant?”

“I’m gettin' to that. See, at one time, the really strong barriers were a good idea but then somebody looked at ‘em and figured that not so strong was a better idea like I said. Same with people. Sometimes it’s better to have a helper that’s smart and sometimes it’s better to have one that isn’t.

“Fact is, sometimes I think Danny, that's my helper, was sent to help me and other times I think I’m his baby sitter.

“Don’t know for sure if he was born that way or if he got dropped on his head. Most folks think he was odd from the git go then got worse after the accident. Don’t get me wrong. You meet Danny now and all you think is ‘nice guy’, not a bad guy to know. But I’ll tell you what, he can be a trial sometimes.”

“What accident did he have?”

“There’s some question about that. Some think it was the Garcia boy’s fault with his drinkin' so much, but nobody actually saw what happened. Both Danny and Miguel were thrown out of the pickup when they hit one of the new barriers. Neither of them remembers anything.

“Miguel came out of it with a broken nose and arm. Danny was hurt less but wasn’t the same afterwards.

“Both of them liked to hang out at “El Indio Loco” down the road from here. “El Loco” had this cute little waitress they both wanted to date but, truth is, she didn’t date anybody far as I could tell. I think she was from Vera Cruz or some place like that and she had these dark, dark eyes. She come take your order and look at you like you was the man she was waitin’ for all her life. Miguel was smitten real bad and didn’t see that every man got the same look. In his mind, he could see himself and Rosalinda marry’in and livin’ happily ever after. So every payday and spare minute he had he’d hang around “El Loco” tryin’ to make time with the girl. Don’t know what happened to her. She just left town one day.

“The night of the accident the boys had spent most of their pay at “El Loco” and by closing time both of them were pretty drunk. Drivin' home they hit a barrier on 11 Mile Road.

“Not a year after the accident I get a call from the state office that they’re sending Danny to be my helper. Now, mind you, I never asked for an assistant but I was glad to have one. Drivin' around eight, ten hours a day all by yourself gets a bit lonesome so I was glad for the company.

“Danny was brought up on a farm like the rest of us so he knew how to use tools for most chores but pretty soon I started thinkin' something wasn’t right. He knew how to do everything he knew before the accident but couldn’t remember how to do anythin' new. I would show him how to do somethin' and he would do it right but couldn’t remember how to do the same thing the next day. That’s ok, I guess, our work isn’t complicated. He coulda been a smartass, the kind you couldn’t teach anything.

“I feel sorry for the kid but he doesn’t seem to be the worse for his condition. On the plus side, I can tell him the same stories and each time it’s the first time he heard it. That might sound weird but a man only has so many stories in him and things could get ugly if the listener starts sayin' stuff like, ‘not again’ or ‘you tell that again, it’ll be the last time.

“Tell you one thing though, I learned to keep the bullets in my pocket after the kid nearly killed me.”

“You have a gun in your truck?”

“Yeah, actually, it’s a 30 06. Lotsa times cattle or deer get hit by traffic and they’re injured so bad you gotta kill ‘em to stop the sufferin'. There’s no more pathetic sight in the world than a dumb animal that can’t do nothin’ about its injuries.”

“You’re helper almost killed you?”

The bartender gave Ben the side eye, slammed a tray full of glasses into the sink, flung the bar rag on the counter, and headed for outdoors for a smoke. Ben was winding up now.

“Oh, yeah, he almost did me in. Ever had good South Texas chili con carne? One day we stopped for lunch at "Mamacita’s" out on Pecan Street. Don’t let anybody tell you different, she makes the best chili in the state. You eat till you’re full but the hankerin’ for more stays with you for a long time after. Next day, of course, you’ll wish you had a snow cone 'steada toilet paper, but that don’t stop you from havin' more of that chili again.

Straight from the center of the earth

“Anyway, that day the chili was as good as ever but maybe the meat was left on the butcher block too long and mighta spoilt a bit. About an hour later we’re drivin’ along the Loop and my belly’s grindin’ and twistin’ and I get this mighty urge to evacuate my bowels sooner than later.

Last gas for 53 miles

“We pulled into Pedro’s Texaco, I grabbed the key off the wall and barely got to the toilet in time. I'm sittin' there moanin’ and groanin’, beggin’ God to help me, swearin’ vengeance on Mamacita, but nothing came out. Finally, I give this big push and the toilet bowl explodes under me. I thought for sure I’d shit my guts out. I tell you what, I was afraid to look.”

“The toilet bowl exploded?”

“The way Pedro told it, he and Danny were talkin' and Pedro spied the gun behind the seat and said could he see it. Danny took it out put it up to his shoulder, pointin' it at Pedro. Now, Pedro’s nearly 80 years old and he’s seen just about everthin' that can happen with a gun so he says don’t point it at me. And Danny says, ‘Hell, it ain’t loaded. Watch this.’

“Pedro’s old bones hit the dirt just a hair before Danny pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through the wooden walls like they was paper smack into the toilet where I was dealin' with whatever Mamacita’s chili was doin' to me.

“Meanwhile, Sheriff Hernandez is drivin' by, hears the gunshot, sees ole Pedro layin' on the ground and Danny holdin' the rifle. So he pulls up to the scene and draws a bead on Danny, tellin' him to drop the weapon and get down on the ground. Meanwhile, I’m in the toilet and I finally get my wits about me and head out to see what’s goin’ on, ‘cept I forget to pull my pants up and I fall out the door.

"I see the Sheriff, Danny and Pedro face down in the dirt, the aught 6 near Danny. Right away I know what happened to the toilet bowl and somehow I remember every curse my Marine DI ever laid on me in boot camp and I’m hollerin’ at Danny, damnin' every sorry ancestor that made his existence possible, to no effect whatsoever.

“Pedro and Danny are still on the ground but they're lookin' at me and laughin'. The sheriff drops his gun, puts his hands on his knees, and nearly falls over he’s laughin’ so hard. And, me, standin' there with one hand on my britches, shit all over me, yellin’ several dozen obscenities I’d just invented.

“It took a while but the laughin’ stopped long enough for the Sheriff to hear what happened.

“Danny, he said, I’m citin' you for, heh, heh, negligent discharge of a firearm and if I could write you up for scarin' the crap out your boss, heh, heh, heh, I would. And, Ben, heh, you owe Pedro a chili-proof toilet bowl.’

“I told Danny to drive me home. He said, ok, but you have to ride in the bed.

“I guess I can laugh about it now and, really, the kid’s kinda grown on me. Sometimes he can be a wonder. A coupla weeks ago we found a Deer Crossing sign knocked down over by Mosquito Creek; had to go to the home office to get a new one. Anyway, we dug out the old post, put in another one, bolted on the new sign. As we’re drivin’ away Danny looks back at the sign and sees a deer crossing the road not 10 feet from the new sign. He says to me, ‘Gosh, Ben, I wonder how long he's been waitin’ to cross.’”

Ben finished his beer, time to go home. We said our goodbyes, and he left. The bartender came over and put a Boiler Maker in front of me and said, “It’s on the house. Ben's been telling that story for years. I musta heard it a thousand times."