Half, Texas, population 0

Who's your daddy?

Sheriff Tom was holding forth at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn when I arrived from sales calls one Friday afternoon. A smart storyteller, Tom could spin yarns so convincing that you could believe every word without realizing he’d slowly led you into absurdities at the end.

As usual, the Sheriff told his tales between sips of bourbon and drags on his Cheroots, letting the story out a bit at a time. Doc Harris, Les, Mike from the Conoco station were sitting with him. Doris, Wendy, Gary, and Rollie were at the next table listening carefully. Jackie busied herself behind the bar, pretending not to listen. She’d fallen for Tom’s stories too many times before.

“I bet nobody here’s ever heard of Half, Texas. I hadn’t either until my grandfather, rest his soul, told me about it when I was 10, 11 years old. At that age you’re not believin’ everything your mom and pop have told you anymore, like when your daddy told you about a monster catfish he caught before you were born. Thing so big, bigger than his boat. But when it comes to Grampa every word he says is God’s truth. Yes,sir. God’s truth.

“First he told me about a place called Texico. Now all of you know Texico's a real city right on the border between Texas and New Mexico. Some of you probly been there once or twice. It’s actually two cities but being right smack on the border, half the city goes by New Mexico rules and the other half follows Texas laws. I suppose that can get confusing for folks once in a while but their troubles are kinda trivial compared to a place once known as Half, Texas.

“Half, Texas doesn’t exist anymore and some folks even say it never existed but I’ll still take my Grampa’s words over anybody else’s. So there you have it.

“Back around 1890 a prospector claimed he found gold in the nearby hills. As you might ‘spect, there was a gold rush but not a very big one. Half, Texas was way the hell and gone from any civilization such as it was in Texas at the time and there were easier pickings in other places. For a while there was talk about the railroad adding a spur to connect the town to the rest of the world but that never came to be.

“The gold petered out sometime in 1920. Actually, there wasn’t much there to begin with but every prospector I’ve ever known wakes up every morning thinking today is the day I’ll hit the mother lode. So the town grew to about 2000 souls at the peak in 1922, 23. A few hardy families started farms or ranches. Some opened businesses, general store, blacksmith, saloons, even an undertaker/doctor/dentist/barber. Everything was fine for a few years but the truth is, there wasn’t much there to grow the town any more than it was already. There wasn’t much water from the wells and the land wasn’t suited for bumper crops of anything but lizards, mesquite and sagebrush.

“Then in 1931 government surveyors showed up to figure out exactly where the border between Texas and New Mexico was. Being so far from civilization the folks in Half, Texas didn’t give a damn where the border was. Where they were concerned it could well be either Texas or New Mexico.

“When the survey was done, the border between the two states was smack down the middle of Main Street. One side of the street was in Texas and the other in New Mexico. Still, that wasn’t a problem for the folks. Nothing changed. Nothing at all, until 1933 when Prohibition was repealed. There was so much celebratin’ everywhere you had to wonder how in the world the amendment was ever passed.

“The first signs of trouble came when a fella by the name Joe Jackson opened a saloon on the Texas side of the border. Now, you gotta remember that for a lotta folks, liquor is a sinful beverage and for years and years that sentiment was held by a large part of the population, ‘specially in the southern states. You talk to Becky and her church ladies today and you’ll hear pretty much the same things folks were saying about liquor back in the day.

“Alcohol was legal everywhere but not everybody thought that was a good thing. Some Texas lawmakers looked at alcohol and saw TAXE$ they could collect and some of it, maybe a lot of it, would stick to their hands on the way to the state treasury. Others in the lege, being God-fearing Christians, believed Demon Rum would spell the end of the world if anybody could have a beer anytime they got thirsty. The fight in Austin raged on and on. One side wanted to stay good with God and ban liquor altogether while the other side saw MONEY to be made by making liquor legal. The Senate was deadlocked Even Steven.

“The Texas legislature’s never been compared to a monastery. Fact is, those particular Texas lawmakers improved the reputation of houses of ill repute and from what I see in the capitol now, that’s still true. To be fair, there was one Senator who refused bribes of any kind. The other Senators stayed away from him, somethin’ grievous wrong with ‘im, they said.

“At last, State Senator Wilford Solomon, proposed a solution. Now I know what you’re gonna think when I tell you what the solution was, but I swear my Grampa told me Wilford Solomon was his real name. And I believed what Grampa told me and I won’t even try to look it up, see if it’s true. He said he wondered why any parent would burden a boy with such a name as Wilford.

“You probly figured out what his solution was already. If you haven’t you don’t have to say so and embarrass yourself. I’ll tell you.

“Senator Solomon stood at the podium of the Senate building and talked for two hours laying out all the arguments for and against banning liquor or legalizing it. The Senators passed notes back and forth, went in an out of the chamber. A small group started a poker game while Senator Solomon thundered on. At last, the presiding chairman of the Senate woke from his nap and told Solomon to finish up and say what his solution was.

“The Senator held up a large map of Texas and proceeded to cut it in half, north to south, with his Buck knife. He declared that one side would allow liquor and the other would not. And further, seein’ as the east part of Texas had a lot more rain than the west part of Texas, the eastern side would allow liquor and the western side would not. Half of Texas would be dry and the other wet, just as Nature intended.

“You all know what happened in the bible when Solomon proposed cuttin’ a baby in half to settle who was gonna raise the kid ‘til he was eighteen and outa the house. But that dog didn’t even pretend to hunt in the Texas Senate. No sir, nobody liked it. There were wets and dries in every county as you might expect but finally the brave lawmakers found a way to walk away from the problem with clean hands. They passed the problem down to the people. Each county held a vote to decide whether to be wet or dry.

“This great state has 250 counties and so there were 250 votes and 250 different ways to deal with when, where, and how you could have a drink – all dry, all wet, part dry/wet, wet in this business but not that one. Every county figured out how to make a little problem into a big one.

“Give you a little geography here. Texico is in New Mexico, least ways, half of it is. The other half is in Texas but they couldn’t name it the same --- too many exicos. The Texicocans claimed naming rights since the first jail was built on the New Mexico side and they got their way. The Texas side became Farwell after the richest man there who also owned a bank, general store, and a sizeable ranch. So folks in Farwell became Farwellians or Farwellicans, pick one.

“When it came time to voting to be wet or dry, Texico stayed wet while Farwell went dry. If a Farwellian wanted to have a beer or whiskey all he had to do was cross over to Texico. Credit both halves of the divided city for adopting the same motto: My business ain’t none of yours and vicey versy.

“It coulda worked out the same in Half, Texas, but the churchy people were pretty strong on the Texas side. The Texas side was dry and that was all there was to it. If a Texan was seen going to or coming from a saloon on the New Mexico side of Main Street, woe to him.

“So a lotta folks brewed their own beer and made their moonshine at home. Trouble was that drinking alone’s not the same as getting together with your friends, drinking, trading lies, play some poker. No, only thing drinking alone did was make some mean drunks. Some men you tell ‘em they can’t do something they think is their god-given right, they’re like a hand grenade with the pin pulled out, a little agitation and they lose their grip.

“I told you in the beginning that a fella, Joe Jackson, opened a saloon on the wet side of town. The minister rallied his followers to clamp down on Jackson’s customers and it got rough right away. It looked like the guns would be coming out next. But the saloon burned down and Jackson packed up and left town. The minister said it was a sign from God, praise be and all that but others thought different, wasn’t God’s hand that set the fire. After that things calmed down some but there was still bad feelings between the wets and the dries."

The Sheriff paused, lit another Cheroot and had Jackie bring him a fresh drink. He took a little sip and continued. 

“You all know that there’s smart people and not so smart people in the world. And there’s a third kind who’s smart in ways even the smartest people can’t ever be. My grampa had a word for them. He said they were crafty. You can look it up in the dictionary if you got one but the way he explained it he said it was like the guy who puts a dollar in the collection plate at church but his hand comes up with two dollars in it and nobody’s the wiser. Know what I mean?

“Bill Johnson was crafty. One day he stood in the middle of Main Street, one foot in Texas, the other in New Mexico. He looked down one way and up the other and saw an opportunity, fool proof, guaranteed to make him rich. Well, maybe not rich but better off than he was then, a stone-broke cowpoke. All he had to go was go courting.

“He spent the last of his money on new clothes, hat, and boots. Next he went to the undertaker/doctor/dentist/barber, got a haircut, and took a bath even though he wasn’t due for one for another month. He was ready to win the heart or hearts of Maggie or May Porter, didn’t matter which. They were identical twins.

“Growin’ up the twins’ folks did what most did in those times and dressed ‘em alike so you couldn’t tell one from the other unless you were payin’ attention. Maggie could do figures in her head and thought about next steps while May thought every minute was the start of a new day.

“The twins were ‘bout 22, 23 years old, spinsterhood creepin’ up on them when their folks died and left them a nice spread with two natural springs at the end of Main Street. They weren’t bad looking at all but there weren’t too many single men to choose from that weren’t too old or too crude. So when Bill Johnson sat next to them in church they were surprised that this cowboy didn’t smell like a hard rode horse. He said howdy to them and went his way. Maggie and May were smitten.

“Soon after Bill came calling. Both women were enchanted and fell in love with the not smelly cowboy. There were carriage rides in the country, church on Sundays, and picnics by the springs. Finally, Bill popped the question. He was with May at the time. She said let me think about it, trying not to sound desperate. He asked again the next week and Maggie said yes, she would marry him, but what was he bringing to the marriage besides not smelling bad? Maggie, remember, was the smart one.

“Bill was ready for that. He said, we get married and I’ll build a business on your property at the end of Main Street. One half will be on the Texas side, the other on the New Mexico side. May can run a café on the Texas side, and Maggie can run a saloon on the New Mexico side. I’ll take care of the supplies, keep the peace in the saloon if I need to. A customer can have some grub at the café then cross over to the saloon for a snort or two and there’s nothin’ the law or anybody can do about it.

“Maggie said let me think on it. That night the twins talked about which one of them would be Mrs. Johnson, they were both in love with Bill. It didn’t take long to decide. They’d been sharing everything since they were born. Why not share Bill?

“The wedding took place in June. Bill married May or maybe it was Maggie.

“Just like he said he would, Bill went to work on the café-saloon building right after the wedding. Maggie was thinking ahead. She said, Bill, you’re thinking too small. Make it big enough so families can come to the café after church, have a nice sit-down meal, relax, order big. On the saloon side, you need tables for six, comfy chairs, so the men stay awhile drinkin' and shootin’ the bull.

“Four months later, the café-saloon was ready for business. May was in charge of the kitchen and the café while Maggie kept the books and ran the saloon.

“On opening day the townsfolk gathered around, curious as hell, but nobody went inside. They stood in a crowd about a hundred feet away, gawking, trying to get a peek inside. It wasn’t a secret what Bill, Maggie and May were doing. Anybody asked, they told ‘em.

“The minister was there, of course, he’d spent the last four months doing what my granddaddy said was his job which was to scare people into heaven, preaching about the how godly men and women could lose their virtue to the demons liquor would unleash on them. He said just being near a saloon would displease the heavenly father and so on. The flock was so fearful they probly thought they’d see the flames of hell coming up through the floorboards in the café.

“The three of them, Bill, Maggie and May stood on the porch in front of the café. After an hour with nobody coming in, they walked over to the minister and said come on in, sir, and bring your bible, it’ll keep you safe. You come out alive, soul intact, you’ll see.

“The minister looked at them one at a time, give ‘em a face like he wanted them to burst into flames. But he was a man like any other, curiosity eatin’ at ‘im like battery acid. He turned to his flock, raised the bible over his head, and told them to pray for him. He was goin’ in.

“They showed him the café, big enough for five or six families, nice curtains, clean floors, kitchen, stoves, wood pile right outside, stacks of plates, cups and glasses. The next nicest looking place was hundreds of miles away in Dallas. The ladies’ room was fixed up with silk flowers and little bottles of cologne, mirrors, clean as a whistle. The men’s room was as plain as could be. It had doors at opposite ends. One door led to the café, the other to the saloon. A man could have a sit down with his family, go through the men’s room into the bar for a quick snort and come back. The bar was like any other except it was clean, lots of light from windows all around.

“Now, you might be wondering about the women. Like, maybe they might want a bit of whiskey now and then. At home they could have a sip or two of their husband’s moonshine but in secret, you know? You let ‘em drink in public, next thing you know they wanna be paid for housework, slippery slope and all. Maggie thought about that, too. She didn’t show the minister the mirror in the ladies’ room that opened on hidden hinges. The other side of that mirror opened to the bar. Maggie would oblige with a slug of bourbon, add it to the café bill as extra biscuits.

“Well, the minister refused to be impressed about the wholesomeness of it all and said so in plain language. Maggie looked him in the eye and said, Minister, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to come, just like me at your place .”

Jackie caught Sheriff Tom's attention and pointed to the six beer clocks above the bar. He said ok, drained his glass and got up to leave.

"Sorry, folks, but I gotta go, else my deputy'll be sore at me if I'm late."

I had to ask what happened to Half, Texas. Tom said he didn’t know. Towns just dry up and blow away. There’s probably hundreds here and gone in Texas and nobody remembers when or why.

Doris said, “Sheriff, before you go, did your grampa say if the Johnson twins had any kids?”

Tom put his hat on and said, “No, he didn’t say anything about kids but drivin' around the county I've thought about it now and again.

“It gets complicated pretty fast. Let’s say the women have boys, one each. Well, Bill is the daddy. Maggie’s boy is a half brother and cousin to May’s boy and vice versa. But then Maggie is stepmother and aunt to May’s boy and May is stepmother and aunt to Maggie’s boy. Change one of boys to a girl then you get half sisters, cousins. If you add more kids you’ll get lost in the weeds in a hurry. Probly the easiest way to think about it is all the kids are brother or sister and their mothers are both Aunt Mommy, or something. Maybe you all can puzzle that out and let me know. 'G night."

Texas Giants

I pulled into Panhandle after a long drive from Crosbyton where I closed a deal to sell a front loader to the owner of the dinosaur museum. I was all I could do to get the signature on the sales contract and get out of there. The museum housed real and fake dinosaur remains. It also featured two tour guides who talked endlessly about the exhibits, sprinkling in references to bible stories that in their minds proved that the earth and all the heavens were created on Monday, October 23, 4004BC. Carbon dating, I learned, was the Devil’s Work. I nodded at the right places, took their pamphlets, hopped in my car and pointed it towards Jackie’s Cold Day Inn, 130 miles north.

How Noah got dinosaurs on the ark

The first thing I noticed when I walked into Jackie’s was that the seven-foot long nude portrait of Jackie¹ that had been hanging over the bar for years was missing. Its pale outline against the smoke stained wall bore testament to how long it had hung there. I stared at the space.

Jackie sighed, put down the mug she was polishing and said, “You and everybody else done the same thing since I took it down. Beer or Jack?” I said both and took a seat at the table in the corner near the door. Over the years that table’s been informally reserved for Sheriff Tom, Doc Harris, Les, and for me whenever I’m in town. It has a view of the street outside and the whole bar inside. The only person who sits in the corner chair is the Sheriff.

Mind your manners and don't swear unless you have to

Jackie brought my drinks and said, “The Sheriff and Doc Harris’ll be coming in soon. Go ahead and ask – why did I take it down.”

Not waiting for an answer she put her hands on her hips and said, “Saturday a buncha gits from the oil rigs came in and made a fuss over the painting. One of ‘em jumped up on the bar and was runnin’ his paws over it while his buddies whistled and hooted. Wendy called the Sheriff but before he got here Milo knocked the kid off the bar and served him a plate of what he had comin’. I guess the other three were smarter, put their hands in the air, gathered up what was left of their bud and took off before the Sheriff arrived. We gave him the names. I think they went to Doc Harris’ clinic to patch ‘im up but I don’t know for sure.

“Anyhow, the painting got some damage where the kid touched it, big ole smudge on the thighs. I was gonna wash it off but Milo said that would make it worse, said he could fix it.”

She looked up as Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris came in. They paused and stared at the blank space. “Good lord, Tom. When are all ah you gonna grow up? Milo’s not done with it yet.”

Les spoke first. “You’re a hard woman, Jackie. Me, Tom and Doc, we appreciate fine art, ‘specially naked fine art. When are you gonna settle the argument about the tattoo? Right or left breast?

Doc Harris nodded but the Sheriff’s face reddened. Jackie smirked and turned away, headed for the bar to fix their drinks saying, “Les, I just might do that but only one man in Panhandle’s seen it and he ain’t talkin’ if he ever wants to see it again.” We followed her eyes to see if her look stopped at one of us. It didn’t.

The men sat down with me. Sheriff Tom settled into his chair, put his arms up and stretched like a cat going down for a nap. “Long day, pulling double shifts while my deputy’s sick.”

He caught my eye and gestured towards the blank space. “That painting is kind of a landmark. A local girl, Gina Wilson, painted it years ago after she went to San Francisco, made a name for herself. Now she’s so high up in the art world she don’t even need a last name. In those circles, you say ‘Gina’, everybody knows who you’re talking about.”

Can't show it on FaceBook

Jackie gave Les the stink eye as she set our drinks on the table. Tom noticed it and said, “Didn’t you and the Women Only Night² ladies ask Milo to make membership cards with a picture of the painting on the back? Like a symbol of their womanhood.”

Jackie wasn’t having any of that. “It was Becky, the church lady, made that suggestion, not me. All I do is give ‘em a place to meet. I’m no hero. Besides, there’s no members. First rule of Women Only Night is show up or don’t, your choice.”

I thought it might be a good idea to change the subject so I talked about my visit at the dinosaur museum and gave Doc one of the pamphlets.

Sheriff Tom glanced at the pictures and said, “You mean the one in Crosbyton? The one with the mastodons and rocks they say are dinosaur turds? I had a preacher come through town one day, said he was on his way there to hold a tent revival.

“His first stop here was at Jackie’s askin' for directions. Wrong move.”

Tom paused and motioned to Jackie, “You tell it.”

Jackie talked as she gathered the empty glasses and bottles from our table and went behind the bar.

“The preacher walks in and right away he starts in on me. He’s dressed head to toe in black, hair down to his shoulders, holding a bible under his arm, he points at me and says I’m dishonoring the Lord ‘cause I wear my hair short. He sees Wendy’s pony tail, doesn’t like it either. Quotes some bible passage, don’t remember which ones. Don’t care.

“He slammed the bible on the bar, leaned in on me and said some more about women and short hair. I said, ‘Mister, I killed the last man that complained about my hair. And I’ll tell you what, it felt good. I think he mighta been a preacher, too.’

“He waved his hand in the air like he didn’t care what I said, wants to talk to my boss. I said I’m the boss, this is my bar, you best get out while you can, and I pulled out my Louisville Slugger.

A homer with every swing

“He sees the bat, takes a step back, raises his arms and head to the heavens. That’s when he sees my portrait over the bar. I thought he was gonna have a heart attack right there. So then I’m thinkin’ if his ticker goes haywire, should I let him be or should I call EMS?

“But he don’t go down. He looks at the picture, he looks at me, and figures out it’s the same woman. He opens his word hole but nothin’ comes out, I’m holdin’ the Slugger over my shoulder, he picks up his bible, turns around and leaves. I call out, ‘Next time you see me I’ll be doin’ laps in the Lake of Fire, naked. Come watch if you want.’”

I looked around the table and saw everybody smiling and chuckling. Sometimes the stories I hear aren’t told exactly as they happened but when I locked eyes with Wendy who was wiping down the bar, her smile said, “Yeah, that’s how it was.”

Sheriff Tom cleared this throat and said, “After Jackie told me about the preacher I called Sheriff Ken in Crosbyton, old friend of mine, and asked him what about this preacher. Ole Ken wasn’t happy to hear that the preacher was heading his way. He always caused trouble scaring folks about the End Times being right around the corner, the Final Judgment, Eternal Punishment and all that, maybe even tonight! Get right with God now, and by the way, God needs your money so gimme some.

“Now I’ve known Ken a lotta years and he only goes to church when he can’t get out of it. But he doesn’t mind if preachers come to his town ‘cept for some that make the people miserable, tellin’ ‘em how evil they are and tellin’ how they’re all goin’ to hell if they don’t come to the Lord right then and there. If they got a positive message, preach the Sermon on the Mount, love one another or some such, they’re welcome to have their meetings. Otherwise, he runs ‘em out of town fast as he can.

“Said one time a bus full of semi-pro basketball players was passin’ through. It was right at dawn when the bus was just past the city limits, it broke down. The players got out to stretch their legs in a pasture. Like I said it’s early, heavy fog on the ground. So happens this preacher was up at that hour taking a walk. He sees these foggy giants with their 30 ft shadows moving around about a hundred yards away. So he gets his camera takes a picture. Later on he shows he picture around says it proves giants roam the earth like it says in the bible. That got some folks riled up, scared there were giants in the hills all around them. For Three days runnin’ the men formed search parties up and down the valley, guns racked and ready. Women and kids hole up in their houses, scared as hell. Hardly anybody in town shopping, schools half empty.

They walk among us and they play pretty good ball, too

“On the fourth day, near sundown, the same bus with the same ball players pass through, stop for gas at the edge of town. They get off the bus and go to the café next door for coffee. Sheriff Ken was there.

“The Sheriff knows that the giant talk is nonsense but there’s nothin’ he can do about it but he has an idea how to end it. 

“He drives up to the pasture where the preacher’s having his tent meeting and tells the crowd he’s got some new friends they should meet. A minute later a bus pulls up behind the sheriff’s cruiser and the ball players file out, giants, each and every one, come out of the bus, say hello to everybody, give the kids some basketballs, and go on their way.

“The preacher was mad as hell, tried to restart his meeting but he’d lost the audience. All they could talk about was the ball players. He was so p-o’d he cancelled the rest of the week’s meetings. But it didn’t end there. Ken had to lock him up the next day after he punched out the owner of the dinosaur museum who sponsored the revival. See, they were supposed to split the take from the collections but the museum guy kept it all.”

The phone behind the bar rang and Wendy answered. She said ok and hung up.

“Hey, guys”, she said. “That was Milo. The painting’s done. He’s bringing it over tomorrow afternoon.” We all cheered. I called my boss in Amarillo and told him I had to stay in Panhandle another day --- some hot prospects turned up, etc., etc.

The next night Jackie’s was full. Customers had been drifting in since early afternoon though the unveiling was scheduled for 7:00 PM. The ladies from Women Only Night² were there in force and so were all the men. The painting was up on the wall with a silk sheet over it. Drinks were half price so everyone was either happily soused or getting there. Even Becky and the church ladies were having fun, joking, and laughing with everybody.

At seven o’clock Jackie stood on a chair and announced that the unveiling would proceed. Someone yelled “Hallelujah” and the cry went up from the crowd, “Hallelujah! Preach it, brother!”

The preacher who happened to be in Panhandle overnight was walking off a big dinner he’d had at Mamacita's Diner an hour before. He heard the hallelujah chorus as he passed by Jackie’s and thought there was a revival going on and money for him even if it was in a bar. He stepped in just as Jackie said, “Ok, folks, listen up. The next person walks in gets to pull off the cover.”

Jackie's Cold Day Inn viewed through a window

Footnotes

1. This link goes to the story "Texas Diamond". It tells about the origin of the nude portrait.
https://tserved.blogspot.com/2016/05/texas-diamond.html

2. This link is about how Women Only Night was organized and the night the members decided to edit the Bible.
https://tserved.blogspot.com/2016/09/thirty-women-walk-into-bar.html

Spring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be back in style someday

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

Bronc busting? It'll be fun, they said

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny Buckaloo's Blues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Operator, put me in touch with tomorrow."

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe they should let Jeremy hold the fire hose instead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Count how many things could go wrong here

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

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

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

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

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

Mike nodded, agreeing.

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

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

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

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

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