In the Sight of God and the Riot Squad

I wasn’t invited to the wedding, but my friends from Jackie’s Cold Day Inn were so I tagged along just for something to do. A Saturday afternoon wedding wasn’t my idea of a good time but it beat sitting in my room at the Lazy Bones Motel waiting for Jackie’s to re-open after the wedding. I was done with sales calls until Monday.

Johnny Baker was marrying Judy Morgan. I didn’t know either of them, but I knew their families from my sales route. The wedding was at the Catholic church walking distance from my motel. Not much different from most churches in the area, it featured a white clapboard exterior, a tall steeple, and curiously, lightning rods atop the cross. I made a mental note to someday ask the priest why take the precaution of placing lighting rods in the house of God. It seemed like a preemptive measure just in case the congregation or maybe the priest himself wasn’t living up to his Maker’s expectations. 

The lightning rod salesman will arrive by and by

Sheriff Tom and Doc Harris were sitting in the third row of pews. I sat behind them in the fourth row. All told, there were about 50 people in attendance. The priest was in the pulpit, lecturing the young couple about the importance of marriage vows, fidelity, morality, children in the future, and so on. They knelt a few feet away, listening hard, possibly thinking about the life they were entering or hoping to hear about a loophole that would get them out of this commitment before it was too late.

The bride wore a simple off-white dress. Long wedding gowns, expensive as hell, are out of fashion these days. Her dress was meant to be somewhere between a formal outfit and one she could wear to a party -- practical, modern. The groom wore an off the rack suit from Penney’s in Lubbock. It was likely that he wouldn’t wear it again except for an occasional funeral, if then. After the wedding his young wife would carefully store it in a plastic bag to keep years of dust from collecting on it and, if she thought of it, add some mothballs that would stink the suit up forever.

The priest droned on. I could see the groom was getting restless, kneeling as he was on the hardwood floor. I looked around and saw Jackie, Wendy, and Doris sitting across the aisle from me. Up front, one of the women was sniffling into her hankie. She was one of the mothers of the wedding couple. Her husband sat stiffly, his eyes focused on the priest. On my side, the other set of parents studied the statues of saints and other icons on either side of the altar, something they didn’t have in the First Baptist church down the street.

I thought the sermon was over when the priest stopped talking and looked towards the rear of the church. Everyone seemed to waken and turn around. Les, Jorge, and Milo came in as quietly as they could and quickly sat down in the rear pews. They must have seen the note at Jackie’s --- “At a wedding, St. Thomas, back at 5:30.”

At last the priest finished his sermon and married the two kids. “Do you take this man, do you take this woman, etc., etc.” and it was over. The most important part and really the only required part of the wedding was done; two questions, two affirmative answers. I got together with my friends on the church steps and we headed over to Jackie’s.

We took our seats at our usual table and I noticed the Sheriff and Les turning their wedding rings round and round on their fingers. Jorge had taken his off and was spinning it like a coin on the table. Doc Harris didn’t have a wedding ring. Wendy and Jackie were busy behind the bar pouring our drinks.

Presently, Wendy hip walked over with our drinks and clean ashtrays for Tom and Les. “Look at you men,” she said. “Having second thoughts are you now? It’s too late.” Tom gave her a sour look and put his hands on his lap. Jorge slipped his ring back on, picked up his drink and said, “A toast to the newlyweds whoever they are.” We saluted them silently with our drinks.

I saw Jackie coming to our table, a drink in her hand, so I scooted over to make room for her. She settled in and said, “That Baker boy looked pretty grown up, don’t you think? Joined the Army, saw the world, came back a grown man. Had my doubts about him for a long time, growing up he seemed like a lost ball in the tall grass. They way he looked today, he ain’t lost anymore, he’ll be fine.”

Jackie, who rumors had it, had been married three times and outlived all her husbands including the one she shot between the eyes, poked her chin at Doc Harris and said, “So, Doc, when are you going to make Doris an honest woman? Been livin’ in the same house goin’ on twenty years now.”

Doc gave Jackie a patient smile. “Jackie, just so you know, I did ask her 19 years ago. She said she’d think about it. So far’s I can tell she’s still thinking it over. Never said yes, never said no. I think she’s waiting for me to ask again.”

Doris was his nurse/receptionist. The local gossips and the church ladies disapproved of Doc and Doris’ living arrangement and pointedly referred to Doris as ‘Miss Duncan’ alluding obliquely to her life of sin. For his part, Doc explained that he and Doris were just fine as they were, maybe someday they’ll make if official...or not.

Les had married young, just 18. He and Peggy were married by a Justice of the Peace in New Mexico because she was underage in Texas at the time. And no, she wasn’t pregnant. She just wanted to get on with life with a husband and raise kids and pigs. She and Les had a bunch of kids and owned Les’s General Store a few doors down from Jackie’s place.

Jackie’d told me once that Sheriff Tom’s wedding wasn’t much of a mystery or even vaguely interesting. Twenty-one when he married his high school sweetheart, church wedding, groomsmen, bridesmaids, a ritual so conventional and ordinary, no one could even remember being there.

None of these folks were at Sheriff Tom's wedding

Sheriff Tom lit another of his cigarillos, leaned back in his chair and said, “Ya’ll remember Francisco Ramírez, the old bronc buster from Las Cruces? He told me a story about his mother’s wedding in 1939, I think he said. According to Francisco, the day his mom and pop got married they didn’t even know they were gettin’ married. They never thought they might get caught up in a riot or go to jail. Imagine that.

"Now, you hear somebody tell it like that, you don’t wanna sound too interested, know what I mean? So you say ‘so what’. And that’s what I said to Francisco, ‘So what?’

“You know how Francisco is. He’ll say something and leave it hangin’, kinda force you to ask him what else. I don’t remember why but that day I made up my mind not to ask him what else. He’s got a story, then, by god, tell it. I wasn’t gonna beg. So we’re sittin’ there under the mesquite trees next to his house in Las Cruces drinking beer, me talking about Panhandle stuff, Francisco's looking out towards the Rio Grande a hundred yards away. I tell him about the day I arrested Jorge Washington de la Cruz for tryin’ to scalp Harley Carson with his Buck knife. And Francisco laughs, says he wished he coulda been there, wants to know what happened. So I tell him about Jorge and Harley gettin’ crossways at Billy’s Last Stand one night.

“Tryin’ to sound like cranky ol’ Judge Thompson I said, ‘Mr. Horhay Washington day la Croooz, you are charged with assault with a deadly weapon. In my days as a judge and as a man crawling about this earth now near 80 years I never thought I would be charging a man with attempting to scalp his victim, but here we are. According to witnesses you were observed sittin’ on Mr. Harley Carson’s chest, holdin’ his hair in your left hand and a Buck knife with a 6” blade in your right hand. Only the arrival of Deputy Sheriff Dudley prevented you from takin’ Mr. Carson’s hair and scalp. How do you plead? Bear in mind, Mr. day la Croooz, there are other charges pending against you.’

“Long story short, the judge hears the testimony, dismisses the charges against Jorge then fines him and Harley $25 each for being dumbass enough to fight over which was a better truck, a Ford or a Chevy, seeing as in the judge's opinion the Dodge Ram is clearly the superior machine.

“Francisco laughs again then says, ‘You know, Tom, my mom and dad lived in El Paso in the 1930’s. Back in the day El Paso and Juárez had a reputation of being the Wild West. During Prohibition El Paso was dry but you could still buy booze if you could talk your way into the back rooms of pool parlors. Or you could cross over to Juarez and drink all you want. Money men from both countries set up big distilleries on the Mexican side and some say more than half the bars in Juárez were owned by Americans. Hell, the two biggest ones were O’Brien’s Bar and The Big Kids Palace, not hardly Mexican if you ask me.

“‘Even in 1939 it was like the Prohibition years never left. Alcohol was legal in the States but smugglers were bringing in Mexican liquors for less money and no Federal taxes. Shootouts between Border Patrol agents and smugglers were so common sometimes they didn’t even make the news unless somebody got killed. Man, 1939 was a hell of a time to get married.’

“He’d done it again, set the hook so I would ask what else about his mother’s wedding. I still didn’t take the bait.

“Francisco goes to the cooler, brings me another beer. He winks and says, ‘Tom, you don’t wanna know about my mom and pop? You know, I told my sons about it once and they didn’t believe me but my uncle Gustavo swears it’s true.’

“I gave in and said, ‘Ok, Francisco, tell me all about it.’

“Francisco said his father was a U.S. citizen. Mom wasn’t. Their common law marriage was sort of a family secret because common law marriages didn’t sit too well with her family. You weren’t really married unless it was in a church with a priest, holy water, candles, and all that extra stuff. So fifty years later in 1989 there wasn’t any 50th wedding anniversary party. After all, you can’t have a 53 year old son if you only been married 50 years. So nobody ever talked about their actual wedding. And nobody ever had a wedding where the bride and groom didn’t say anything at all.”

“Right off I figured this was gonna be another of Francisco’s shaggy dog stories. You can’t always tell with him. But this tale was shaping up to be a two six-pack job so I brought the beer cooler over, set it down between us and waited for his story.

“He says, ‘What my uncle told me, I don’t know how much is true because if you know my Uncle Gustavo, sometimes he makes things up. But when I ask my aunts and uncles they pretend not to know anything or just wave it off and walk away.

‘What happened was one Sunday afternoon my parents went to Juárez to celebrate my baptism. In those days, crossing the border from one side to the other wasn’t a big deal. Just say “American” and pay a 2 cent toll. El Paso and Juárez were like one big city. People crossed from one side to the other every day by the thousands. Mexicans came to buy from American shops while Americans crossed over for stuff they couldn’t find in American stores.

‘Everybody knew that hundreds of Mexican women were going to maids jobs in El Paso and the men were headed to the big farms in the upper and lower valleys. The Border Patrol knew that if they stopped this traffic there would be hell to pay from the American housewives and farmers who depended on the Mexicans to be at their jobs every day. The guards at the border crossing didn’t check who was who too closely. The Border Patrol took coffee breaks for a couple of hours after dawn.

‘But on that Sunday after my baptism party, the border agent who probly had some bad tacos for lunch demanded proof of my mother’s citizenship. She didn’t have a passport so the agent didn’t let her cross to El Paso. Oh, yeah, she was six months pregnant with my sister.

‘My father didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave her in Juárez and he couldn’t stay. My mother told him to find Mrs. Martínez. Maybe she would know what to do. So pop took my mother to stay with her cousin in Juárez then went to El Paso to find Mrs. Martínez.

‘Mrs. Martínez was the richest businesswoman in El Paso. My mother and my aunt were maids in her mansion on the hill overlooking downtown. Martínez money financed dozens of businesses and political campaigns in El Paso and Juárez. Anybody who was anybody owed her money or favors. Mrs. Martínez always got what she wanted.

‘My father found her mansion but was afraid to go up the steps and knock on the door. I mean, he was a nobody and she was the most important woman in the city. Would she call the police? He’d heard that she had a bodyguard. Would the bodyguard beat him up if he bothered La Señora? So he walked up and down the sidewalk in front of the house, back and forth, back and forth, starting up the steps, then down again, over and over until a maid looked out a window, saw him and told Mrs. Martínez. 

Mrs. Martínez must be in there somewhere

‘The maid opened the door and ordered my father to come in. Wipe your shoes, she said. Take off your hat and, ¡Ay, Dios mío!, stand still!

‘When my father told Mrs. Martínez what happened she called the immigration office, a judge in Mexico and another one in El Paso and commanded them be at the border bridge in 30 minutes. My father was still standing there shaking so she yelled at him to go back and keep mom away from the immigration office, don’t let anybody talk to her, and if anybody has a problem with that, tell them Mrs. Martínez is coming.

‘My father stole a bicycle and raced back to Juárez, got my mom to the border crossing just in time. Traffic's stopped in both directions, car horns honking, angry pedestrians shouting. There’s American and Mexican cops rushing up from both sides. A shootout with smugglers along the river bank three days before had them on edge. They drew their guns. There could be trouble again any minute.

‘Mrs. Martínez, the two judges, two immigration officers, and mom and pop stood in the middle of the road surrounded by pedestrians and cars. She was barking orders like a drill sergeant, moving the judges and immigration guys around the border stripe. Every time they tried to say something she shut them up with a hard look. At the same time the crowd's getting bigger, the line of cars longer and the cops are getting closer.

‘Mrs. Martínez tells the judges and the agents to move aside. She whips off her hat and stands in the middle of the road with her hands on her hips like she’s daring anybody to make trouble. She stands there, the Grand Mamacita of all mamacitas, looking 10 feet tall, making the kids settle down -- NOW, or else.

‘The Grand Mamacita was hardly ever seen in public, so only a few people in the crowd knew what she looked like, but as word spread about who she was people started shushing the others around them until the crowd went still; everyone wondering why she was on the bridge, what was she doing, who were those people with her; the judges? Immigration officers? Smugglers? The cops stopped, confused about what was Mrs. Martínez was doing there.

‘My mom and pop are desperate, looking here, looking there, all around. There’s American police coming from one side; Mexican cops from the other side to arrest them? Can they escape? If they run, which way to go? Do they go together or opposite ways? And what about their son and the baby on the way? They’re confused along with everybody else except for Mrs. Martinez. She gives my mother a sharp look and tells her to stand on the Mexican side of the border stripe, my dad on the American side. She snaps her fingers to get their attention then orders the judges sign a piece of paper and tells the immigration agents to sign it, too. She wrote her name at the bottom, handed the marriage certificate to my father and said go home. The judges, the immigration guys, and Mrs. Martínez hustled away.'"

And with that, Sheriff Tom held his hands palms up as though saying, “That’s all, folks. End of story.”

Wendy, who’d been standing behind Doc Harris with a tray of drinks, said, “What about the ‘I do’s and ‘kiss the bride?’” Tom shook his head, nope.

And Jackie asked if the Grand Mamacita or the judges said anything to the couple. “Come on, Tom. There were two judges there. Somebody musta said something.”

Tom said, “I wondered the same thing so I asked Francisco. He said, ‘Nobody but the Grand Mamacita said anything at all -- ‘Stand there! Sign this!’ The border crossing was closed to traffic and everything had to happen fast so there wouldn't be a riot reported in the papers.’

“I was doubtful and I must’ve shown it somehow because then he said,

‘Look at it this way, Tom. Mom was a housemaid. Dad was a laborer at the copper refinery. Not exactly high society people. Their plan for the day was to have my little baptism party and go home. They had no idea they were going to be married or be in the middle of a riot. They were surrounded by hundreds of angry people and the most powerful political people on both sides of the border -- the Grand Mamacita, two important judges, and two Immigration Officers who could arrest them or worse. It wasn’t their place to ask any questions (as sad as that sounds). All they could do was what the Grand Mamacita ordered which was to go home. I’m not sure the marriage was legal but that afternoon it was. The Grand Mamacita said so. My mother learned enough English to pass her citizenship test and become a U.S. citizen a few years later. Mom and pop raised four kids who are good neighbors everywhere they go. Even me.’”

Dunc

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

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

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

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

“Mex!”

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

“Mex! It’s me, Dunc. Dunc McGregor.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Dunc, ‘Caesar’s Palettes’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dunc, you’re talking about my wife.”

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

Still not believing, “The redhead and you?”

I nodded, yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dunc, what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did that come from?”

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

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

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

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

The Blues on Highway 61

Friday night at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn was a little like story time for kids at the library on Saturday mornings. The usual Friday night customers were there. Sheriff Tom, his sidekicks Doc Harris and Les; Gary and Mike from the Conoco station; Doris and Flora. Even church lady Becky was a Friday night regular now. She could nurse a few ounces of wine for hours if need be. Like the others, she liked to hear new stories or old ones retold. There were a dozen more folks clustered in the tables near the Sheriff’s table.

Sheriff Tom and Doc Harris were taking turns telling about the time Randy Wilkins, the minister, was shot to death. It was a long story that had been told several times in the intervening years. Sometimes when a detail was left out someone in the audience would point it out, like a child noticing mom or dad skipping a page in a bedtime story.

I was taking sips of my Jack on the rocks in my favorite bar, relaxing, enjoying the story.  I’d be on the road again tomorrow visiting farmers and ranchers in Slate, Snyder, Post, then down to Midland before returning to the home office in Amarillo. The rain gods had been kind this year, bumper crops of everything including the farm equipment I sold.

Sheriff Tom put his drink on the table, stood up then got down on his haunches and said, “Now it’s just me and Buckshot. I squatted next to him and said, ‘Buckshot, it went down this way. You went chasing after this jackrabbit, the minister yelled at you. Reg turned around, tripped and fell. He didn’t mean to pull the trigger as he fell. Is that what happened?’

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

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

“Folks kept asking was it murder or an accident but all I said was I’m still investigatin’. I knew for sure how it happened but I didn't have the autopsy or ballistics reports yet. How would it look if I go to the DA with -- Mr. DA it was accidental death, this here dog’s an eye witness. Got any doubts all you gotta do is make 'im raise his right paw, swear 'im in.’”

The woof, the whole woof, and nothing but the woof

This was one of the story’s punch lines and even though we’d heard it before and knew it was coming, we laughed. It was a natural break in the story and Tom always took his time before continuing, give folks a minute or two to use the facilities, freshen their drinks, or socialize.

He finished the story like he always did, gradually lowering his voice so that we had to lean in to hear the end.

Story telling time was over but a stranger sitting two tables away spoke up.

“Excuse me folks. My name’s Daniel. Don’t mind me. I’m just passin’ through on my way to California but it looks like you folks like stories. I got one, a true one. Sheriff?”

Tom hesitated for a moment then said, “Folks, you know all my stories. What say we hear a new one?” Nobody disagreed.

Sheriff Tom raised his drink in one hand and gave Daniel a thumbs up with the other. Go ahead.

The stranger nodded, emptied his drink and asked Jackie for another. He straightened up in his chair gave the crowd a once over glance and began.

“Anybody here know somebody ever sold his soul to the Devil?”

No one said a word but everybody was thinking.

“I didn’t think so. Selling your soul is serious business. People been known to die suddenly and not too well right after confessin’ it, part of the contract, complete secrecy or pay the price. Some try to run and hide but when the Devil tracks ‘em down I hear tell they die of fright. Scared to death -- for real.

“I know a fella who sold his soul. This ain’t a story I heard from the second cousin of my neighbor’s aunt. It was told to me by the man himself who did it a long time ago. Tell you the truth I haven’t checked to see if anything happened to him since then. After all, nobody really knows what all is in the contracts. Could be by telling, it puts the listener in the Devil’s list, too. Some days I can’t help it, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder.

Before ballpoint pens you signed in blood.

“I was working in South Carolina when I met him at a bar where he was playing his guitar once, twice a week. I don’t think he got paid much more’n beer money. He was an ok musician but not good enough to get anybody excited about. The bartender told me he’d been kickin’ around different bars for years hopin’ to be discovered some way but in twenty years nobody’d come up and offered him anything more’n free beer for his trouble.

“Anyhow, I got to know him pretty good. Andy Olson was his name, called himself Lonesome Olson, and his songs sure seemed to prove it. I told him once he oughta think about learning songs with a little more hope in ‘em but he looked at me like he’d heard that a lotta times before and just didn’t have the spirit for it. Late one night we’d been drinkin’ whiskey insteada beer. I had a big paycheck that week and I was celebratin’ something or other, don’t remember what.

“So we’re sittin’ there sharin’ some fine rye whiskey and he leans over, looks over one shoulder then the other and whispers that when he was just a kid, like 17 years old, he sold his soul to the Devil. I almost laughed out loud then I remembered where we were. Little towns like the one we were in, folks take their beliefs pretty serious. Mention the Devil and folks are liable to look at you funny like you might be THE ONE their preacher’s warned them about all their lives.

“He scooted his chair closer to me and said he’d never told anybody about the deal he made with the Devil, maybe come to a bad end by telling. But goin’ now on twenty years he figured Ole Scratch didn’t remember him anymore. Hell with it, gotta tell somebody.

“He said when he was a kid, he was wanting’ to play guitar real bad. There was a fella there who could play all night and never the same song twice. I think he said his name was Weepy Whims, owing to him making his guitar sound like it was hurtin’ real deep inside. Accordin’ to the kid grown men and women up and cried like babies when he played the blues. And nobody was embarrassed. No, sir. They go up to Weepy, give him money to thank him for makin’ ‘em feel bad I suppose.

“Well, one night after everybody’d gone home it was just Andy and Weepy sittin’ there. Looked like there was at least ten dollars, mostly dimes and quarters in Weepy’s old hat. And the kid says I wanna play like you. Weepy, old and sad looking, tells the boy there’s a high price to pay for becomin’ a genuine bluesman. The kid’s crushed, hell, he ain’t got no money. Matter of fact, hardly anybody in that poor town had any money in those days. But Weepy says you don’t need no money. He says he can see the fire in Andy’s eyes and guessed if there was fire in his belly, too, it would work for the kid like it worked for him. Gonna tell him the secret.

“There’s a place in the Mississippi delta, he whispers, where the top bluesmen go to get their talent, a particular crossroad where they go at special times at midnight to meet the Devil in the flesh. The Devil he can make you a bluesman like Robert Johnson, King of the Delta Blues, but you owe him your soul when you die. Outa nowhere he pulls out a paper, a contract that binds you to the bargain. You gotta sign it in blood and swear to tell nobody or else he’ll claim your soul on the spot.

Robert Johnson, King of the Delta Blues

Stevie Ray Vaughn & Buddy Guy

“For those of you that don’t know it, just about every blues or rock musician worth spit since then is rumored to got his talent the same way; T Bone Walker, Gatemouth Brown, Big Joe Williams and a thousand others. A lotta them died young, too, ‘bout the same age as Mr. Johnson. But I’m getting away from Andy Olson’s story.
 

“Andy wants it so much he begs and begs Weepy to tell him where the Crossroads is but Weepy’s not sure and says no. After a while Andy was such a pest that Weepy gives in, tells him what he wants to know. He hands the kid a wrinkled five dollar bill and says go to the Thin Dime Pawn Shop and buy the guitar in the window. Tell the old skinflint I’ll pay him the the other three dollars next week.

“He buys the guitar, next day takes off hitchin’ his way from South Carolina to the Mississippi delta where the the Devil and the Crossroads wait. He asks around, near starves to death before he finds out where the Crossroads are and when the next full moon is comin’.

“Midnight at the Crossroads, Andy’s scared outa his mind about meetin’ the Devil face to face. Somewhere far away a church bell chimes the hour. Suddenly there’s a flash of light, smoke and the smell of brimstone. The Prince of Darkness himself stands before Andy who’s like to pee his pants.

The Crossroads, US61 and US49

“Ole Scratch don’t waste no time. He looks at his watch and gets down to business. He tells Andy he knows what he wants and says here’s the contract sign it. Do it quick I got other things to do tonight. So Andy signs the contract and asks now what happens. When can I play the blues?

“The Devil reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a little ledger and says you’re in luck, Andy Olson. BB King’s dead. You can have his spot. Startin’ tomorrow, next five, ten years, you come here at midnight every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and we’ll start you on the basic chords. Plan of being here ‘til dawn. Can you hum St. James Infirmary?”

 

Blues road: Louisiana to Minnesota 1400 miles

Texas Tenderfoot

On my second day on the job selling farm and ranch equipment in Panhandle I was arrested for assaulting a man with a wooden club. According to the Sheriff it didn’t matter if the blow was intentional or accidental. The victim’s skull was fractured and the concussion made him see double. No choice. I was under arrest.

I wasn’t alone in jail. Jorge Washington De La Cruz was in the same cell. My new friends Jim and Milo were in the next one. Everyone else arrested in the brawl ended up in a jail in the next town. There was room for all of us in the Panhandle jail but feelings were high and the Sheriff thought it best to separate the warring parties until the formal hearing before the circuit judge. He wasn’t due to show up for three days. I felt like a kid sent to sit in the corner to think about what I just did.

My first day hadn’t gone too badly. I was the replacement for Mac McCarthy, the sales rep who’d died suddenly. I’d spent five years in the Amarillo home office taking phone orders from the field and now I was on the road where I thought I belonged, driving the backroads all over the Texas Plains, taking in the arid land and the electric blue sky above it.

Sitting in the cell I tried not to think about getting fired. Instead I thought about the previous day when I found Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. The bar is in a old building showing its age, the foundation settled just a little askew like an old man past his prime sitting on his porch with enough light in his eyes that it made you want to sit with him for a spell; hear his stories about the times before you were born. It was my kind of place, a little shabby but I still wiped my shoes before going in.

The word brown was the first one that came to mind. The walls, floor, tables and bar seemed to be made from the dark brown lumber of a single tree. Half dozen scuffed, square tables, big enough for a four man poker game or if you don’t mind sitting too close, six polite players who minded their feet and elbows. The seven beer clocks above the backbar, each displaying a different hour and minute, banished all thoughts of time and provided muted neon light.

I was temporarily blinded after coming in from the Texas sun. I heard a voice say, “Just stand there a minute.” It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

“Are you lookin’ for directions or a drink? It’s mighty hot out there. You look like a Jack and beer man. What’ll it be?”

I gestured at the row of bottles behind the bar with my map. “How about directions and a drink? Or do I have to choose?”

She ignored my question and said, “You’re the man’s takin’ over Mac’s territory. Heard about it.”

I gave her my name and said, “Yes, I’m the new sales rep.”

Then rapid fire, “I’m Jackie. This is my bar. Welcome to Panhandle. Pull up a chair. Beer and Jack, right? This your first time in outside sales?”, she asked. I nodded yes.

She set my beer on the table, put her fingertips to her lips, looked me over and said, “I thought so. You got new boots, new hat, and no tan like you been locked up in… prison or an office for years.  And your boss called, told me to let Mac’s customers know you’re comin’.

“Just so you know, Mac was like family to us. Some folks are grievin’ like they lost a favorite uncle. But Mac won’t be hard to replace. All you gotta know is a thousand corny jokes (some of ‘em dirty), a few hundred stories, model and make of each piece of equipment the ranchers and farmers own, how old the stuff is, what a new one will cost, some harmless gossip. That’s on your first day.

“And don’t fret if you don’t know everybody’s name or how they could be related to each other, family feuds, the kids’ names, grandkids. That can wait for the second day.”

I gulped half my beer.

Then she slowed down, reached across the table and touched my arm. “I’m not tryin’ to scare you, mister. You’ll be OK. If you stick around a while I’ll introduce you to the Sheriff and a coupla his friends. Good folks. They’ll be here by and by.”

I glanced out the window and saw three men walking towards the bar. The tallest one wore a uniform and a Sheriff’s badge on his chest. A shorter man next to him was in a baggy suit, a wrinkled tie loosened around his neck, a fedora apparently rescued from a Goodwill donation box. He carried a doctor’s black bag. The third man was dressed in jeans and a snap button shirt.

So there I was in a Twilight Zone version of Gunsmoke. A no-nonsense Sheriff, a rumpled doctor, a woman saloon owner and who knows which other characters would pop in.

Jackie said, “You’re sittin’ in the Sheriff’s chair. Give it up when he comes in. He likes it ‘cause he can see the front and back doors, the bar or look out the window at the street.”

I asked about the other chairs and Jackie shrugged. “Sit any place you want.”

The men came in and stood at my table giving me a once-over. Jackie introduced me as Mac’s replacement and said, “Okay, the man with the gun is Sheriff but I figure you guessed that. Name’s Tom. The one in the bad suit and needin’ a shave is Doc Harris, and this is Les, he owns the General Store a coupla doors down.”

Doc Harris and Les tipped their hats, sat down but Sheriff Tom remained standing, thumbs looped over his gun belt. “Son, I’m gonna need you to come to my office and leave your fingerprints before sunset today. If you’re carryin’ any weapons, hand ‘em over now.”

Something made me raise my hands in the air, surrendering to whatever crime I’d committed. Maybe because I was sitting in his chair?

Jackie looked out the window and said, “Oh, oh. Tom, that’s D.C.’s truck in the middle of the street. Looks like trouble, smoke comin’ out of it.”

We rushed out to the street. Smoke was billowing from the engine. The driver opened the hood and flames shot up. I ran to my car and grabbed the fire extinguisher I keep in the trunk, pulled the locking pin and smothered the fire. Tom, Doc Harris and the driver leaned over the smoking engine. Les said he'd get Mike's tow truck from the Conoco on the corner and trotted off.

The driver had the fierce look of a man who if you wanted to ask what time it was, you’d better have a damn good reason for asking. I looked him over. Plaid shirt, jeans, steel toe work boots, thick mustache, not tall or short. If you took off the mustache, the cowboy hat, and put on a headband, let his black hair grow out, it was easy to imagine him or his grandfather riding with Geronimo. He put his hand on the fender and looked at his truck as though it were his pony gone lame. He turned to me, said thanks, and followed the tow truck.

Tom said, “Fast thinkin’, son, it coulda gone south right quick.  Let’s go inside. I’m buyin’.”

Jackie already had our beers on the table. We sat down and I listened to the men speculate as to why the truck caught fire. Les and Doc praised me again, man of the hour. I asked about the scary driver, the one Jackie called D.C.

Les was the first to speak. “The Mexican guy. That’s Jorge Washington De La Cruz. We call him Washington D.C. Good guy, looks mean but ain’t. He’s the kind you want on your side, steady as a rock. Got a little spread out near Shamrock.

The Sheriff pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket, glanced at it, put it away, and said, “I talked to your boss yesterday. Says you been in his outfit five years, you know your stuff, never been arrested.”

I allowed that what he said was true and asked what else was in his notebook.

“Oh, nothin' much ‘cept where you went to Kindergarten, ex-girlfriends, names, addresses, military records, stuff like that.” He pulled the notebook out, opened it and gave it to me.

The only entry on the page was my name and my boss’s phone number.

“Relax, son. This ain’t an interrogation, not now anyway. What reputation you’ll get around here is the one you make. You had a good start on that today, puttin’ out that fire like you did. No questions, no hesitation, did what needed to be done right quick. Mac was among us eleven years, as straight up a friend as anybody’d wanna have. If anybody knows what he did before that, where he came from, it’s news to me. He never said, nobody asked.”

He stood up and motioned to Les and Doc, “I’d like to stay longer but I just remembered we hafta go see the mayor. Gotta bug up his butt about graffiti on the gazebo in the park. I guess he don’t remember carvin’ and writin’ his name everywhere he could when he was a kid. Nice meetin’ you.”

They left just as Jorge Washington was coming in. They stood at the entrance for a minute talking about Jorge’s truck. Jackie busied herself in the stock room rearranging boxes.

Jorge saw me, took the chair across from me and signaled Jackie for a drink. He introduced himself and thanked me again for putting out the fire in his truck. I nodded you’re welcome.

I said, “I don’t think the Sheriff likes me. It’s like he’s trying to read my face and my mind at the same time. He looks at me the way my father did when he thought I was lying to him.”

He studied me for a moment while we waited for his drink. “Don’t take it too personal. And don’t worry about it. Tom’s a good lawman. Figuring people out is his job. He’s gotta know who everybody is so he knows what to do if you get crossways with the law. And he wants you to know that. Did the same thing to me and still does it sometimes.

Jackie ambled over with drinks for Jorge and for herself. She settled into a chair, took a tiny sip and said, “He’s not the only one. When a stranger like you turns up he might not notice anything except the feelin' that everybody’s staring. What’s happening is whoever you are, they’re thinkin’ how to describe you in a few words, tell their friends what they think. After a while they’ll agree on three or four words.

“Everybody’s seen you today’s done it already. Me, I’m thinkin’ Tenderfoot. Some smarts. Not Mac. The Not Mac part’s gonna be hard to beat. Trust is hard to come by.”

Jackie stood and drained her drink. “Wendy told me she won’t be able to go to your fiesta tomorrow, Jorge. She’s gotta go to a baby shower for a friend of hers. I can’t come either, gotta keep this place open.” As she walked away Jorge said, “I feel like I owe you for what you did today. You saved my engine. Why don’t you come to my fiesta tomorrow?”

I told him I didn’t want to intrude on his family but he just laughed. “I have a fiesta before each harvest then another after the harvest. My ‘family’ is the migrant workers and their families. A lot of them. We have music, good Mexican food, some beer, and a lot of fun. You and a few others will be the only gringos but you’ll be welcome. I’ll draw you a map to my ranch. ”

He motioned to Jackie for drinks and lit a cigarette. “You’re wondering who I am. I’m nobody special. Born and raised in Southern California. Settled here when I met my wife. This fiesta is in honor of my mother and father. They were migrants almost their whole lives. It’s lonely work. Years go by without seeing your relatives and as they die off the connections to their lives and hometowns are lost, usually forever. The ones that stay here like me become orphans eventually. The fiesta is for making connections, being a family, at least for a little while.”

We talked for awhile, finished our drinks and went our separate ways. I spent the next day paying courtesy visits to a few of my customers and visiting the local businesses. On the way I met Milo in his crafts store. Jim and his wife, Angel, were shopping there. When I told Milo I was invited to Jorge’s fiesta he told me he was, too, and so were Jim and Angel. We agreed to ride to the fiesta together that afternoon.

There were more than a hundred people at the fiesta. Music poured out from Jorge’s stereo on the porch. There were tables set up buffet style with a row of mamacitas laughing and joking as they prepared tamales, tacos, enchiladas, rice, beans, and something called mole. Off to the side another group of women made tall steaming piles of corn and flour tortillas. Two large bowls of red and green salsa rested on each end of the buffet line.  There were dozens of kids playing tag or hide and seek. There were smiles and laughter everywhere.

The Jolly Green Giant's mom

Jim and Milo headed for the beer kegs. Angel went to help Jorge’s wife take party pictures while Jorge took me around introducing me to his friends. It seemed like every time I stopped moving someone offered me a plate of food. I took one and went searching for Jim and Milo. They were sitting on a bench chowing down on enchiladas and beer under a large cottonwood tree by the barn.

We talked about the fiesta and Jorge for a while. Turned out that Milo and Jorge, being war veterans, bonded over that. Jim and Jorge had rescued each other in mismatched bar fights. Jorge’s wife, Jenny, came by and took pictures of us swilling beer and stuffing our faces with red enchiladas.

“The thing about Jorge,” Jim said, “is that he don’t look, sound, or act the way some folks think he should. Now, he does look dangerous to some. That mustache and the way he looks pissed off all the time? Well, hell, what you look like ain’t something you can do much about. As you can see, I’m good lookin’ as hell. I just can’t help it.” Milo and I rolled our eyes.

Milo said, “Yeah, and that oversize Buck knife of his doesn’t help either.”

Jorge found me and said, “The piñata is ready. You’re my guest so you go first.”

Well, about piñatas... The best way I can describe it is that it’s like Pin the Tail on the Donkey except you use a club to smack a moving target. And you’re blindfolded.

Not actual size

How it actually happens

Jorge handed me a club, blindfolded me, and spun me around so I didn’t have a clue where the piñata was except that it was nearby, suspended on a rope about 6 feet off the ground and that Jorge held another rope that would move it horizontally and upward.

Screaming kids hovered around the edges hoping I would break the piñata and spill the candy in a clay pot hidden inside. Jorge said to listen to the crowd for directions on when to swing. I listened to the crowd but it didn’t help... They were yelling in Spanish.The noise was deafening.

I found out what happened next while I sat in jail with Milo, Jorge and Jim.

There’s something about Jim aside from his impressive size and brawling skills. He seems to know when there’s trouble coming just before it arrives. A bunch of roughnecks tried to crash the party and somehow Jim sensed trouble so he and Milo went to meet them. One of the six crashers ran across the yard to grab a beer keg. Me, I was trying to make sense of the yelling when somebody yelled “swing!” in English. I did and smacked the beer thief across his forehead with the club. In the meantime, Jim, Milo, and Jorge worked at forcefully disabling the others.

The Sheriff pulled up a few seconds later. He’d been following the party crashers who’d been speeding and weaving all over the road.

He saw Jim and Milo beating on the crashers and one of them bleeding at my feet. And me, holding a club, the blindfold around my neck like a bandana. He arrested the lot of us.

We spent Saturday night in jail. Sunday morning Sheriff Tom rousted us out of our bunks banging on the cell bars with his nightstick at 5:00 AM.

“You fellas kept me up half the night interviewin’ witnesses which, by the way, did not include any of Jorge’s Mexican guests. They ran off the minute I showed up. Can’t say I blame ‘em. Law enforcement ain’t kind to ‘em most times. So all I got now is some witnesses with stories that don’t match up just right. Rise and shine. Coffee’s comin’ up in a bit. And I wanna talk to each of you before you can match up your stories.”

He unlocked the cells and told us we could move around, stretch our legs if we wanted. But no talking. Jorge was the first to be questioned. I was last.

Three hours later the Sheriff told us we were free to go except for me. We went into his private office. He pointed me to a chair across from his. There were several 4x6 photos scattered on his desk.

The Sheriff lit a cigarillo and picked up a picture, studied it for a moment and said, “You ever play pro ball?” Where was he going with this question?

Before I could answer he said, “Jenny takes pictures of the fiestas every year, makes albums she and Jorge keep. They take pictures of each family, write the names on the back. They give copies to anybody wants some so they can send them to relatives in Mexico, Guatemala, or wherever."

Tapping on the pictures on his desk he said, “These pictures were taken last night. Jenny and Angel drove to Lubbock this mornin’ to a 24 hour photo place and paid extra to have the film developed right away. Jenny got pictures of the roughnecks breakin’ up the fiesta. Pictures of Jim, Milo, and Jorge takin’ care of business. And she took these pictures of you and the killer piñata.”

He handed me a short stack of pictures. I was in each one looking clumsy and confused, swinging wildly at a piñata that was bouncing in the air, several feet behind me. The kids were laughing hysterically.

He held up another picture. “Now, this one could get you 10 to 15 in Huntsville except for the two pictures showing the crasher runnin’ towards you, beer keg in his arms. It’s lucky you still got the blindfold on when you took that home run swing at his head. Lucky, too, it was a broomstick and not a Louisville Slugger.

“Jenny snapped it just right. Good form, swing from the hips, push off with your right leg. Only seen that in ball players with natural talent. Now, I ask you again. You ever play pro ball? I’m needin’ somebody to bat cleanup on my softball team. Looks like you could be him.”