Memorial Day 2022

MASH 4077th Season 5, Episode 20. “The General’s Practitioner.”

Baby, you can drive my car...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taps

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

Taps, Arlington National Cemetery

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

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

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

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

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

“So how are you, Judge?”

“Fine -- $25”, he chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Not What You Think

Really, it's not what you think.

Somehow I couldn’t imagine Sheriff Tom lying handcuffed to an iron bed frame, naked. The Sheriff Tom I know is a real life version of a Hollywood straight arrow. The elderly clerk at the Lazy Bones Motel slyly hinted that there was more to the story but he clammed up when he remembered I was an outsider even though I’ve been his customer for years. 

 

I got my room key and headed to Jackie's Cold Day Inn, a throwback bar that lives in 1955; a place for people who like dim, quiet places to meet their friends; no TV tuned to loud sports channels. No jukebox to make you yell across the table at your drinking buddies. There are seven beer clocks on the wall above the whiskey shelf, each with a different hour and minute.

Jackie's is my favorite hangout in Panhandle. My friends there don't mind sharing the town's gossip with me. As I crossed the street to the bar I thought that if I lived to be a hundred I'd never hear the words "Sheriff Tom" and "kinky" in the same sentence.

Panhandle's a lot like other small Texas towns on my farm machinery sales route. It's too small for a full fledged police department but big enough to need a Sheriff and a deputy or two to keep the peace.

It's situated inside a triangle within 75 miles of three medium sized towns that have modern medical facilities, airports, national chain stores, and a tax base large enough to buy good roads and bridges. Big news rarely comes out of places like Panhandle. But once in a while tales of gallant heroism or salacious hedonism become headlines. 

The news about a grass fire in Rosewood Canyon was reported in the newspapers and television all over Texas. Dry lightning ignited the parched brush near the mouth of the box canyon trapping a rancher, his wife, and 10 year old son inside. They'd gone to there to check on their small herd of Herefords.

According to the Lubbock Avalanche, the Amarillo Globe-News, and the Midland Daily Excuse, Panhandle's Sheriff Tom Stafford and his Mexican sidekick, Jorge Washington, heroically saved a family that was trapped between stampeding cattle and a raging prairie fire. Both men refused to give interviews. Others who'd helped with the rescue reluctantly gave one word answers to reporter's questions. 

When I read the sentence about Tom's Mexican sidekick I decided not to bring that up to Jorge next time I saw him. Slights like that burn long and deep in proud men like him. I'm pretty sure he'd like a word or two with the reporter who wrote that, tap him on the shoulder, "Amigo, let's talk." 

I saw Tom's empty chair as soon as I walked in. That was unusual. Tom was always there in the late afternoons when his shift was over. My other friends, Les and Doc Harris, arrived later to have a drink or two before going home. 

I told them what the motel clerk insinuated about Tom. They glanced at each other and I sensed they weren't so sure I could be trusted so I changed the subject.

"How's Tom doing?"

Les slumped in his chair, stretched his legs out. "He's on medical leave for another coupla weeks. Smoke inhalation, some burns on his face, arms, busted ribs."

Doc Harris said, "Saw him Wednesday before they let him out of the hospital. The docs at the Lubbock medical center say his chances are pretty good that his brain's ok. I said, I'm a doctor so don't tell me maybe this or maybe that. They fessed up they're worried about the two knocks on his head, one in back, the other on his right side. Some swellin's still there but it's goin' down steady but if it don't go down they're gonna crack his skull open and have a looksee." 

Jackie slapped the bar rag on the table. "He coulda died in that fire. Damn fool thing to do, you ask me."

Les sat up, elbows on the table. "Wait a minute, Jackie. He saved the Winslows. Wasn't for Tom they'd be dead. He got Dan and Margret out then went back in for the boy. Jorge said the fire was burnin' so hot it was a miracle they the made it out." 

"Well," Jackie fussed, "he could died in that fire, too. I ain't done with Tom yet. Next time I see 'im he's gonna know it."

I was confused. Since Tom and Jorge had refused to answer reporters' questions there were a lot of gaps in the newspaper stories. I looked at my friends one at a time for some details. Wendy was the first to catch on and said, “Doc, you better tell it from the beginning. Anybody need another drink?”

Doc cocked his head and nodded at his empty tumbler and waited for Wendy to return with a fresh round for all of us. He took a sip, leaned back, crossed his hands over his belly and looked directly at me.

As free as the West Texas wind

"I don't have to tell you Dan Winslow's ranch is eight, nine miles outa town past Newman's spread. You already know that. What happened, Tom and Jorge were ridin' and trackin' some wild horses Winslow said were tearin' up his wife's vegetable garden. They weren't havin' much luck. Those mustangs can range for miles without stoppin' for anything 'cept water. There's enough grass they can feed anywhere they go. Anyhow, Tom and Jorge go back to the Winslow place but there's nobody home. Where'd they go? Tom says, we're trackers right? They decided to track the Winslows, keep their skills up. How hard is it to track a pickup truck when there's no other wheeled vehicles for miles around?

"The dry lightning started up about then. Most times nothing happens when it hits but this time it set some cottonwoods on fire right at the entrance to Rosewood Canyon. Dry grass, bushes, went up fast. Pretty soon more trees were lit up and the fire was creeping into the box canyon where Tom and Jorge'd tracked the Winslows. Right away they knew the Winslows were inside in worlda trouble 'less they get out fast. Now, if you ever been there you know there's only one skinny way in or outa that box canyon. Sides go straight up three, four hundred feet. It's a perfect oven.

"So Tom tells Jorge to ride back to the Winslow place, call the dispatcher, Mona, and tell her to send help and bring lotsa medical stuff, pronto. Jorge points to the fire and says, 'Tom, there's no way outa there.' Tom says, 'Go. Now.'

"Well, even with four wheel drive it took an hour for help to arrive. By then there was nothin' to do but let the fire burn itself out and hope the Winslows were ok. They found Dan and Margret lyin' on the ground 50 yards from the fire. Margret was barely breathin'. Dan was on all fours, coughin' something fierce, hair burned off, points to the fire. He says, "Tom and my boy, still in there."

"Jorge whips around and runs to the canyon. Tom staggers out carryin' the boy. His clothes are smokin', hair burned off. Can't stay on his feet and barely manages to put the boy down before collapsing.

"I check Tom up and down. I see the burns are gonna hurt but they're not too bad considerin'. He's wheezing from the smoke and fire he's been eatin'.  At least two broken ribs, two knots on his head, bleedin'. I tell Jorge to put 'im in Winslow's truck and run 'im up to Wendy's place about half way between the canyon and my office. No time to waste. Lubbock's two hours away, too far if Tom's head injury is worse than it looks. He's delirious, babbling about savin' Santa Claus, reindeer, and god knows what else, kept tryin' to stand up. Had to shoot 'im up with Ketamine, quiet 'im down. 

"The Winslows were in better shape than Tom so I sent them to Lubbock. We put Tom up in Wendy's house. Kept him there after I patched him up and I had to knock him out again. He kept tryin' to escape the fire in his head, I guess, so I handcuffed him to the bed. Two days later I sent him to the medical center in Lubbock. They took good care of him and sent him home in my care. He'll be ok. I told Sarah to call me on the regular every few hours.

"Tom's the only one who knows how the hell he made it out alive and he's not in any shape to talk about it yet. He gave me his mean cop look when I asked. Right now, all's I know is the bumps on his head coulda been lots worse."

I wanted to hear about Santa Claus, the reindeer, but especially about Tom shackled to Wendy's bed but Doc waved me off and asked me about my sales trip. The kinky story the motel clerk hinted at would have to wait for another day.

At that moment Tom was at home looking at himself in a full length mirror. His torso was wrapped in Ace bandages from his armpits to his bellybutton. It still hurt to take deep breaths and he heard a low train whistle when he exhaled. It's getting better. A few days ago he sounded like he had a chainsaw in his chest and felt like it, too. The hair on his arms was growing back. His hands were ok thanks to the leather gloves he'd worn the day of the fire.

Ok, now. Look at your face, Tom. The hair's growing back in patches, stubble on his chin, no eyebrows yet. When this is over, he thought, I'm gonna grow a beard even if Jackie laughs at me like she did last time. The lump on his temple was down but still purple green. The one on the back of his skull was gone but still tender when he pushed on it. The docs said his MRI was clean and the dizzy spells were gone.

He unwound the Ace bandages, turned the shower on and let the water wash over him. He closed his eyes and thought about the crazy dreams he had in Wendy's bedroom. Whatever drug Doc Harris injected him with did a helluva job. 

It was no use trying to remember how he'd managed to save the Winslows but he did remember floating above the bed where he lay sound asleep dreaming about wild horses, stampeding cattle, a raging prairie fire, men on horseback, a child screaming.

He came around slowly and there he was in bed in a room he'd never seen before. The room had lavender walls, frilly lace curtains on the windows, a white carpet that seemed to glow. There was a vanity table laden with tiny lotion bottles, a plush bunny embracing a stuffed bear; some pictures he couldn't see too well stuck on the mirror frame. Two white easy chairs, side by side, a small table and a dim lamp between them.

Through the open closet door he saw a row of women's shoes and boots lined up neatly; a few silky dresses, blouses, several pair of jeans on hangers. Two Stetsons with rhinestones stitched along the brims hung on hooks.

He blinked twice and opened his eyelids slightly when he heard voices. A wild stallion wearing Tony Lama boots and two mares in bunny slippers stood next to the bed. The stallion said, "He'll be out for a few more hours." One of the mares whispered something he couldn't hear and the other mare said, "Ok". The stallion said, "Shhhhhhh" and they tiptoed out of the room. Tom dreamt on.

He only wears his boots for house calls

The grass fire dream returned but now Tom was alone, surrounded by flames and thick, choking smoke. A herd of antelope leapt over the flames, skipped across the unburnt grass, thumping Tom's head and back with their hooves, over the flames on the other side. What was Santa Claus doing here? It's July, by god! Gotta save him! One of Santa's elves lay on the ground a few feet away. Tom scooped him up and ran through the fire, and ran, and ran until his legs gave out.

He lay there listening to cattle mooing and moving around him. A steer and cow helped him sit up. "Don't worry", said the steer, "help's on the way. Drink this," and gave him a cup of water.

Relax, cowboy. Help is on the way.

He lay down and watched Robin Hood and Little John put the elf on a stretcher and hustle him away in a red and white chuck wagon pulled by a team of howling wolves. 

He fell asleep again but woke briefly when a pretty woman he didn't know put a cold towel on his forehead and wordlessly left the room. Tom's dream continued.

This time the fire, the men on horseback, and the rest of that dream was gone. Tom had something in his hands but he didn't know what it was. But whatever it was, it was against the law. A serious law. Well, now. He's the Sheriff. It's his duty to arrest himself, escort himself to the jail and lock himself in the holding cell. Handcuffs? Yes. Front or back? How will he get to the jailhouse. And that thing in his hands. Somebody has to carry it but he's the suspect and shouldn't be handling evidence. Where the hell was he anyway?

Sunlight through the window hurt his eyes so he turned his head away and it hurt. His scalp was on fire and the pounding behind his eyes wouldn't stop. His whole body ached. He opened his eyes and he was still in the room with the lavender walls and lace curtains.

He tried to raise his hand to touch his face but it wouldn't come up. He was handcuffed to the bed frame. He thought if he was real quiet he could reach into his jeans pocket, get the handcuff key, open the window and escape before the talking horses returned. That's when he discovered that he was naked under the lavender sheet covering his body.

His clothes were folded on a chair near the bed. Okay. Just kick the sheet off, reach over, grab his pants and the key. Except the clothes were too far away. His ribs hurt real bad but he had to get away. Just a few inches. If I can pull the bed without making a racket I'll have a chance. Two inches, three, four -- success. He grabbed his shirt.

The bedroom door opened. Wendy's wife, Mara, yelped and called out for Wendy. Tom lay on his side buck naked except for his bandaged ribs and covering as much of his body as he could with his shirt.

Tom turned the shower off and sighed. He knew that risking his life to save the Winslows would be in the town lore for a while before fading away. But being found naked and handcuffed in Wendy's perfumed lavender boudoir --- a hundred versions of that story would live on for years.

Tom boldly went where no man has gone before

Guns, Bars, Women, and Wolves

Texas Tornado Jr.

 

Sheriff Tom put on his new Stetson and checked himself out in the hallway mirror. He tipped the brim, winked at his image and murmured softly ‘You still got it.’  His wife stood in the kitchen wiping down the Formica countertop. She said the new hat made him look more professional. Truth was, he missed his old hat. Wearing it for the last 10 years, it fit his head just right. A dust devil whipped it off his head while he was out hunting with Jorge. The wind carried it up so high Tom couldn’t see it anymore. At least his jeans and uniform shirt were still the same. He looked at his boots and decided he’d have Rollo clean and polish them  this afternoon after he finished his rounds.

His routine was to visit the businesses in Panhandle on foot every couple of weeks, pick up latest gossip, what was going on, show his face, make it look like he was earning his pay. He liked being Sheriff. Naturally curious, he was interested in everyone and everything that happened in his town. His mind was an encyclopedia of names, face, places, events from yesterday to 30 years before.

Some days just start out wrong

Mona, the dispatcher, greeted him when he walked into the Sheriff’s Office. He checked his messages and told Mona he’d be touring the town on foot most of the day. She said check in every couple of hours just in case we need you.

‘In case we need you?’ Mona was nobody’s fool. If she’d been born a man she’d be the one strutting around town and Tom would be working for her, fix her coffee in the morning. Mona dragging in the criminals, snarling, “Book ‘em, Danno.”

He stood on the sidewalk outside the office, looked left, right, deciding which way to go. South towards the train station or north to the city limits.

The Touch of Class restaurant bar was open, serving flavored coffee and overpriced croissants to tourists passing through. The locals stop in once in a while but mostly it’s a tourist stop. The prices being on the high side, locals dress up in their good clothes when they go there to celebrate special events like anniversaries, weddings, and the like.

Tony, the lounge musician, was standing on the sidewalk enjoying a smoke before starting his shift waiting tables until evening when he played soft music on a baby grand for the dinner guests. On his off days he goes to Lubbock or Amarillo to play in jazz clubs. Tom asked him once if he liked playing in the restaurant. He said, “It’s a job. All I gotta do is figure out the average age of the customers, play the music from that time, make ‘em feel like it’s prom night again. But I’ll tell you, Tom, if someday you hear I’ve put a gun to my head you’ll know I played ‘Windmills of the Mind’ for the last time.”

No, no. Not "Windmills of the Mind" again.

He skipped Les’ General Store and the bank. He’d catch up with Les at Jackie’s later on. He waved hello to Laurie across the street. She was setting up a table with knick knacks and stuffed toys on the sidewalk in front of her gift shop. It was hard to figure how she made a living selling birthday cards and figurines. Could be she was getting alimony from her ex husband, a lawyer for an oil company in Odessa. She came back to Panhandle three years after they wed. All she said to Tom was, “I’m back. He’s not.” If Jackie or any of the other women knew more, they weren’t saying.

He turned the corner heading east now. Milo’s Craft Shop was still closed but he saw Milo through the window. It looked like he was teaching Wendy and her wife some self-defense moves. Wendy’s pretty fit and can take care of herself but you never know when you need that extra something. He’d seen her jogging around town early mornings; tall, lithe, she had a steady miler’s stride. Tom knocked on the window and waved. They waved back.

Milo’s a strange bird, a transplanted ex college professor from California who relocated  to Panhandle for reasons of his own. To look at him you wouldn’t know he could take down any man in Panhandle one on one. To hear him talk you wouldn’t know he was trained in Martial Arts, not expert, mind you, but plenty good enough. That goofball, Steve, found that out the hard way. Milo put his lights out so fast even people who saw it weren’t sure how he did it.

The smell of eggs, bacon, and curly fries hit his nose. He wasn’t hungry but some of Mamacita’s industrial grade cowboy coffee in a go cup would hit the spot. The diner was near full so he had to wait near the door until mamacita, Chela, saw him. Looking around, nodding good morning to everyone who noticed him, he saw the Blue Star and the Gold Star on the far wall. Tom and a lot of his friends signed up for Vietnam out of a sense of patriotism but were soon disillusioned. Most of them made it back. The Gold Star was for Chela’s nephew.

The coffee might be a little thick this morning

Tom thought about his last two weeks in Vietnam. He was a short timer waiting for an available-space flight home. The CO put him on the MP detail because of his size. It was crappy duty, mostly breaking up bar fights among grunts too drunk to do each other any real harm; making the rounds, uniform stinking of vomit and stale beer, hoping, hoping, hoping for an empty seat in the next C-130 to take him home.


On his last patrol he and his partner, Sgt. Rolfe, were on the strip, looking in on every bar, making eye contact with the grunts. Always, the bar girls jeered at them or made lewd suggestions. They had just come out of the Best California Bar when they saw a grunt leaving a bar across the street. He was pulling a bar girl by her wrist, a beer in the other hand. It was hard to tell if she was resisting or just playing along until they got to the hot sheet hotel next door. Half hearted resistance was part of the game between the grunts and bar girls. It made the grunts feel persuasive like when they were convincing their girlfriends back home to put out.

Tom understood the drunkenness, the powerful drive for sex in a time where survival in the next 24 hours was iffy. Get some joy now because there may not be another time. Or as a grunt once put it, ‘Man, you could wake up dead tomorrow’.  Tom knew that feeling. It was an odd kinship with his fellow grunts even if their behavior anywhere else in the world would embarrass them.

But now the girl was screaming as the grunt pulled her into a narrow space between the bar and the hotel. He slapped her hard and she went down, knocked unconscious. He dragged her further into the alley.

Tom took off his helmet, gun belt, the MP armband, handed them to Rolfe and ran across the street. That’s all he remembered all these years later. Early the next morning Rolfe yelled at him to wake up, grab his duffel bag and get his ass to the tarmac, he was going home right now.

Somehow Sgt. Rolfe pulled some strings, called in a lot of markers and got Tom a seat on the next flight. No time to explain, he said. Just get outa here or you’ll miss the flight. He made it out. Two years later when Tom was still in California, not ready to go home yet, he chanced on Rolfe who told him what he’d done to the grunt that night. He said he wasn’t sure but maybe Tom killed the guy. Rolfe didn’t know one way or the other. Sorry, man.

All those years gone by and Tom still thinking that of all the things you do in life, killing is one of the things you can’t undo. Shake it off, Tom. Keep moving.

Coffee in hand, Tom walked from Mamacita’s towards Gustav’s barber shop. He could see 90 year old Gustav through the window gesturing with his scissors while he talked to the man in the barber chair. There weren’t any customers waiting on the bench outside the shop yet.

There’s no way to be kind about Gustav’s skills. He's always been a terrible barber. Customers sit in his chair, get shorn like sheep in ten or fifteen minutes then go home where their wives do their best to even out the mess.

Men don’t go there for haircuts. Gustav’s is a place where you can sit with your friends, trade gossip, make deals, or read old Field & Stream magazines while you wait your turn. Gustav hears all the talk and passes information about who’s looking to buy or sell some livestock, crops, or a hay baler. A bad haircut is an acceptable price to pay for a place to do a little business, socialize in the shade, away from daily cares for an hour or two.

Tom sat on Gustav’s outdoor bench, took his hat off and put it by his side, sipped coffee. The Call Grill directly across the street featured their World Famous Pizza. He’d been called there during a blizzard because Harley was tearing the place apart. It was the closest Tom had ever come to drawing his gun on a suspect but he was able to convince Harley to surrender by telling him Bible stories. Tom smiled at the memory of Harley, 6foot5 inches and 240lbs of stupid, working his brain hard to follow the David and Goliath tale, finally realizing that he was David and the chair leg he was holding was no match for Tom’s .45 caliber Goliath.

Further down at the corner, Mike was busy hosing down the driveway at his gas station. Both bay doors were open, somebody’s blue pickup on the lift. Thirty-five years ago it was Nichol’s Conoco. Over time it had been Jerry’s Conoco, then Chuck's Conoco, and now, Mike’s. He was making enough money from leasing land to the Love’s Truck Stop at the crossroads so he could hire people to run the gas station and go fishing if he wanted. But Mike was living the life he’d decided on in high school, to own a gas station with a two bay garage.

Only the name on the deed changes

Tom finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the trash can by the bench and made his way up the street to the Post Office.

There’s no house to house mail delivery in Panhandle. You pick up your letters and packages from Millie at the Post Office across the street from Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. If somebody gets a letter from a relative who never writes, it likely means somebody’s dead or dying. The magazines in plain brown wrappers are for lonesome ranch hands. Letters from out of town lawyers could be a divorce is in the air. Who do you know that ain’t gettin’ along? Final notices from creditors all pass through Millie’s hands and straight to the gossip mill.

Some people think Millie has an uncanny ability to know stuff before it happens but not really. Being Postmistress in the tiny Post Office means Millie has a lot of time to put two and two together even if 2+2 adds up to a peanut butter sandwich from time to time.

She checked Tom’s mail slot but he didn’t have any. Millie said, “If you see Mike let ‘im know that his uncle sent a picture postcard from Arizona where he’s visiting friends. Everything’s fine. He’s coming back in a couple of weeks. And please check his chickens for water and feed.” Tom tipped his hat and left.

On the second floor above the Post Office there’s an empty office where Marcus M. Marcus, Esq. practiced for a few years before moving on to a town where no one knew what a bad lawyer he was. Tom gazed up at the windows, ghost images of Marcus’ name fading in the sun.

He remembered the time Marcus tried to embarrass him during a trial. The case was so trivial Tom couldn’t remember what it was about anymore. He pictured himself on the witness chair, Marcus, strutting like a banty, chest puffed up, hands behind his back. He stops pacing, shoots his chin at Tom.

Marcus M. Marcus, Esq.

“So, Sheriff, you think you’re a pretty good law enforcement officer? Perhaps the best peacekeeper in Texas? Well now, that’s a might conceited, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe it is, Marcus, but don't forget, I’m under oath.”

Tom turned away from the Post Office to go to Jackie’s bar across the street. He looked both ways and stopped to let a pickup go by. Jorge was driving, old Newman riding shotgun, his 30-06 cradled in his arms. Instead of driving by, Jorge stopped, asked Tom about going hunting next Sunday. They were hauling a load of cedar fence posts and barbed wire to Newman’s place. Newman jacked his rifle to show Tom it wasn’t loaded. Tom’s rules. Only Newman was allowed to carry a gun in town.

Jorge and Newman together was an odd pairing considering that Newman had once accused Jorge of cattle rustling. The  case went nowhere, of course. Everyone knew Newman was a crank.

Tom didn’t ask about the dozen or so plastic water jugs and the box full of old tennis shoes partially covered with a tarp in the truck bed. He wasn’t supposed to know anything about that.

Not your business, Sheriff

Inside Jackie’s bar Doc Harris, Les, Mike, and Jackie were sitting at the table near the window watching Tom looking up at Marcus’ old office then standing next to Newman’s truck, talking to Jorge.

Doc Harris gestured towards the street with his drink. “I was just thinkin’ about the time we were sitting around a campfire, fishing trip. Tom, Les, Mike, Milo, and me. We were mostly ragging on each other and when we wore that out, Mike says if you could be any animal what would you be? I said I was happy being a human animal.”

Les put his arms out like wings and said, “I remember wanting to be an eagle flying up high riding thermals, go anywhere I want. Just up and go anytime. And Milo said foxes are pretty cool animals, a combination of a cat, stealthy, quick; and a dog, loyal and tough.”

Mike pointed to himself. “Me, I’d be a stud horse.”

Jackie looked at him sideways, “You, Mike? A stud horse? Doc’s buddy, the shrink at Texas Tech, might have a word or two ‘bout that.” Doc Harris stroked his chin, nodding.
Jackie asked, “What did Tom say he’d wanna be?”

Doc: “Tom said wolf, an all-weather beast, survives anywhere he happens to be. We went on like that for a while changing which animal would suit us but Tom always said wolf.”

Les said, “You know, that kinda fits. Tom looks everything over all the time like he’s taking notes. He walks in here, looks to the back, the sides, the bar, counts the customers, who they are, where they’re sittin’. It’s like he’s on guard every second.”

Jackie said, “I think Tom really thinks he’s a wolf and we’re his pack.”

Doc leaned far back in his chair, rested his hands on his belly and said, “You might be right, Jackie, you might be right.”

Jackie sighed. She knew the signs. Here it comes she thought.

“Wolves live in packs. When they migrate from one place to another they travel single file. The old and the weak ones lead. You might think that’s so they’re the first to go if the pack is attacked but that ain’t why. What they do is set the pace so none of ‘em fall behind. After them come the strongest and toughest males to fight in case of an attack by other predators. The females follow them. The alpha wolf is last. He’s the rear guard. He’ll be the first to challenge and fight attackers sneaking up from behind. He’s the leader looking ahead on the trail, watching the rear. In human terms he’s the Sheriff of the Pack.”

In the street Tom slapped the roof on Newman’s truck, waved goodbye and headed to Jackie’s.

It was Jackie who started it. As Tom stepped into the bar she raised her face to the ceiling and howled, then Les, Mike, and Doc howled, too.

Tom hesitated a bit, hooked his thumbs over his gun belt. “You all know coyotes aren’t a protected species in Texas, right?