Thirty Women Walk Into A Bar

Sheriff Tom was leaving Jackie’s Cold Day Inn just as I was arriving. “Don’t go inside,” he said. “Women Only Night starts in half an hour. No men allowed. If you wanna drink let’s go to my office. I got some Kentucky bourbon I took offa the Johnson boy. He said it was for his daddy but I know his daddy don’t drink bourbon. Too mild, he says, no substitute for white lightning.”

Tom served up two fingers of bourbon in a glass for me and two in a cup for himself.

“So what’s the story on Women Only Night?”

“Ask around you’ll hear all kinds of doings that just ain’t true. The women won’t say and the men plain don’t know. I don’t know all of it for sure. My wife never misses a meeting. After the third meeting I asked her what they talked about, she says, ‘space, time, and the immutability of the soul’. We been married a lotta years. She answers like that it means ‘none of your business, sweetheart.’ I’m smart enough to let it go."

He rolled his chair back and put his feet up on his desk. I settled in for a story.

“You know why men like me become law enforcement?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“We do it because we’re curious, always wanna know who, what, when, where, why, and how. My wife says I’m just nosy. Fact is, we hafta know everything about everybody, can’t help it. We just wanna know. Being on the job we get to know what everybody’s up to, good and bad.

“Now, a good sheriff won’t ever tell what he knows about somebody to anybody else. He’ll just keep it in his mind, helps him decide when to hammer somebody down or just let something slide. Anybody knows me will tell you I don’t spread gossip. Oh, I might tell a thing or two, but I never hurt anybody with it. Bottom line, people trust me with things they won’t tell their minister even when they’re dying.

"You’re curious just like me. Sometimes I think you shoulda been a cop instead of a traveling salesman.

“You wanna know about Women Only Night and I’m inclined to tell you what I found out by asking questions here and there. When I had most of it figured out I asked Jackie. She told me enough to put it all together and now I owe her.

“If you ever let out what I told you, you better hope you see me before Jackie sees you. Keep in mind, mercy’s just a word to her. And trust means as much to her as it does to me.”

I promised not to repeat what he told me but I filed it away for some future date in some other town; someplace where nobody knew Tom or Jackie in a galaxy long ago and far, far away.

Jackie thought it would be nice to give the townswomen a place to get together away from their daily cares and tasks. She would serve coffee, tea, wine and cheese. So it was official.

Jackie announced that henceforth Tuesday night Happy Hour was cancelled at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. In its place, Jackie’s would host Women Only Night. 

Men had their clubs, bars, bull sessions at Les’s General Store or at the post office where they congregated whether or not they were expecting mail. But the women were mostly alone, seeing each other by one’s and two’s at the market or after church on Sundays. The Ladies’ Auxiliary met every Thursday in the basement of the church where the minister praised them endlessly, the holy women of his congregation; hovering over them like a shepherd and his sheep, keeping them in line. Now at Jackie's they could meet with no kids or men underfoot. They could talk about anything at all.

Some of the men weren’t happy about the end of Happy Hour or the prospect of Women Only Night. They feared that the women would probably take the occasion to speak plainly about them, and they were right about that except that they greatly overestimated how much of the evenings’ talk would actually be about them. Women had other things on their minds besides the men in their lives.

  

Jackie was disappointed but not surprised when only three of her friends came to the first Women Only Night. She never expected the church ladies to show up at a bar for goodness’ sake, but still. In the following weeks the attendees grew to six, then seven and eventually twelve women became regulars. Becky and two other churchwomen showed up, apparently prepared to pass judgment on the other women. Jackie welcomed them anyway.

At the sixth meeting the women talked about the kids or some everyday things like before but little by little they relaxed and sipped more wine than tea. Then one of the women literally let her hair down. She loosened the bun that pulled her skin tight against her skull and her hair cascaded over her shoulders.

It was an epiphany. Everyone gaped at the transformation. No one had ever seen her hair any other way except in a bun atop her head. Then another woman unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, releasing the tight collar on her neck. She ran her hands furiously through her hair, grabbed her wine glass and downed it one luxurious swallow.

Jackie laughed at the two rebels and offered more wine. The other women raised their glasses for refills. Cheers all around.

Becky, the leading church lady and her companions sat wide eyed, hands clutching the edge of the table, looking like they were going to stroke out. Then Becky passed gas – long and loud -- the laughing stopped abruptly. Everyone stared at her.

Becky, whose piety and correctness had never faltered, who had never been known for anything but prim propriety, said the only thing that came to her mind at that instant, something her grandmother said to her when she was just a little girl.

“That was an upside down hiccup.” A tiny pause then she burst out laughing.

The gossip about that sixth meeting spread among the women of the town like a grass fire and the membership soon grew to more than thirty women. The men groused among themselves but there was nothing they could do about it. They still thought the women were talking about them, probably making comparisons.

By now the group was too large to hold at one table so they broke up into several small groups, some women moving from one group to another until they found a table where the talk interested them. They scratched where they itched, kicked off their shoes; some loosened their bra straps, told dirty jokes, talked about truth and justice; a book they read, beauty tips, dreams both pending or broken.

What they’d done was break out of the roles that their gender and history created for them from birth. One day a week they weren’t anybody’s wife, girlfriend, or mother. They were just themselves, whoever they were. It was heaven.

The novelty of their freedom didn’t wear off in the subsequent weeks but once they’d blown off much of the steam they’d held in for years, they became more unified. They formed voting blocs to cancel out their husbands’ votes when they agreed a political issue was better to pass or fail for the greater good. They set up teams of volunteers to visit shut-ins, give them company, cook some meals, make them feel wanted. They discussed problems common to many of them, the means to solve them or simply to commiserate if no solution was available. They told jokes and recounted ancestral stories real and fictional.

One evening Becky and the other church ladies were talking about the Bible. No one joked about religion. It wasn’t a hot topic anyway. There is a time for prayers and meditation. Women Only Night isn’t one of those times. However, the question Becky asked made the women think in imaginative ways.

Becky taught Sunday School, had for years. Though she had read and studied the Bible, discussed it with the minister for hours on end, she was stumped for an answer when one her students, a little boy, wanted to know where Caine and Abel got their wives.

Fortunately, the bell for services rang before Becky answered her inquisitor. She was literally saved by the bell. The question bothered her and she was loath to tell the child that the brothers had married their sisters. The child was just six, for heaven’s sake, and the thought of marrying his sister would make him retch. The minister left town to visit the bishop before she could consult with him so she put the question to the women at the next Women Only Night.

Well, anybody who’s read Genesis and thought about it for five minutes can conclude that Adam and Eve had more kids, including daughters who are rarely mentioned or named in Bible stories. Adam and Eve lived for 930 years, lots of time for making babies. Logically, the brothers must have had to marry their sisters in order to bring about the human race.

Some of the women became thoughtful. They’d never considered where Caine and Abel’s wives came from. They’d read the Bible but didn’t think another step past the words, like some people roll through a stop sign never thinking what it means.

No, not this Caine

After some back and forth Becky decided to wait for the minister’s return for an answer that wouldn’t frighten the children.

But the question wouldn’t go away just like that.

Jackie said maybe there was more than one Garden of Eden, you know, East Eden, West Eden, North, South, each with its own Adam and Eve. Each producing children after they were tossed out of their respective gardens.

Actually, anything was possible, Jackie said. Could be there was a Garden of Eden in North America, another in Asia, one in Africa, Australia even.

A woman sitting at the next table wondered how do you account for different races if all the Edens were near each other?

The answer came from Table 7: Some newlyweds didn’t get along with each others families so they packed up their stuff and moved to Africa where over millennia, their skin got sunburned, each generation got darker and darker. Other couples moved to China where the sun was so bright that they had to squint. Over centuries the shape of their eyes changed.

All those notions sounded too far-fetched for the women at Table 3. After much talk and lots of wine, they judged that Jackie’s first idea was more practical. There were several gardens close enough to each other that the families could intermingle and marry. With four gardens the gene pool would be deep enough that genetic distortions would be minimal.

They proposed:

Adam and Eve in the East Garden

John and Helen in the West Garden

Brad and Angelina in the North Garden

Ken and Barbie in the South Garden

Table 1 drained and refilled their wine glasses and objected.

With all these weddings, they said, who planned the ceremonies and made the decorations? There had to be a Garden that had gays. They would pick the colors and themes, make seating arrangements, hire the caterers, design the wedding dresses, and book the honeymoon destinations.

Steve and Lance in the Hidden Garden, they said, couldn’t wait to get started.

The women cheered and toasted Table 3’s five Garden invention.

The women at Table 4 suggested the Handyman Garden featuring Larry, Darryl and Darryl. It was rejected (eeew). 

With the Caine and Abel question settled, the women went on to talk about next week’s meeting.

At 9:30 Jackie announced last call. She and Wendy began collecting the wine glasses, empty wine bottles and serving hot coffee. Closing time was 10:00 o’clock sharp.

The women touched up their hair, smoothed their dresses, slurped coffee, and prepared to go home. A few of them asked for a second cup.

Becky was among the last to leave. She helped Jackie clean up and said, “I just know that child is gonna ask me next why Caine killed Abel. I’ll just tell him what the Good Book says.”

As Jackie gently pushed her out the door she said, “Becky, careful now, you had a lot of wine tonight. Don’t tell that kid the real answer: God likes a good barbecue and He hates veggie burgers.”

Abel's OK

Caine, not so much

Friday Night Fights

We're gonna need a bigger horse, son.

A TV propped on a plank between two stepladders at the far side of the bar said it all… Jackie’s is giving in to the competition from the sports bars. There was a note stuck on the screen with masking tape. It was too far away to read so I got closer. The note said, “Nobody but Jackie turns it on. Violators will be required to settle their bar tab and go away until I say you can come back.”

Jackie came up from behind, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “That means you, too, city boy.”

This bar’s never had a TV or a jukebox. The regulars come here for a quiet place to have some drinks and conversation, or just to sit alone. Sheriff Tom is one of the regulars. Rowdies and troublemakers find out soon enough that quiet people can get rough if rough is what’s required to keep the peace. Nobody can remember the last time there was a fight at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn.

I come here to rest my mind after spending the day pitching farm equipment, trying to convince farmers to replace 40 year old machinery; or ranchers that they need to replace old-fashioned augers with new ones that dig post holes faster and with less chance of injury to their ranch hands.

When I say I pitch I mean I’m a major leaguer, throwing high fastballs and diving sliders one after another. My company says I’m a star salesman. Most of the time the farmers and ranchers are smart enough to figure out what’s coming and they hit homers off me more often than not. Even when they’re ready to buy they’ll make me keep pitching a while longer before they sign the dotted line. But I do well enough to make a living at it, plus I like driving all over the panhandle on deserted county roads to meet my customers. It feels like my minor league days going from town to town to play the local baseball teams. 

If my boss offered me twice the money to work at company headquarters I’d say no. I don’t know that I could stand it, sitting in an office, knowing the open road is out there without me. 

I got my drink at the bar and took a table near the door where Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris usually sit in the late afternoon.

No TV, no Jukebox, no whining

They turned up together and joined me. I asked if the TV was for a football game.

Les said, “Nope. Not football. Six o’clock press conference the governor is giving Johnny Summers a medal for winning the National Roping Tournament in Denver. He hasn’t lived here since he was 12 but he’s still one of ours more or less.”

Five minutes later Jackie turned the TV on, volume up high. The governor went on and on talking about everything except why he and Johnny Summers were there. An aide whispered something in his ear and the governor got down to the business of the day. He put a thick rope lanyard with a medal around Johnny’s neck and invited him to say a few words. Staring straight ahead, all the poor kid could manage was “Hi, Mom”. The governor slid in front of him and thanked everybody for being there and said goodnight.

I don’t know what else Jackie or the men in the bar were expecting. Maybe a fight? Or maybe the kid would hogtie the crooked governor, turn him over to the State Police. One or two of the patrons hooted and clapped when governor mentioned Johnny’s hometown, the rest went back to their conversations and drinks. Jackie turned the TV off.

Gary and Mike from the Conoco station, still in their greasy coveralls, were sitting at the bar telling Jackie some story about a fight they saw at Billy’s Last Stand. If I had to guess Jim and Angel were in it somehow but I was too far away to hear the details.

We watched Gary tell his story, punching the air with his hairy fist showing Jackie the hit that took a cowboy down. Jackie, head back, slapping her hands on the bar, laughing.

Gary finished his story and Jackie came to our table with fresh drinks and clean ashtrays.

Tom asked her who Gary was talking about.

“Jim and Angel”, she said.

Doc Harris pulled dollar bill from his shirt pocket and slid it into Les’s open palm.

At the far end of the bar Wendy was pouring coffee for a customer.

I pointed to the man and said, “Coffee?”

Les glanced over his shoulder and said, “Yeah, that’s Rollie. Been on the wagon off and on going on five years now.

“After he spent three days in the County Jail he made up his mind to stop drinking. Well, maybe not stop altogether but cut down some so that at least he could remember what happened the night before.

“The way I heard it, he’s doing all right first week or so, has three beers, then asks for coffee before heading home. Looking good except this particular night, Cindy, a waitress at the Itchy Kitty Topless Bar brings his coffee but all she’s got is Equal. He says, “Darlin’ this stuff gives me headaches. Can you get me some real sugar?” She goes back to the bar, comes back and says, no, this is all we got.

“He’s fighting the urge to say screw it, gimme me another beer. Instead he calls out to the bartender to get him some real sugar. Bartender shakes his head, no. That hits his last nerve so he makes a fuss over what kinda cheap ass place this is that don’t have real goddam U - S – A, All-American SUGAR.

“Mandy, she owns the place, was in the back room checking inventory, hears him hollering. She doesn’t need another ruckus that’ll bring the Sheriff. Just an hour before some jackleg got too familiar with one of the dancers. Tom here put him down with kick in the pants, sent him on his way. Anyway, Mandy, she goes over, stands behind Rollie and says real nice, ‘Cindy, is he getting fresh? Rollie, what do you want? ’

“He whips around, spreads his arms wide and says, “Mandy, all’s I want is a little sugar.”

“Mandy’s been in the business 30 years or more. It’s late, she’s tired, wants to go home. Randy cowboys are nothing new at the Itchy Kitty. She’s a big woman, 250 at least, hands big as fry pans. She slaps him upside his head, sits him down, tells him to stay, tells Cindy put a shirt on and bring back some menudo from the Mexican place three doors down.”

“Ah, menudo,” said Doc Harris. “The breakfast of people who oughta know better.”

Everybody, even the Sheriff, looked at Doc Harris. Menudo? Breakfast of what?

Doc leaned back in his chair, a sure sign he had a story. He took his time, slow sipping his bourbon.

“Long time ago, when Jorge was new in town I saw him come stumbling out of Chato’s late one night. Looked to me like Tom or Deputy Dudley would put him in the tank overnight if they saw him. I figured I’d save the Sheriff some paperwork and Jorge some embarrassment so I said I’d take him home but he said take me to Rosario’s Diner first.

“He said, ‘Amigo, the best way to fix a hangover or get sober is eat a big bowl of menudo at Rosario’s Diner.’ I asked what’s in it, he says, ‘Hominy, tripe, some other stuff. It’s not something you like right away especially if you’re in the kitchen while mamacita’s making it.

‘First she boils two pounds of chopped tripe in a big pot. It smells like road kill been sitting in the sun for a day. Once it’s cooked enough she adds her mother’s chili mix. Rosario says she uses four kinds of peppers. After that she adds some soup bones, salt, garlic cloves, and fills the pot with hominy. She lets it boil for a while, then sets it to simmer on the stove.

Four kinds of peppers and other spices Rosario will never reveal 

‘It doesn’t smell like road kill anymore and I can’t tell you what it smells like because I don’t care. I want some now. Serve it in a big bowl, add some chopped onions and oregano flakes, a hard roll on the side. Before you know it your sinuses are so clear you can breathe through your ears, you can focus with both eyes at the same time; your headache is going away. Downside is your mouth and throat’s burning up and you can’t stop eating.’”

The first bowl is only $1.75

“I got Jorge home safe and sound. Me being a doctor and all I gotta keep up with advances in medicine. If I can find some way to make menudo pills I’ll be rich. Might have to marry Rosario to get the recipe. Problem is, what to do about her husband, fittest man in the county, probly live to a hundred.”

Tom said, “Menudo. Maybe I’ll have Rosario fix me a batch to have at the jail on weekends. The closing time cowboy roundup usually means three, four of ‘em be seeing me or my Deputy come Sunday morning.”

Mike and Gary finished their drinks, paid Jackie. As they passed by on their way out, Les asked Mike what they said to Jackie to make her laugh.

Mike said, “Happened Friday two weeks ago at Billy’s. This guy, Donny, new guy on the road crew, starts ragging another guy just because. He likes to talk tough, start fights but only if there’s somebody there to stop ‘em before it comes to blows. The guy ignores him but Donny won’t let it go, starts getting personal. What he don’t know is the guy he’s ragging is Jim. His friends don’t know it’s Jim either. They don’t know his wife, Angel’s standing next to him.

“Now, all ah you know Jim never throws the first punch. If you wanna fight ‘im you better square up tight and don’t look at his face too long. More’n one cowboy’s backed off when Jim gets that killer look in his eyes. If anything, they oughta look out for Angel. She don’t wait for the first punch. First sign of intent, she’s attacking with everything she’s got. Man, woman, tall, short, don’t matter to her. Most times it’s Jim gotta pull her off.

“I tried to warn Donny but he laughed saying Jim was scared to fight ‘cause his old lady would cut him off if he went home all beat to hell. His buddies laughed and hooted, having fun.”

“Jim don’t say nothin’, looks around the bar, waves at some guys at the pool table in the back.

“Angel, she turns around facing the guy and says, ‘Cowboy, you got a wife or a girlfriend? What’s your girlfriend gonna say if you tell her you got beat up by girl?’

“Donny don’t even look her way, he says, ‘Baby, this ain’t your fight. Leave it to the men.’

“Jim says, ‘Angel, let it be.’ He turns his back and Donny looks around, showing off to his friends, makes like he’s gonna throw a punch. Quick as a cat, Angel gives him a knee in the crotch. He goes into a crouch grabbing the family jewels with both hands and she finishes him off with an overhand cross. BAM! Like this. Coupla Donny’s friends start to make a move but Jim looks them off, puts some money on the bar, takes Angel’s arm and they go home.”

No, not these family jewels

Tom said, “Wonder of wonders, the Deputy’s report said everybody in the bar was deaf and blind that night.”

Gary and Mike left. Nobody said anything for a while, probably filing the story away for retelling some other day. Tom puffed on his Cheroot. Les and Doc stirred their drinks with their fingers.

I said, “Why is it there’s so much talk about fights, even fights that happened a long time ago?”

They were quiet for moment, thinking. Tom was the first to speak.

“I think it's football”, he said. “You’ve been around these parts and you know how folks live and die by their team. Boys start young, peewee leagues, up through high school. They’re buttin’ heads and bodies against each other year after year then graduation and just like that it’s over.

Once you graduate, it's over

And I say unto you ... Touchdown!

“Early training like that don’t go away. Young fellas, years out of school, still feel that urge to hit somebody different from them, start fights for no good reason. Then the day comes when the bruises don’t heal so fast, or they see double too many days after. The blood cools, gets up to their brains and they think maybe fighting’s a waste of time and body. The boys become men. Look around, no boys in this bar.”

Tom stubbed out his Cheroot and leaned back.

In a low voice Les said, “You know folks here don’t have a lotta money for entertainment. Most days are boring from sunrise to sunset. Nighttime’s no better. Every day is near the same. Same cattle, cotton, rain, no rain, same troubles every day one after the other. Everybody’s day is the same as everybody else’s. Nothing happens that hasn’t happened the same way a thousand times before.

“Fights get the blood up, a few drinks on top of that and the fights get better and better every time you tell it. People listening eat it up. A two-minute fight can take 20 to tell if you do it right. And no two fights are the same. If two, three other people seen it, they’ll tell different sides of a story. Kinda like instant replay with lotsa camera angles.

“Think a minute. Nobody has cars or trucks worth a damn, besides we need them for work. Can’t race them, and truck pulls, mud rallies probly turn up bad trannies, stripped gears or worse. Can’t risk it. Talking fights beats sitting around watching TV preachers promising to save me from burnin’ in a ‘Lake of Fire’ for eternity if I give ‘em my money. Hell, I had a secret way to heaven I give it away for free.”

Doc chuckled and said, “And if you’re thinking about stepping out on your wife or girlfriend for something to do, well, don’t even try it. I’m not saying there’s not some cheating going on here and there but keeping it quiet only lasts a minute or two. Hang around Maggie over at the post office. Don’t know how she does it but she’ll know if you’re cheating even if you’re only thinking about it.

“Good news or bad, gossip travels fast. Truck breaks down, the news gets to town before you do. Swear to god, one time my truck quit on the 221 about 35 miles out. I hitched a ride with a tourist passing through. I get out of his car, go to the post office, Maggie hands me my mail, says, ‘I heard you left your truck on the 221.’”

A one minute story

The way he grinned I couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or lying.

Tom stood up, ready to leave. He put some bills on the table and said, “The next round’s on me.”

He looked at me and said, “Son, a truck breaking down ain’t much of a story, happens to somebody every day. Doc just told you the whole thing in two, three sentences, less than a minute. A good fight story, nobody knows how it starts or how it’s gonna turn out ‘til it’s over. Now which stories do you wanna hear?”

He put on his hat, nodded towards Jackie at the bar and went out the door.

The Last Tumbleweed in Texas

Every cowboy movie has one

The Lazy Bones Motel was three blocks down and one block over from Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. I checked in and made an executive decision that even though it was only 3 o’clock, it was time for a cold beer or my usual Jack & Coke. A big flatbed lost its load of alfalfa on the 87 a half mile outside Amarillo forcing me to make a 60 mile detour. By the time I arrived at Panhandle I was done for the day. Amarillo could wait.

I saw Les at the cash register as I passed his General Store. He waved, made a drinking motion with his hand and pointed at the clock on the wall. Either he was saying it was too early to drink or that he’d join me after when he closed up at five. I waved and pointed in the direction of Jackie’s place.

And the 22 miles after that

The bar was empty, except for Jackie and Wendy who was sweeping out the storeroom and stacking the empties. I took a seat in the corner next to the window facing the street. Jackie said hi and gave me a look --- beer or Jack? I said one each.

I saw Sheriff Tom coming out of the post office holding some letters in one hand and his hat in the other. He dropped the mail in his cruiser except for one letter and made his way to Jackie’s.

He called to Jackie when he came in and sat down with me. I complained about the detour. Yeah, he heard about it, road’s still jammed up probly for another couple of hours.

Patting his breast pocket he said, “Jackie, I got a letter here in my pocket from somebody in El Paso. You ever hear anybody named Luís Ordaz?”

“Can’t say I have. What’s he say?”

“I haven’t read it yet. Here goes.”

He opened the envelope. It was one page.

“Damn it! It says here he’s Charlie García’s neighbor. Charlie died on the tenth and they’re holding up the funeral until they hear from me. They found out about me from papers found in his house. Funeral home, address, phone number, call Kaster & Maxon to confirm arrival. And that’s it.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped. He shielded his eyes with his hand and said, “I gotta go to El Paso. Charlie was an old friend. Les, Charlie, and me did a lotta growing up together.” He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

Jackie brought Tom a shot of bourbon and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Tom. All I heard about him was the trouble you three were into all the time.”

Tom stood and said, “I gotta tell Les. Be back in a minute.” He came back a few minutes later and said Les was real upset about Charlie but couldn’t travel. His wife was having a bad time with chemo.

It seemed to me that Tom would need some company so I made up a story about going to El Paso to see a new line of small tractors. It wasn’t much of a lie but that’s all I could think of.

I said let’s go in my car the next day; spell each other at the wheel, make the eight hour trip and arrive in El Paso before nightfall if we left by noon, bunk at my hotel on my company’s dime. He gave me that look cops give when they know you’re lying, but he didn’t say no to my offer.

We decided to leave before sunrise, me driving the first leg from Panhandle to Seminole. Tom put his bags and gun in the trunk and a cigar box between us on the front seat. I hoped he wouldn’t light up.

It breathes so you don't have to

He started talking as soon as we cleared the city limits -- unusual for Tom. He usually waits for you to talk so he doesn’t have to talk about himself.

“Charlie and I go back a long ways. Les, Charlie, and me grew up in the same neighborhood since we were kids, same schools, teachers, right through high school. We were more or less best buds unless grownups were around. Him being a migrant family’s kid, it wasn’t smart to treat him equal. I loved my momma and my daddy but now I’m old and still don’t understand what made their hearts so hard. Gotta give Charlie credit, he knew his place and pretended it was ok when he had to.

“We got our draft notices a year after we registered with the draft board and found out right away the military mind works in mysterious ways. They sent Les to Fulda, Germany, Charlie to Fort Greeley, Alaska, got bad frostbite; me, I wound up in forward bases north of Saigon.”

He was quiet for a while then said, “My daddy was the Sheriff ‘til he retired. Folks elected me probly so they wouldn’t have to change the name on the office door. He was Sheriff so long nobody could remember who came before. After me, probly Deputy Dudley. He’s a smart cop, been a good one to have around. I’m thinking of retiring early, before the elections so he’s already sitting in my chair when it’s time to vote.”

I asked about Les.

“I wish he was coming with us. I remember times Les took the blame for stuff Charlie did; took the punishment because Charlie would be punished worse than him. Same crime, different perp, go figure. He’s a good friend, sticks with you no matter what. Charlie can back me up on that. Well, not anymore he can’t but it’s still true.

“Some people think Les ain’t too bright because he don’t talk much but I’ll tell you what, if you wanna be on the losing side of an argument, don’t matter which side, bet against him. He coulda been a lawyer. He opened his store after he talked the bank into lending him $500. I mean, the kid was 17 years old. Who lends that kind of money to a teenager? Especially one that hung around with the likes of me and Charlie. If my daddy wasn’t the Sheriff, no telling how we woulda turned out.”

  

We stopped at Seminole, gassed the car and switched drivers. Next stop, Carlsbad.

Tom didn’t say anything for the next hour. Finally, I said, “What about Charlie?”

“Oh, Charlie’s an old friend I haven’t seen since we were young and fit. That’s all.”

We went on to Carlsbad, had some homemade chili at a little diner, gassed the car. We could see the Guadalupe Mountains and El Capitán as we drove into White’s City.

Mind the crosswinds on the way down the other side

We switched drivers again and Tom stirred around in the seat, stared out the side window for a long time. He made up his mind about something, turned to me and said, “I loved him like a brother. After ‘Nam, Charlie stuck around for a couple of years, fell in love with a girl who had to make up her mind between him and another guy. When she did, Charlie was out. I never saw a man go so deep into himself and I saw plenty of that in the war. He thought, and I did, too, that she’d pick Charlie. You see them two you’d think love and caring was invented just for them. I was as heartbroke as him.

“A few months later he said he was leaving for Galveston, work on the docks, maybe join the Merchant Marine, see the world. I figured he was just talking to say something but he left like he said. And like everybody who’s ever left friends behind he said he’d write. I said sure, not believing it. But he did write, kinda. Every few months I got a postcard from somewhere he’d been. Never said what he was doing, only where he was, what he saw. The postcards stopped coming ten, eleven years ago.”

Patting the cigar box, he said, “This box has all the postcards he sent. Now he’s dead and I won’t know anymore about him than I do now…” He slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Shit.”

As we crested Guadalupe Pass we saw El Paso and Juárez sprawled across the desert all the way to the horizon.

We checked into a Holiday Inn then went to the funeral home to see Charlie. The receptionist gave Tom a note. It said, “Tom, I’m at the Kentucky Bar across the border. Meet me as soon as you get this note. Also, I promised the nice lady $10 to give you the note. Give it to her for me, Charlie”

“Sonofabitch. What the hell is the Kentucky Bar and why tell me he’s dead? I’ll kill the sonofabitch.”

We left the car at the funeral home and took a taxi to the border. On the way I told Tom about when I was a teenager growing up in El Paso I’d go to the Kentucky Bar for cheap drinks and to listen to musicians bang away on a creaky six-man marimba. I could tell he wasn’t listening but I kept talking anyway hoping he’d get mad at me for chattering and get his mind off murdering Charlie.

The Kentucky Bar in Juárez was at the same location but twice the size and sterilized top to bottom. The seedy dive I remembered from my youth was gone, replaced by a fern bar as inviting as a walk-in freezer.

How I remember it

I love what you've done. It has that certain nothing.

It was mid-afternoon so there was nobody there except for the bartender and a waiter who idly waved us in, evidently sensing we were bad tippers.

Charlie sat with his back to the wall so he could see anybody coming in. He called out “Tom, over here”, waving his Stetson. His table was littered with empty bottles of beer and tequila.

Tom slammed the cigar box on the table and swatted Charlie back and forth with his hat. He was sorely pissed. Charlie covered his head with his arms, laughing.

In between swats he managed to say, “Tom, how does a Mexican become a Spaniard? He works hard and makes lots and lots of money.”

Swat. “So, are you a Spaniard now?” Swat.

“Halfway there, my friend. I might make it to full on Spaniard but my wife says I’m half crazy so maybe half and half is all I can do.” Still laughing he said, “Sit down or I’ll take away your hat.”

“Joven” he called to the waiter, “más tequilia, birria y limón para mis compañeros, por favor.”

Tom plopped down on his chair. “How did you know I was coming today?”

“I asked the nice lady to call me at home when you picked up my note. I’ve only been here 15 minutes. I paid the waiter a dollar to put the empty bottles on the table. He thinks I’m crazy. Did you give lady the $10?”

Pointing at me, “Who’s he?”

“This is a friend of mine who’s never once told me he’s dead. What the hell, Charlie.”

“Hey, it was a joke. I didn’t think you’d come but I took a chance and here you are. Here we are. How’ve you been, Tom? You look a lot older than me. What’s it been now, 30, 40 years?”

“Goddamit, Charlie. All the way down here I was thinking about how we wouldn’t sit around and bullshit like we used to, talk about women, horses, or whatever. Now all I got in mind is to kick your ass back across the border.”

“Tom, this isn’t Texas.” Stretching his arms wider with each syllable he said, “Es Méx-i-co. Your badge might get you in trouble. Juarez cops and El Paso cops, they’re not best friends. Hey, man, I’m sorry. If I knew you missed me so much I would have sent flowers on your birthday or chocolates.”

Swat.

“Ok, ok. It was a bad joke. Really, I’m sorry.”

The waiter brought tequila shots, beer chasers, and small plate of lime slices. He cleared the empties and gave Charlie a little smile. We had another round before Tom cooled down enough to stop glaring at Charlie.

He patted Tom’s hand and said, “It’s good to see you, Tom. What’s happened to everybody we knew in Panhandle? Les? Doc Harris, Mary Ann, Cindy, did the Hammond brothers make it back from ‘Nam?”

Between sips of beer and tequila shots Tom told him about everyone Charlie remembered. When he finished they relaxed, settled into their chairs, thinking. Thinking what? I felt like a third wheel, eavesdropping on a reunion of old friends. I got up and went to the bar to pay the tab, intending to leave, but Charlie wouldn’t have it.

“Amigo, don’t you want to hear my rags to rags story? I’ve been rehearsing it for years. It didn’t work with women but it’s not a bad story. Come on, sit down, have another drink with us.” Both men waved me back.

“Before I tell my story. Tell me who you are, what you do?”

Compared to other people’s lives, mine wasn’t that interesting but Charlie asked questions that made me feel that I wasn’t as ordinary as I thought. When I was done, I said, “So, Charlie, what’s the story that doesn’t work on women but not a bad story?”

He took a long swallow of beer, rested his arms on the table and looked off at some point above and behind me for a moment.

“Before that cabrón Columbus ‘discovered’ us, my family was already here for hundreds of years. We came to the U.S. side in the 30’s.Things were bad in the U.S. back then but they were worse in Mexico, you have no idea.

“Tom, you never noticed that I didn’t have any uncles, aunts, or cousins. Well, neither did any of the other Mexican families. Not by blood but by necessity, every woman was our aunt, every man was our uncle, every kid was our cousin. We were like a pile of tumbleweeds in the corner of a barbwire fence, pushed together by the wind.

“When I left home my father give me a little notebook with the names of his and mom’s brothers and sisters, their kids’ names. All these years I never found anybody in the notebook. I was lonely. It was like I was the last tumbleweed in Texas.

“Been everywhere in the country wherever there’s work I can do, mostly construction work where there’s a lot of Latinos. All the time I was looking for people who might know the names in my father’s notebook. You know, after work you sit around having beers with the guys and it’s always the same at the beginning. Somebody says, ‘So, Paco, where are you from?’ And Paco will say ‘Sinaloa’ or ‘Durango’. Pretty soon they say, ‘Do you know fulano or sotano de tal, that means ‘so-and-so’. And it goes like that back and forth. Sometimes the guys have people in common back in Mexico and it’s like finding a brother even if you just met the guy a few days ago. I was never that lucky.

“I met a lot of good people but I moved around so much there was no way to stay close... I fell in love with two women, one in Arizona, another in Tulsa but they didn’t love me back.

“Twelve years ago I heard there was a lot of work in El Paso restoring historic buildings. They offered top dollar for stonemasons, English speaking a plus. I was good on both counts. Been here ever since.”

My tequila brain stirred. I heard myself say, “So the lonely guy routine didn’t work on the women?”

“No, it didn’t except the one time it counted. Margarita.”

“No thanks, I’ll stay with beer.”

Tom didn’t say anything out loud but in my head I heard him say, “Jeez, try to keep up, Dumbass.”

Charlie flicked a slice of lime at me and said, “I married Margarita, a widow with two teenage sons. Her brother, a carpenter I worked with, invited me to his house for a birthday party. He didn’t say he was setting me up with his sister. He told her I was rich but when she saw me she laughed. She said, ‘Luis! You told me he was rich. Look at his hands!’ Working with rocks, my fingernails were chipped and broken; calluses on my palms. She was nice to me anyway and apologized for laughing. We had a nice time at the party talking about books and then we said goodbye.

“Luís invited me to his house again a few days later. I said I would go if his sister was gonna be there. He smiled and said she wouldn’t come unless I was coming, too. Long story short, Margarita and I been married eleven years. Her two boys and I fought but I expected that. Their father was quite a man and me replacing him was a hard sell but it happened eventually. They call me Papá now.”

Tom pushed the cigar box toward Charlie. He opened it, surprised to see his postcards. He picked one up, studied the picture and read the back.

“The horse farm in Kansas City.” Pointing to the horse on the front, “This is a Paso Fino, the finest riding horse in the world, the Cadillac of trail horses. My job was to ride the owner’s six horses every day, keep ‘em exercised, brush their coats. Best job ever, riding fine, fine horses through the woods and hills and getting paid for it. Had to clean the stables though, six horses make a lot of shit.”

Leather seat, power steering

He flipped through some more cards, let out a laugh over a postcard of a wooden bridge in Colorado.

“Boulder, Colorado, there was this three chair barber shop. One of the barbers was a nice looking woman and guys were always hitting on her. Man, she was like Wonder Woman bouncing their come on’s away with her magic bracelets, a real artist. When it was my turn in the chair I asked her what her name was. She said, ‘Barbara Seville’. I laughed so hard I fell out the chair. I got even, told her my favorite Spanish composer was El Beethoven. She had a nice laugh.”

Another card. “Conch Republic, Key West. I almost got elected mayor, lost to Jimmy Buffet by 326 votes. I demanded a recount and lost by 413. Worked on deep-sea fishing boats, first mate. All that meant was that I did all the work while the captain got drunk with his customers. Sometimes they actually fished. But the tips were good, made a lot of friends there.”

I picked up one of the postcards. This one from Houston had a picture of the city skyline. Charlie took it from me, looked at Tom and said, “I saw her there. She asked about you.”

With too much tequila buzz to mind my own business, I blurted, “Who’s her?” before my memory reminded me that “her” was the girl Charlie had lost to the other guy in Panhandle many, many years before. I really shouldn’t drink tequila.

Charlie didn’t react like I thought he would. He put his arms over his head, stretched, and said, “Yeah, when she picked what-his-name instead of me, it messed me up. Until I met Margarita I never met another woman like her. For a long time I went through a hundred ‘what ifs’ but one day it came to me that I was only thinking about myself. If she was happy with him then I should be happy for her. Isn’t that what love is? It still hurt but not so bad.

“I saw her ten years later in a shopping mall in Houston. She called my name and I froze when I saw her walking towards me. In my mind I saw us hugging, going off together, leaving our lives behind. Together again, starting over.

“What actually happened, she put her hands on my chest and kissed my cheek. We had coffee at a kiosk and talked about our lives for about an hour before she had to leave to pick up her kids from school. The way she smiled when she said, ‘my kids’, I could tell she was happy, no regrets. I watched her walk away and the last of my ‘what ifs’ went away.”

He put the card back in the box and picked up another one.

He had a few more postcard stories. Tom spoke about life in Panhandle, some tales about Jim and Angel, his favorite miscreants. Said Charlie should come visit, have a reunion at Jackie’s with Les and Doc Harris and the others, “Before we're all dead for real, you sonabitch.”

Charlie said, “Maybe next Spring. Right now we’re building a rock house out on three acres near the river in the Upper Valley. Teaching my sons all I know, work with their hands and their brains at the same time.”

Cool in the summer, warm in the winter

Tom started to say something but Charlie interrupted.

“I think it’s better if you come here for the housewarming, Tom.

“I spent most of my life looking for my roots. I felt like a tumbleweed going wherever the wind took me. Most people don’t know that tumbleweeds aren’t native to this country. They’re Russian Thistle, got here in the 1800’s from Asia. Western movies, TV shows, they all have tumbleweeds blowing in the wind. Maybe they're looking for their home like I was.

“I’m not a tumbleweed anymore. I’m a hundred year old Mesquite. My roots go all the way to the center of the earth.”

Texas Rose

I was on the last leg of my South Texas sales route when I arrived in Panhandle. Smoke was rising from the small grove of cottonwoods at the edge of town. Sheriff Tom and Doc Harris were surrounding the area with yellow “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape.

I parked my car and walked over there.

The Sheriff looked up and said, “Dry lightning. Don’t see it that much but this is proof that it exists.”

A thick cottonwood lay on the ground, smoke rising from the trunk and some of the larger branches. A scorch line from the top branches to the base of the tree marked the lightning’s path. The trunk was split in two.

Doc Harris finished tying off his end of the tape and joined us next to the Sheriff’s cruiser.

“Lotta history on that old tree”, he said. “There usta be an artesian spring here years ago. Shallow water but I hear tell Indians counted on this place to water their horses ‘way back when. The aquifer must be near the surface though to keep these dozen trees alive even through the droughts.”

He wiped his hands on his pants, pointed to the fallen tree and said, “Back in the day before anybody said ‘back in the day’, folks took their wedding vows under these trees. Nothing romantic about it, just common sense. It was cooler under the trees than inside the church.”

I stepped over the tape to take a closer look. Doc and Tom followed. If I had to guess, the tree was at least 50 feet high, the trunk three feet in diameter. There were dozens of initials carved in the trunk, many of them partially covered with hardened sap as the tree healed itself over time. A large carving in the shape of a heart with the initials KM+RO inside had an “X” cut through it.

Doc Harris ran his finger over the “X” and said, “It was before my time but I’ve been told the initials stand for Kenny Miles and Rose O’Dell. As to who put the “X” there, it coulda’ been done by a fella called Burt or another one named Jeff. The story goes those boys, Kenny, Burt, and Jeff courted Rose at the same time. And they all lost.”

I said, “A love rectangle.”

“Yes, you could call it that. Some older folks talk about the time when those boys near killed each other, not intentionally you understand, but dead is dead so there’s that. Courtin’ Rose was not for cowards with these boys around. They had other choices, plenty of other girls available, but they all fell for her.

“They went at each other a whole summer. According to old timers there was some dynamite, horse thieving, a range fire, and other stuff, everybody wondering how it would turn out. Then all of a sudden it was over.”

Tom took off his gloves, put them in his back pocket and said, “Come on, let’s go to Jackie’s. Deputy Dudley ‘ll be here in a minute, watch the place, keep the kids away.”

The bar was empty except for Wendy and Jackie.

Not-So-Happy-Hour at Jackie's

“Jackie, where is everybody?”

“Hi, Doc. You heard I killed the Happy Hour? Nobody was happy about it so they’ve all gone to Billy’s or Chato’s. They’ll be back. It’s noisy and rowdy in regular hours over there and it gets worse with half price beer. Only thing that makes things quiet down is Sheriff Tom starin’ the roughnecks down once or twice a night.

“With the men gone I invited my lady friends to come in for a visit. Doris, Jenny, and Flora comin’ by in a bit. I’m thinkin’ I might make it a regular thing. I invited some churchwomen but they won’t be comin’, this being a bar and all. You know how it is with their kind: If you’re havin’ fun, it’s gotta be a sin. Too bad about that old cottonwood. I used to climb on it when I was a little girl.”

The Sheriff picked the table near the door. Wendy brought our drinks, went back to the bar and sat with Jackie.

I said, “Doc, what was that about dynamite, range fires, and horse thieves?”

“Well, the Rose O'Dell story is so old hardly anybody alive now that saw it in person but people talked about it for years, sort of a legend. Hard to tell what’s true and what’s imagination. I know some of it. The Sheriff does, too. Most of what anybody knows is second or third hand anyway, but it still makes a good yarn.”

Jenny, Doris, and Flora came in, said their hellos, and sat with us. Wendy brought beer mugs for Jenny and Doris and a cup of tea for Flora. “Allergy pills, no alcohol,” she said.

Doc gestured towards the women and said Doris and Flora might know some things. They volunteered at the old folks home where Rose lived ‘til she died.

“Come on, Doc”, I said. “What happened? Dynamite? Range fire?”

“I’ll tell it, but bear in mind every time a story’s told something’s left out or something’s added. My daddy used to call it the 10% Rule – whoever's telling you a story is sure to be addin’ 10% more or taking 10% off if something in the story puts ‘em in a bad light. You won’t know if I’m addin’ or subtractin’ but this what I heard. Anybody here can correct me if I don’t get something right but it’s as best as I can do.

“Those three boys, Burt, Kenny, and Jeff were classmates along with Rose. Nobody knows exactly why they all figured her for a wife after graduating. Could be the fact that the three of them were athletes, football, baseball, basketball, one always tryin’ to do better than the other two. So when Kenny said he was plannin’ to court Rose, the other two probly seen it as a challenge. Who the hell knows what goes through young boys heads, I mean besides the obvious. But it wasn’t like that, I don’t think. Tom, Les, and I talked this over and considerin’ the ‘facts’ as we know ‘em, we more or less agree on that point.”

Tom pointed at me with his drink and said, “Back then, courtin’ meant you had to meet the family before anything else. And if the girl had brothers they might give you something to worry about if they didn’t like you. No matter who you were, just to be safe you’d be wise to take a month or two before even tryin’ to hold hands.”

Doc signaled Wendy for another drink and said, “Kenny had his sights set on Rose so one Sunday he waited ‘til she and her folks got to the church and fixed it so he sat next to her, said hello and what a nice day it is, and all that. Next Sunday there’s Rose in church sitting between Kenny and Bert with Jeff sitting in the pew behind them. They were fidgeting so much the minister stopped the sermon, called them out, made the three of ‘em sit together in the front pew.”

Front row for children and rowdy young men

Flora put her teacup down, cleared her throat and said, “Doris and I helped out at the old folks home. Rose died a year after we started. We used talk to her, give 'er some company, let her talk about the olden days. All her family was dead and gone. She told us the summer those boys courted her was the most fun she ever had. Whatever one of them did, the other two would try twice as hard to top ‘im. It got so her daddy had to give ‘em a schedule so they wouldn’t fuss over who would take her on a date Saturday night. They rotated days. Monday and Thursday one of ‘em could sit with her on the porch and just talk. ‘Course, daddy or one of her brothers would be inside next to the open window just in case, you know. Sundays at church, same thing, take turns sitting next to her, take her home slow after.”

Mind your manners. You know everybody's listening

Doris added, “Her friends were jealous but what could she do? It wasn’t like she was showing favor for one over the other two. If she ever thought of marryin’ one of ‘em she never let on. She told us she didn’t think she was anything special. She was prettier than some, not as pretty as others but is was mighty flattering to have those boys doin’ everything they could to get her attention.”

Wendy brought Doc’s drink. He thanked her and said, “Those boys kept raisin’ the stakes then things got out of hand at the end of August. Each one thought one of the others had the upper hand.

“One day Rose told Jeff in passin’ that she wished she could still sit under the shade by the pond near Seven Mile Road. The pond dried up when ranchers dammed up a natural spring upstream a ways so cattle could have water year round.

Cool off. Dip your toes in the water

“Jeff got the idea he could blast a small gap in the earthen dam, just enough to fill the pond so he set out with two sticks of dynamite to do just that. Rose was sure to be grateful.

“He cut the fuse for a 10 second lead, time enough to get away from the blast. Ten seconds go by, no explosion, then a minute, five minutes, ten minutes, nothin’ happens. He figures he’s got a dud so he takes another stick, cuts the fuse, and gets up to set it on the dam. Of course, like in every story you ever heard, the first stick exploded shootin’ dirt and rocks everywhere. Lucky for Jeff, most of it blasted away from him but one stone hit him square on the head and knocked him out.

“Well, ‘cept for the big ol' knot between his eyes and a concussion, Jeff got what he wanted. The dam gave way and sent water down the gully filling up the hollow under the trees. It kept risin’ and goin’ ‘til it reached the road where Burt’s truck had started a grass fire.”

I started to ask what fire but he said, “Don’t interrupt, sonny boy. Everything in its time.

“Seems Burt found out Jeff bought some dynamite an’ he got curious about what he was up to so he followed him around without him knowing, stayin’ back just enough. Saw ‘im leave town pullin’ a horse trailer. When Jeff got off Seven Mile Road and mounted his horse Burt couldn’t follow anymore so he parked on the side of the road to follow on foot. That old truck was overheated from being old, probly. Anyway, the grass under it caught fire.

Straight 6, no airbags

“Burt walked maybe a hundred yards up the road and he could see Jeff pretty far off crouching behind a boulder facing the dam. He saw Jeff stand up just as the dynamite exploded. A second later Burt’s truck exploded behind him from the grass fire. He was so startled he stumbled into the culvert and twisted his leg real bad, hurt like the devil, he couldn’t stand up.

“That leaves Kenny, probly the smartest of the three. He noticed Jeff acting funny, too, so he kept his eye out for him, saw him leave town towin’ his horse trailer. A few minutes later he spied Burt getting’ in his truck and headin’ the same way. Kenny followed him.

“He was watching Burt turning on to Seven Mile Road when he ran out of gas. Nothin’ to do about that so he headed back to town on foot thinkin’ of stopping at a ranch see if they could give him some gas. Half hour walkin’ he gets to a ranch when he hears two explosions up in the hills where Burt was goin’. There’s thick, black smoke risin’ to the sky. It’s gotta be Burt and maybe Jeff, too. Not thinkin’ twice he runs to the bunkhouse where there’s three horses saddled up. He hops on a horse and gallops off towards the smoke.

“Meantime, the rancher’s wife hears the explosions, she goes outside to take look and sees Kenny stealin’ the horse. She doesn’t have her rifle so she does the next best thing; she yells at her cowhands to get the horse thief and calls the Sheriff.

“Kenny reaches Seven Mile Road, he can see Burt’s truck on fire ‘bout a quarter mile away when he’s lassoed, jerked off his horse. Lucky for him the cowhands didn’t shoot ‘im, just beat him up some. Thievin’s serious business. They were gettin’ ready to lay him across the horse and tie ‘im up when the Sheriff and his Deputy interrupted them.

The wages of not too smart

“They found Burt’s truck. The fire was out. Water from the busted dam had flooded the culverts and washed over the road where the truck was parked. Burt was up a ways in the culvert, covered head to toe in mud, half drowned, holdin’ his leg and moaning. They pulled him out and he told 'em go look for Jeff at the dam.

“The Sheriff and the Deputy went up the trail on horseback. They found Jeff, thought he was dead, all the blood on his face.

“That ended the competition for Rose O’Dell’s hand what with the three boys injured in various ways, also from their daddies layin’ in on ‘em hard for being knuckleheads.”

“Wow. That’s some story, Doc. So which one did she pick?” I asked.

He looked at me as though I should be arrested for breathing air I didn’t deserve.

“Weren’t you payin’ attention, sonny boy? I told you right at the beginnin’ she didn't marry any of ‘em. Pity’s sake, if dumb questions was a crime you just committed Felony Stupid.”

He finished his drink in one hard swallow, nodded at Flora.

“Flora, you tell ‘im what happened.”

“Rose O’Dell, she was a sweet lady, always tried to look her best, be nice to everybody. She told me she met her husband at a USO dance down in Snyder. He was a sailor just out of the service. Rick was the only Navy man in the VFW hall, all dressed up in starched Navy whites, seemed to glow among the rest of the men wearing khaki Army uniforms. Accordin' to her she decided on him inside a minute after she laid eyes on ‘im.”

Doris said, “And you won’t believe what she said happened next. Lord knows I don’t.”

“He stood in front of her and the very first thing he said was, ‘Will you marry me?’ And she said, ‘Yes, but, first, we’d better call my folks and let ‘em know.’”

The Navy gets the gravy but Army gets the beans