Texas Blues

THIS IS PART ONE. 

PART TWO IS TITLED "DON'T WORRY ABOUT HIM. HE FIGHTS LIKE A GIRL."

“Her name was Peggy. She had blue eyes like you’ve never seen, like the sky between winter and spring, bright, shining, electric. It’s that time of year, I know you’ve all been there. Your chest feels chilly but your back is warm. The sky’s so close you think you can reach up, pull it down over you and feel warm all over. That’s who Peggy was.” 

Steve snorted, made an hourglass shape with his hands and said, “So, what was the rest of her like?” One second later he was on his back holding his bloody nose with both hands.

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t believe it was Milo who’d decked Steve like that. For one, Steve’s got 40 pounds and 10 years on ‘im. For another, Milo’s the kind that shoos flies insteada squashing ‘em.” 

You can stay as long as you mind your manners

Jackie put my glass on her tray and walked it back to the bar where Wendy was getting ready for the evening crowd. Jackie’s Cold Day Inn is a local favorite, a dark, dusty place without a jukebox or live music to disturb the customers’ conversations or solitudes. It was where I always went after long days in the sun selling farm equipment to ranchers who made it a point of pride to make me keep talking even after I knew the were going to buy. Come sundown I was ready for some cold beer or bourbon on the rocks, no more talking, just listening to other people tell their stories. 

Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris and I occupy the same table whenever I visit Panhandle but today I was alone. My drinking pals would show up later. They always did. Jackie brought me another bourbon, a beer for herself and sat across from me. 

She saw the question on my face and said, “Yep, that Milo, the guy owns the craft store where you can buy knittin’ needles, yarn, face paint for the kids, any kinda art supplies. He gave Steve a pretty good shiner and a busted nose. You bet he was surprised but no more ‘n the rest of us. We all stood up and Steve bailed, probly thinking we’d back Milo, Steve being who he is. You know, there’s people who are a pain in the ass. And there’s people who are just assholes. Steve’s an asshole. Got what was comin’ to ‘im in my opinion. 

“It happened last Friday. Milo’s not a regular, comes in once in a while, has drink or two and goes home. Wendy found out it was his birthday so we invited him to a party. He’s a nice guy, pretty much keeps to himself. He’s not bashful or anything, doesn’t ask questions but he listens to everything you say. 

“Nobody had enough candles so we brought what we had, put ‘em all on the cake. Anyway, we had a 200 candle cake. We sang happy birthday, gave him some cheesy gifts we bought at his store, the whole nine yards. Everybody had too many drinks and we started talking about old times. Milo was laughing and talking along with the rest of us. He had some funny stories about teaching Freshman English on the West Coast.” 

I saw the Sheriff, Doc, and Les crossing the street towards the bar. The door swung open and they came in. Wendy said, hi guys, and set their drinks down. We said our hellos, toasted the end of another day and waited for somebody to say something. 

“We were talking about last Friday, Milo and Steve. Have you seen Milo lately?” 

Doc Harris shook his head no, said Steve was in to see him about his nose. “Funny thing about that. Everybody saw the punch in the nose, but I think Milo musta hit ‘im twice. He’s got a fractured cheekbone, too. And, Tom, just so you know, he’s saying it ain’t over between him and Milo.” 

Wendy was drying beer mugs behind the bar. She stopped what she was doing for a moment, listening, and then went back to the mugs. 

Tom leaned forward and said, “I thought I had too much Jack in me, blurry vision. Now I’m not so sure Milo didn’t ring Steve’s bell twice. Two times with one hand or one time with each fist.” 

We chewed on that for a while then Tom spoke again. “I have to know who everybody is in case I gotta arrest them sometime. That way I won’t be surprised if somebody like Tony Lambert opens the door holding a baseball bat when I go looking for ‘im. 

“I remember when Milo moved here. He was unpacking the stuff for his store, lots of boxes of books and I thought he was setting up a bookstore, but he said, no, those are my books. I’ll be selling craft supplies, party stuff, and such. Well, a man that reads that much don’t usually settle in a place like Panhandle. Man like that wants to be around people more like him than us. Not sayin’ he’s better, he’s just different.

“Then I’m thinkin’ Milo’s running from something – bad marriage, the law or worse, could be a deserter. He says he was a professor at a university on the West Coast, retired. I make a buncha calls and everything he says checks out. One parking ticket 20 years ago. Didn’t exactly retire, just up and quit one day, packed his stuff, wound up here.” 

I said, “What does this have to do with Peggy Blue Eyes? Who was she?” 

Tom said, “You gotta understand, Milo’s not a steady drinker so whatever he says when he’s had a few is probly the truth and a lot more than he intended to tell. Said Peggy was a nun. Not when he met her but after.” 

That didn’t sound right. I said, “Milo meets Peggy. They fall in love and she backs off and becomes a nun?” 

“Wasn’t like that. He was on three day leave before shipping to ‘Nam, met Peggy at a block party in L.A. They hit it off, spent the three days talking about life and stuff. Third day she says she’s entering a convent next week so she can’t write to him or nuthin’. 

“Laid him pretty low. She was ‘the one’ and there was nuthin’ he could do about it. Then he thought Peggy was making it up about becoming a nun, letting him down easy. When he finished his tour he checked it out. What she said about the convent was the truth. Never saw her again. My friend at the VA told me he signed up for two more tours after that.

“Milo was talking about Peggy when Steve opened his yap, ruined the moment and got himself a broken nose.” 

“Wow”, I said. “What a sad story. Some birthday party.” 

Jackie said, “Well, that part of it, yeah. Once Steve left for the ER we forgot about ‘im.” 

Doc Harris gave Jackie a sly look and said, “Weren’t you and Steve hot stuff in high school?” 

Jackie choked on her drink, put her hand to her chest. “Doc, you don’t know the half of it. I know how it looked but it wasn’t that way. Oh, hell. Steve bragged so much everybody thought he knew everything about everything, especially about girls. What I knew was I didn’t wanna be a virgin anymore. I was 17, dating Steve, the hottest guy in school. I was ready and I thought he was, too. But he wouldn’t make a move so one night we’re at the drive-in watching a Gary Cooper movie, I don’t remember which one. I take his hand, put in on my boob. He jerks back like I was putting his hand in a bear trap and says he’d better take me home. And he did. A few years out of school a bunch of us girls we’re talking about him, comparing notes. We ended up agreeing Steve was ‘all talk, no hands.’ 

“I never saw Steve the same way anymore, let me down in more ways than one. All that macho confidence was all for show. It was Steve’s friend, Rick, taught me how things are done in the dark. 

“Don’t look so surprised, Tom. You might be the smartest, handsomest Sheriff for a hundred miles North, South, East and West of here now but back then nobody knew about me and Rick, including Steve. You never saw us holdin’ hands and stuff but we had our secrets. Good ole Rick, rest his soul. He wasn’t my idea of the love of my life but he was close enough. I’ll bet you good money if Steve found out about us now he’d say he knew it all along. Maybe someday I’ll tell ‘im, see if I’m right.” 

Les said, “Huh. Rick never said anything about you, Jackie, ‘cept how lucky Steve was. You and Rick, I never woulda guessed. 

“Rick was all right. Remember his old truck, Half- a-Horse? He and Steve were seniors then, worked on that junker all summer to get it ready for the Labor Day races. Problem was that old truck was plain wore out and the boys didn’t have enough money to fix it right but they did the best they could to make their dime look like a dollar. 

“The day of the race they flipped a coin to see who would drive and Steve won. There wasn’t any more they could do, filled the tank at Ben’s Conoco. First prize was $500, big money for Steve and Rick. ‘Course, they didn’t win but everybody who was there remembers Half-a-Horse. Ask around. Half-a-Horse is a legend. Steve still won’t talk about it. 

“Tom can tell you the rest of it. He stayed ‘til the end.” 

Tom drew an oval on the table with his finger. “The winner was the racer who completed the most laps around a half mile course in 15 minutes time. Nobody shows up for 15 minutes of entertainment so the land developers frontin’ the race had a whole carnival setup, rides for the kids, hot dogs, watermelon eating contests, some damn good barbecue, country music bands, the works. They had something for everybody. The race was the big finish. 

“There’s about 20 racers, all junkers, mostly teenagers like us drivin’ hard for that $500 prize. My ride quit after two laps. Half-a-Horse is doing ok, leading sometimes, falling behind, catching up. The crowd’s really into it cheering every time the racers pass the finish line. 

“About ten minutes in, something goes wrong with Half-a-Horse. Steve never figured out what. I just think that old truck’s time had come. Whatever it was, the only thing working was the steering. Half-a-Horse was stuck at 30 miles an hour, wouldn’t downshift and Steve couldn’t shut the engine off. All he could do was steer. You might wonder why didn’t he just hit the hay bales surrounding the track. If you ever hit anything at all at 30 miles an hour you know why he didn’t do it. 

“The 15 minute time limit comes and goes, the race is over. A guy from Borger wins, gets the money. Meanwhile Steve and Half-a-Horse keep going round and round, full tank a gas and all. A few folks stayed around for a while, cheering them on, not exactly makin’ fun, but it was late in the day. Everybody was wore out from all the carnival stuff. At the end it was just Steve and Half-a-Horse going around the oval, me watching. Even Rick went home after an hour. Took another two hours to run out of gas.

Half-a-Horse's last days

“That would have been the end of it, but a stringer from Amarillo picked up the story and it went regional then statewide in all the papers. Steve and his truck were famous in the worst way. He hid out for a while but he came out eventually. Half-a-Horse disappeared. Neither of the boys ever said how or when.” 

Wendy came over to clear the empties and the ashtrays. We were quiet while she worked. When she was done she said, “I don’t think Milo’s showing us all his cards. Sometimes when we’re here alone we sit and talk. Nothing serious, mind you, just everyday stuff about his store, people around town. I don’t know what it is but sometimes he seems like a lion tamer being careful not to turn his back on the cats. Careful with his words, a little too much. Everybody’s got secrets, mostly embarrassing ones. Milo’s secrets, I don’t know what to think. 

“I saw the punch. From where I was standing I could see Steve from the back. Milo came over the table like lightning. I don’t drink when I’m working so I’m sure Milo hit ‘im twice with his left hand so fast it was a blur. So what about that? Milo’s right-handed. I’ve seen lotsa fights. Even lefties lead with their right.” 

Doc Harris said, “That explains both fractures and their location. Wendy, are you sure he hit ‘im twice? Real sure?” Wendy nodded. 

Tom sat back, patted his tummy with both hands and said, “So we have a ninja among us. Three tours in ‘Nam, he coulda been counterintelligence, or CIA. He never said which military branch. If any of that’s true it means he coulda killed Steve if he was inclined to. It also means you damn well better have receipts if you want your money back for the ribbons you’re bringing back to his store.”

[The story continues in "Don't worry about him. He fights like a girl"]

You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Shoots You

  The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that's the way to bet. Damon Runyon

I walked into my favorite Texas hole-in-the-wall bar, Jackie’s Cold Day Inn, just as Sheriff Tom was finishing one of his stories.

Arms spread wide, a drink in his hand, he said, “...Mister, I know I made you mad but I ain’t leaving ‘less you tell me what you got against the horse I rode in on.” Perfect ending. I made a mental note to ask Tom to tell me that one someday.

Sheriff tugged at his neck brace and winced when he tried to sip his drink. Doc Harris gave him a stern look. “You don’t stop messing with it I’ll put a cone on your head.” Tom waved him off.

Jackie brought my Jack & Coke, set it down. She handed Tom a straw, put her fingertips to her lips and said, “It looks good on you, Tom. That gray color brings out the color of your skin.”

I asked what happened to Tom’s neck and Les said a band of Apaches ambushed Tom in Carlsbad. Lucky for him, Milo was there to save him from certain death. Jackie said she heard it was at least 30, or was it 300 Apaches against the Sheriff and Milo. Battle of the Little Bighorn, Part Two.

Tom set his jaw, took a slug of bourbon and glared at Les and Jackie. Les, he just smiled while Jackie flounced back to the bar.

If there’s anything a storyteller hates is for somebody to tell his story all wrong. Especially if the story mocks him. He’d twisted his neck reaching for his handcuffs after Milo laid out a couple of rowdy cowboys. Tom’s neck still hurt and he wasn’t even in the fight. “Long story,” he said to me.

Tom sat back in his chair. Doc Harris rattled a pill bottle and pushed it towards the Sheriff.

“This is powerful stuff, take it as you need it. I’ve called my doctor friend in El Paso to look after you while you’re visiting. His phone number’s on the bottle.” Tom gave Doc a sour look but he put the pills in his shirt pocket.

Tom was going to El Paso the next day to give a speech at a Sheriff’s convention. By coincidence I had to be in El Paso for sales training on the new farm implements I’d be selling all over the Texas Plains the following Spring. Doc Harris was letting Tom travel as long as I was driving. The trip would take eight hours so we agreed to start early the next day.

The next morning I knocked on the door at Tom’s house. His dog Sunuva met me on the porch, sniffed my shoes, checked out the tires on my rental, peed on two of them.

Tom's dog, Sunuva, on duty

Tom looked terrible. As he put it, he felt like an old truck with the air leaking out of all the tires. He perked up with coffee from the go cup I bought at Mamacita’s diner.

As we reached the outskirts of town we passed some kids from the high school track team running single file up the road.

“That takes me back a buncha years. Growing up, kids, we used to race all the time, see who could run the fastest. Charlie García almost always won even when he gave us a head start.

“Eighth grade the three of us joined the track team. It was grade school so we didn’t have spikes just tennis shoes ‘cept for Charlie. His folks couldn’t afford tennis shoes so he ran barefoot. The coach wrapped his big toe and the ball of his foot with trainers tape, wide and thick. Didn’t matter to Charlie, he ran like a Whitetail deer.

 

“He wore spikes for the first time in high school. After that, nobody ever beat him. Nobody. Some folks thought he mighta gone to college on scholarship, but it was 1967, Vietnam got ‘im instead. That growed him up in ways like it did most of us. After ‘Nam he left town, traveled and worked construction everywhere in the country for years and ended up in El Paso. Charlie, he turned out all right. Good wife, good kids, home at last.”

As we headed south on the 87 I thought about the other time Tom and I had gone to El Paso and met with Charlie García. We’d gone to a bar in Juárez and drank ourselves silly. Over the years Charlie had occasionally mailed Tom postcards telling about where he was. I remembered how we’d looked at the postcards while Charlie told the stories behind them. I thought about  Charlie describing himself as a tumbleweed, drifting here and there until he found a home, a wife, and a family. Tom was right. Charlie was home at last.

We drove in relative silence for several miles. Tom talked about various landmarks on the horizon telling of old Indian campsites he’d found, the boundaries of ranches that had changed over time.

He fussed with the neck brace. “Carlsbad. Just for the record,” he said, “there were only two Indians and they were the good guys.

“Milo and I went fishin’ at Red Bluff in Reeves County two weeks ago. I had some time off and his craft shop wasn’t doin’ a dime’s worth of business so we decided to catch us some White Bass or some Stripers at the reservoir.

“Of course, Milo didn’t catch any fish. He doesn’t bait his hooks but he’s good company, reads a lotta books I never had time for. According to him, the fish and him have a deal. He won’t bother baitin’ his hooks and they won’t pull on his line and disturb his reading.

“Anyhow, our fishing trip was over, we’re heading home but we stop in Carlsbad for some chow. There’s a pair of Indians at another table, a young one and an old one. Can’t say for sure they were Apache, but some kinda Indians. For sure they weren’t white and didn’t look Mexican. The old one's probly 60, 70 years old, gray hair down to his shoulders, wore a thin necklace made of colored beads and four wolf fangs.

“I found out after that the young one was called Big Chief at work and he didn’t mind. Everybody at an oil rig has some kind of nickname. He wasn’t all that big but he worked the chains, the most dangerous job for a roughneck. Old time chain guys are easy to spot what with missing fingers, deep scars across their arms and noses. Whenever the chains go haywire it’s time to call EMS or the undertaker.

“His real name was Ted Whitefeather from the Mescalero Apache Reservation in New Mexico. He and his uncle were passing through Carlsbad on their way back to the reservation when they stopped for a beer where me and Milo were having sandwiches from the grill.

“We’re sitting there eating corned beef sandwiches, the Indians at another table minding their own business when a pair of cowboys come in whoopin’ and hollerin’ like they’ve never been indoors in polite company. They get some beers at the bar, start looking around and they see the Indians. One of ‘em starts in on ‘em makes noises with his mouth like he’s seen Indians do in the movies. The Indians don’t pay them no mind and that don’t sit well with those yahoos and they swagger to the Indians’ table like TV cowboys.

“One cowboy stands next to Big Chief and the other one next to the old Indian. He says, ‘Say, old man, can you do a rain dance?. We sure could use it hereabouts.’ The other one laughs like that’s the funniest thing anybody’s ever said about anything since the beginnin’ of time. The bartender reached down below the bar and kept his hand there.

“The Indians ignored the gits and didn’t even look up at them. Then the cowboy points to the old Indian’s necklace and says, ‘Hey, Geronimo, you some kinda wolfman? Whooeeee, I’m scared just looking at this guy.’ By now the young Indian’s ‘bout had enough and says, ‘Show some respect, he’s a chief in my tribe. His name is Chief Nando, Warrior Wolf from the White Mountains, Protector of the Young.’

‘Boy howdy, that’s some fancy name you got there, Chief. So when the phone rings you gotta say all that?’

“Milo and me we’re watching this and I’m keeping one eye on Milo. He’s tensing up something fierce, fists clenched, eyes buggin’ out. I saw the bartender edge over to the end of the bar nearest the Indians. The cowboys glanced at us and saw me, an outa shape old man, and Milo, a smallish guy with glasses. No real threat. You don’t know Milo’s trained in martial arts unless you know him like we do.

“The cowboy grabs at the old Indian’s necklace and the young Indian jumps up but the cowboy next to him lands a roundhouse right that sends him to the floor. The cowboy was fixin’ to kick but he never had a chance. Milo was on ‘im like white on rice, put ‘im in a headlock, flipped him on his back and came down on the cowboy’s forearm with a knee. That was the first cracking sound I heard. The second crack I heard was when the bartender laid some wood on the other cowboy’s head with a half size Louisville Slugger and the fight was over, five, six seconds tops. Me, I’m just standing there with my thumb…. never mind.

“I yelled at the bartender to call the Sheriff. I stepped on a beer bottle while I was reaching for my handcuffs, slipped, went ass over elbows and landed on my neck. Now I gotta wear this brace ‘til Doc says I can take it off.”

I asked if the Indians said anything while they waited for the Sheriff and EMS.

“We talked for a bit. Big Chief thanked us getting them out of a jam and so on. Then he said something I didn’t get right away but Milo laughed as soon as he heard it. Big Chief says, “Do you know what is the most important thing about our Sacred Rain Dance?” I allowed I didn’t know. He leans over and whispers, ‘Timing’”.

When we got to El Paso I carried Tom’s bags into the hotel where his fellow lawmen greeted him enthusiastically. My hotel was across town and I spent the next three days learning about the new tractors and furrow makers that would change the lives of my customers in wondrous and miraculous ways.

Tom’s speech went well at the Sheriff’s convention. He was the man of the hour, respected and honored by old and young LEOs. I was tied up whole days at my training sessions so we didn’t have much time to visit with Charlie except for dinner at his house the night before we left for home. He looked very much at ease. I noticed he was growing a little paunchy though he could probably still outwork anybody half his age. Neither of them drank like they used to but seemed to enjoy it more.

We decided to take the same route home taking U.S. 62 heading east. Tom unsnapped the neck brace and made me swear not to tell Doc Harris.

As we drove through Whites City Tom told me about a retired Sheriff at the convention. The old guy was a legend among the Sheriffs of the southwest. During his 33 year tenure he'd single-handedly captured many of New Mexico's most notorious criminals. After one cocktail party he was surrounded by younger men, one of whom wanted to know how come his sidearm was a vintage .45 ACP instead of the Glock 19 the others favored. He gave the kid the side eye and said he had his reasons. Number one: It only has seven shots so you need to be damn sure where and why you’re shooting. Number two: It’s inaccurate at any distance over a few yards but when you do hit the target, it will go down and stay down. Number three: He carries a .45 because nobody makes a .46.

Arriving at La Mesa we took the 87 North towards Lubbock. The road signs to different cities reminded Tom about the day he’d been shot.

“Fifteen years ago I was down in Big Spring, visiting a friend at the VA hospital. I was at a bakery buying coffee across the street from the Credit Union when I saw two young fellas wearin’ dusters walk in. Overcoats in 80 degree weather, better check it out. Those two were robbing the place. One of them had a pillowcase to hold the money and the other held his coat open with his left hand, said the dynamite strapped to his chest would blow up if he pressed a switch in his other hand.”

Tom paused, took some time to pour coffee from my Thermos jug and said, “You hear all the time about criminal masterminds. Police chiefs on TV shows talk about master criminals they haven’t caught. The fact is, real masterminds are pretty easy to catch because they’re rational and logical. Get in their heads to figure out their next logical move and bingo they get caught. It’s the dumbass criminals that are hard to catch because there’s no way to figure out what they’re gonna do next. You gotta wait ‘til they do something stupid like the two I saw robbing the Credit Union. They’re wearin’ dusters. Only place you see outlaws wearing dusters is in the movies, for Pete’s sake.”

He rubbed his left shoulder and stared at nothing for a long time. I kept my eyes on the road and waited for more.

“I didn’t draw my gun that day, (maybe I shoulda). Too many folks in there, so I walked up to Mr. Dynamite and cold cocked him. His buddy panicked, pulled a snub nose .32, shot me, saw what he’d done and passed out. Folks said that was the bravest thing they ever saw until they noticed like I did, that the dynamite sticks were actually road flares. You can light a road flare but I’ll be damned, you can’t make it explode. I lost a lotta blood and had a collapsed lung.

“Well, even so, the newspapers and TV played it up pretty good, picture in the paper and everything. They made me a hero for a few days while I was laid up. That’s law enforcement for you. You’re nobody ‘til somebody shoots you.”

  

The Bible According to Judy Butler

Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.

End of the month, end of a sales trip, end of the day, I went to my favorite bar in all of Texas, Jackie’s Cold Day Inn, my last stop before I checked in at the Lazy Bones Motel. Doc Harris and Les were already seated at their usual table in the corner next to the windows facing the street . The Sheriff’s seat was empty. No one else ever sat there. He liked to have a clear view of the street, the front door and the exit in case there was any trouble which there never was.

Wendy saw me come in, waved hi, and held up two fingers, meaning Jack & Coke and a beer chaser. I nodded and took my place at my friends’ table. I heard Jackie at the back door hollering at Rollie to clean up the alley like she’d told him that morning and if he thought he’d get another free beer don’t even ask. She slammed the door and huffed into the store room.

I told Doc Harris I’d never heard Jackie yell at anybody. If she wants your undivided attention all she has to do is set her chin and flash her green laser eyes on full power. Look at her straight on you know your future health depends on doing exactly what she expects you to do. I suspect Rollie is very busy cleaning up right now.

Les said she’s upset because Sheriff Tom had arrested her friend, Judy, and was taking her down to the lockup in Snyder. “I heard she busted up a church or something like that. Tom’s pickin’ her up now. He’ll probly stop in before he heads out to Snyder. Jackie told him she wants a word with him before he goes.”

Jackie came out of the store room, went behind the bar and poured herself a drink. Les waved her over and we made room at the table. A few minutes later Sheriff Tom and Judy came in.

Wendy brought the Sheriff’s drink and a Coke for Judy.

Judy was early to mid 30s; slender, dark hair, dark eyes. She was dressed in jeans and a green plaid shirt, shiny riding boots, a new Stetson set back on her head. Judy was every inch of five feet tall. Everyone said hi and introduced me.

Wendy told me about her once. Judy Butler is a fixture at Billy’s Last Stand. Billy claims that she was already inside the bar the day he opened for business. She loves to dance and isn’t too proud to pull a cowboy out of his chair to dance with her when the Lonesome Foursome get started on San Antonio Rose. According to Billy she can nurse a Lone Star three, four hours. In the meantime, her dance partners keep buying drinks just to sit and listen to her talk. She knows more stories than Sheriff Tom. They say old stories sound new when she tells them. Judy’s never settled on any man for a life partner. The way she looks at it, after a few years a wife and husband stare at each other across the kitchen table to see which one of them is the most boring. So she samples here and there, she’s happy as she is.

Sheriff Tom saw Jackie giving him the stink eye. He raised his hands chest high, palms up and said he’s doing his job like the judge ordered. According to the arrest warrant Judy was charged with inciting a disturbance in a church, stomping on a Sheriff’s hat (after knocking it off his head), and leaving the scene of the crime.

I looked around. Wendy and Jackie smiled admiringly at Judy. Les and Doc Harris looked a little confused. Judy did that?

Jackie aimed her low beam laser eyes at the Sheriff who crossed his arms and said it’s better if Judy tells it.

Judy hesitated then stood up and pointed at Sheriff Tom. 

“I don’t remember all of it but this is more ‘r less what happened.

“First of all, the old coot Sheriff they got down there made it sound like I set fire to the church. I know he’s your friend but he’s still an old coot.

“It’s true I stomped his hat but it was on accident. A dozen folks saw it, they’re on my side. And, yeah, I did run out of the church because people were fighting, tossing chairs, and yelling. But I didn’t start no fight.”

Sheriff Tom cleared his throat. “Tell ‘em how the fight started, Judy. Why were you there?”

“Well, I was visitin’ my sister, Deb, and she says come with her to the church social. I said, Deb, you know I don’t do church stuff and she says, it’s just cookies and punch, come on. So I say ok and we go. There’s 30, 40 people there eatin’ cookies, yakking at each other. I get a cookie and some strawberry punch. I don’t know anybody ‘cept for Deb so I got nothin’ to say to anybody. Everything’s fine. I figure hang around half hour then get outa there.

“Then the preacher, Jason something or ‘nother, gets on the microphone and says welcome everyone and starts on Bible readings. He does that for a couple of minutes and stops to look at the people standing around. He sees me and Deb says, ‘She’s my sister, Judy, from Panhandle.’ Well, if you know Deb, she’s Bible thumper like you’ve never seen. She knows every word King James ever put in his Bible. If she gets to heaven King James is gonna run the other way if he sees her coming. She leads Bible studies every Wednesday, rain or shine.

“I guess Jason thought I was the same way but I gotta tell you I’ve been thrown outa three or four churches in my time; not thrown out zactly, just told never to come back. There’s lots of stuff that ain’t in the Bible that nobody thinks to ask. Some folks don’t like it when I ask questions.

“Anyhow, Jason says why don’t I come up and share the Good Word with us, Judy. My sister’s poking me in the ribs, go on, she says. You were the star in Sunday School when we were kids. Jason’s sayin’ come on up, Judy. Everybody’s looking at me and Deb. I say, Deb, you don’t wanna hear what I gotta say but she pushes me in the back. Now I’m mad at Deb for gettin’ me in this fix. You asked for it. I’m ready. I get on the stage and waited for everybody to sit down.

My Grampa gave me a Bible when I was a little girl and I read it twice, three times or more. There were some good stories but the Jesus stories went kinda fast, didn’t say much about women, or what people did on regular days. One Sunday after services, I asked the minister if the Apostles had wives. He said some did. I got to thinking what about the wives and how they lived. I imagined them in the market, grocery shopping.

“Hi, I’m Mrs. St. Peter.”

“Nice ta meecha, I’m Mrs. St. James.”

“From the infirmary?”

“No, from the Red House up the hill at the end of the street. Lotta folks confuse us.” 

 
Well, that was kinda disrespectful, I guess, but I saw people sit up in their chairs, ‘specially the women. I’m pretty sure Jason never told Bible stories this way. I see him in the back stuffing cookies in his pockets, not listening, and he walks out.

At Sunday school they said Jesus picked a dozen guys to follow him around. A couple of them were fishermen, another was a tax collector, and I suppose the others were just common folk like everybody else.

Next, I’m wondering how he organized them. Maybe he calls the first meeting and tells them what each of them what their job is. First thing they’re gonna need is money so he says they have to sell all their stuff and give the money to the guy he appoints as treasurer. Then he says, we’re gonna need food and tells St. Peter and another guy they have to go fishing every day. St. Peter says great, I love fishing every day. It’s like I retired!

Now none of these guys is rich and Jesus knows they’re gonna need more money than they have altogether so he says they have to depend on other people givin ‘em food and a place to sleep while they’re travelin’.

He teaches them how to beg by preachin’ on the street corners. He says, tell ‘em that even though things are bad now, there will be plenty of everything after they die, but for now you need some of their cash to keep your body and soul together while you preach salvation to the rest of the world.

If you do it right, he said, they’ll empty their pockets for you. I’ll show you how. You see, you don’t say exactly what’s in store after they die. All you say is IT’S GONNA BE GREAT. YOU’RE GONNA LUUUUUV IT. Each one listening will work it out in his own mind whatever it is he thinks will make him happy forever. But first, he needs you to help him out. There was a guy I knew in carpenter school who said he’d be happy forever if he could have virgins at his disposal anytime he wanted. I asked how many would make you happy? He said, 30 or 40. His buddy said 72 would be good. Crazy as that sounds, who knows, it could sell sometime in the future; somebody write that down.

After weeks of training they’re ready to put their show on the road. They’ve got their cross-fit sandals on just in case they gotta run away sudden like. Their backpacks are by the door outside Jesus’ house.

They have a going away party, invite the neighbors, set out some barbecue, loaves and fishes, big jugs of water. Judas’ cousin brings his band, Priest, for entertainment. Next morning, they all gather in front of Jesus’ house. The whole family’s there to say goodbye. The women and kids wave as the men set out to the next village.

Mary, Jesus’ mom, turns to her neighbor, Mrs. St. Peter, and says, “They’ll be back a lot sooner than you expect. If I know those boys they don’t know much about taking care of themselves. They’re used to us women doing everything for them; wash and mend their clothes, fix their food, and… you know.” Mrs. St. Peter nodded.

Mrs. St. Peter says, “Hmmph, what are they gonna do for breakfast tomorrow morning? They got money for a couple days eating at the inns but after that they’d better do some mighty preaching to get enough money for 13 Happy Meals, three times a day.” 

 
Some of the women snickered. The men frowned and shifted around in their chairs.

St. Thomas’s live-in girlfriend was there, too. She said he was useless around the house. She couldn’t even send him to the market to get the basics for meals. It took him three hours wandering around the stalls to do what she could do in twenty minutes. And he always got something wrong; three pounds of lentils instead of barley. And forget about the meat. I told him a thousand times that the prepared meat was too expensive but he got it anyway. He’s starting to bug me, too. He questions everything I do. I used to think it was real nice that he was paying attention but now if I say I’m going to see my mother he looks at me like he doesn’t believe me.

Back in Bible times there were lots of preachers wandering around. Maybe there wasn’t enough other work so preaching was a way to stay busy and get some money without working with your hands.

Grampa thought maybe Jesus was that way since he was a child, always telling the other kids how they oughta behave. His dad never taught him how to fight so he got beat up a lot for being so bossy. It really hit the fan when he was about 12 years old. He would go into town and stop people on the sidewalks and preach at them. People usually ignored him but one time he came up to three Pharisees, got in their faces about being hypocrites or something. Anyway, they brought him home, complained to his folks, told ‘em they’d better do something about the boy. They sent him to carpenter school in another town and he quieted down for a few years.

He was fine, helping out at his dad’s shop, got real good at making right angle cuts. But on his time off he’d be off in the desert preaching to the bushes or talking to the hermits that lived in the hills.

I don’t remember when it was but he musta been a grown man, he went to the temple one afternoon and got mad about something and attacked the moneychangers, turning their tables upside down, whipping whoever was nearby. Big riot. The Pharisees weren’t having any of his excuses and they took him before the King but the King let him go, probly because the Pharisees were a bunch of blowhards.

When he came home, Mary tried to explain that there had to be moneychangers because the town was a crossroads for trade from all over the east and they all had different kinds of money. They set up shop at the temple because it was smack in the middle of town and had a big open area with shade. Plus, there was a huge food court there. You could have lunch without having to go home. If you needed something from God there was lambs and other livestock you could buy to offer as sacrifice. Funny thing about that is that you gave the lamb, doves, or whatever to the Pharisees to do the ceremony but you never got to see it. You had to trust them to do it right. Jesus said okay, okay, Mom, but I don’t think she got through to him.

Grandpa had other ideas that he said flat out weren’t in the Bible. He said he thought about it a lot that Jesus and the Apostles traveled all over by themselves and he didn’t think that was the way things happened. In his way of thinking, the Apostles traveled with their families because it didn’t make sense to leave the women and kids at home without money coming in. And they needed the women and kids for cooking and cleaning, minding the flocks, milking the goats; all kinds of stuff a normal Jewish household had to do every day.

In those days there were two kinds of women – super holy or super bad. Mary and her mom were good ones, doing a happy dance when Mary said she was pregnant with Jesus. Another good one was a widow who donated her last thin dime to the temple and all the time there’s the Pharisees makin’ fun of her.

Some folks think one of the bad ones was Mary Magdalene who nobody knows for sure what she, being single, was doing traveling with a dozen men. And there was a bad woman accused of sleeping around. It’s true, Jesus saved her from being stoned to death but it made the Pharisees look bad. Eventually that kind of stuff got him killed.

By now everybody’s listening hard. I could tell it was a good story. Leaning forward in their chairs nobody even coughed. They were probly used to Jason spending half the service tellin’ ‘em about goin’ to heaven then the other half sayin’ how bad they were, makin’ the Baby Jesus cry every minute of the damn day.

I was gonna say some more when some old fart stood up and yelled “Out, Jezebel! Get out Jezebel!” But when he stood up, he knocked his chair into the man behind him who pushed him hard so he fell into the row in front. Just like that you got men throwing punches and chairs, women gettin’ away fast. Me, I’m headin’ for the door, Deb can take care of herself. I bump into the Sheriff as he’s rushin’ in, his hat falls off and I kick it with one boot and step on it with the other and I’m gone. And now, here I am.

Honest, I’m kinda scared. The Sheriff’s upset about his hat. Deb says I committed the sin of blasphemy and my soul’s possessed by a demon. And Minister Jason’s mad because some of his folks want him to bring me back for more Bible teaching.

In the Sight of God and the Riot Squad

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

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

The lightning rod salesman will arrive by and by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

None of these folks were at Sheriff Tom's wedding

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Martínez must be in there somewhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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