Lines

Lines here, lines there. Lines are everywhere. They can get you from one place to the other. They can get you laid (or so I hear). And they can get you in a lot of trouble. Like that line Gibmonster threw out at the Bull and the Bear back in 1986. But almost every important thing in this world is a line of one sort of another. The bottom line, the end of the line, the line you stand in at the drug store. Sometimes lines come, and then go. Sometimes lines fall on deaf ears. I have seen the absence of lines and a room full of lines and empty space that was once a line. I have been overjoyed at the crossing of a line. Like the South Carolina line on Christmas Eve or the last mark in a domino game. I have had my heart broken by lines, and I have seen a heart I cherish leap for joy at a line only to fall tearfully back to earth as the line disapates. Groups of lines become angles. There is an angle to almost everything. Growing up, making music, going to church on Easter Sunday, playing parlor games at the beach with your family. But I have never seen a line that meant as much as the line that says "She loves me, even though I am less than unworthy of such a love." A faint red line that says please hang around and wait for me. A line that says that crazy blood river that started God knows where and ended up in your veins will flow long after you're gone. A line that says sometimes Christmas comes in April.

The Parting Blow

It was a dark and dreary night in Houston. Hope sat beside the fire and thought about loneliness. It was just a word, but it had followed her around all her life. As an only child, she had learned to be by herself out of necessity. In college, she was around people, but she didn’t feel like she was really a part of the scene. Oh occasionally there would be a boyfriend, but it usually didn’t last much beyond the first night they slept together. She just seemed to be one of those people who were utterly alone; just an outside observer to the things that went on around her. When she got married, she thought that would change. But it didn’t. She was still alone most of the time, only now she couldn’t even try to do anything about it. She often cursed herself for not being more outgoing when she was single. She had tried, more or less, to be a good girl, so one day her husband would be proud of her. She wondered if Peter was proud of her. It was hard to tell since he was almost never home. He made lots of money, but he had to go all over the world looking for it. So here she was, still running away from loneliness, still more or less an observer. Peter drove the bus, she was just along for the ride. And she was beginning to resent it.

Peter wasn’t scheduled to return to Houston until Sunday. It was Friday night and Hope was bored. She considered driving to the local pub, The Goodwoman Cafe, for a beer, but she’d never been there by herself, only with Peter. And if Peter called while she was out, he might be pissed. At a minimum, he’d accuse her of having a double standard. After all, she was the one who pitched a fit when Peter left for San Francisco without her. He said he was going to be working around the clock, but when she called his hotel early one night to forward a message, he was there. Maybe it was her imagination but he seemed a little annoyed that she had called. So maybe she should go to the Goodwoman for a beer. Besides, there wouldn’t be anyone there she knew. And if there were, well who cares. Well, maybe he’d call pretty soon and she could go afterwards.

She was crawling over to the television to turn it on when she heard that noise. It was the same scratching sound she was able to ignore the night before thanks to a bottle of chardonnay her mother had given her the night Peter left. But tonight the wine was gone and the noise was back. She lunged for the phone and rapidly dialed her best friend’s number. "Hello?" "Robin, it’s Hope thank God you’re home. Can you come over here and spend the night? Peter’s not back yet and I’m bored silly." "I can’t right now," answered Robin, Leroy gets off at midnight and he’s coming over." "Robin, I’ve told you a million times," Hope answered, frustrated, "Leroy’s no good for you. He’s fat, unmotivated and married. Just come over here and we’ll make some popcorn and watch a movie," Hope was frantic, but trying not to act it. "Come on Robin, I just don’t want to stay here by myself another night!" Robin laughed, "OK chicken, I’ll run Leroy outta here after an hour or so and I should be there by 9:30 or so." It was only 7:15, but Robin was hardheaded, especially where Leroy was concerned, "OK, but hurry will you?" "I’ll do my best," laughed Robin as she hung up.

As soon as Hope hung up the phone, she remembered that she hadn’t told Robin about the noise. She sat perfectly still and listened with all her might. Her world was as silent as those stupid old movies Peter used to make her watch. Maybe he’ll get home early. She’d gladly sit through a hundred silent movies if only Peter were home. In the meantime, a little TV and Peter’s last Miller Lite would have to suffice. Two hours later Robin still wasn’t there. Hope was worried, but she hadn’t heard the noise in a while and that made her feel a little better about spending the night alone in the event Robin didn’t show up. "Robin just loses her mind where fat, lazy husbands are concerned," thought Hope.

All the sudden there was a knock at the front door. Hope peered through the peephole and saw Leroy sipping on a Colt 45. "Leroy, what are you doing here," asked Hope. "You’re supposed to be with Robin." Leroy had made passes at her before, but this was ridiculous. "How the hell you expect me to be with that bitch when she’s always over here," Leroy growled. Hope had no time for Leroy’s nonsense. "Over here!?", exclaimed Hope. "I begged her to come over, but she said she couldn’t come until after you left. "Bullshit!", screamed Leroy. "I see her car parked out there as big as Dallas." Hope ran to the window and couldn’t believe her eyes. There was Robin’s bright red pickup parked on the street. "Leroy I swear to God that I have not seen or heard from Robin since we talked on the phone around 7:00 or so!" "If this is one of her bullshit stunts," said Leroy, "I’ll kick her sorry butt." Leroy seemed a little unsure whether he was getting the run around or not. "I swear to God," said Hope, feeling a lump in her throat, "Look in her car and I’ll call her house just in case." "Yeah O.K.," said Leroy, "but I ain’t got time for this shit. My old lady already suspects something’s going on and I gotta watch my butt. I don’t need to get caught up in any more of Robin’s dramatic bullshit."

Hope was thinking that Leroy was responsible for most of Robin’s dramatic bullshit as she quickly dialed Robin’s number. No answer. She impulsively dialed Robin’s mother’s number but before she got an answer she heard a terrifying scream from the front yard.

"Oh my God, the door’s wide open!" said Hope aloud as she dashed for the front door. She slammed the door and locked the dead bolt in one motion. She looked out the window and didn’t see Robin, Leroy or anyone else. She cracked the window and screamed "Robin! Help! Anybody!" No response. She ran to the phone and dialed 911. Just as the operator answered, the line went dead! Hope ran to the other phone and tried the number again. This phone was dead too! At the same moment she remembered that her cellular phone was in the car and that Peter kept a shotgun in his closet.

Once Hope had the shotgun loaded with three of Peter’s number 8 quail shot, she began carefully moving throughout the house, turning all the lights out. She remembered Peter did that once when she convinced him that there was a burglar downstairs. He told her that the best defense was a good offense and an ambushing a burglar would be both the ultimate in irony and easier in the dark. Just as she was turning out the last light, Hope saw Puddy, her Persian cat hiding under the sofa. She put the shotgun down and dropped quickly to her hands and knees so she could reach her cat. As she stood up, she heard someone bang against the front door, apparently trying to kick it in. Still holding Puddy she ran into the kitchen and slid into the walk-in pantry. As the banging against the door intensified, she remembered the shotgun; she had left it in the living room. Right by the door! Although she was terrified, she recalled hearing someone say that more people are killed by their guns than saved by their guns.

As terrified and Hope was, she knew she couldn’t panic without the risk of alerting whoever or whatever was in the process of breaking into her house. She thought of Robin and Leroy. Where were they? Were they OK? Surely they weren’t hurt or worse. Could they be playing some terrible joke on her? Hope’s mind was racing. Suddenly she realized she needed to use the restroom. She felt like a child playing hide and seek, only this time it was for keeps. She considered relieving herself on the floor, but her vanity convinced her to tough it out a while longer. Suddenly she heard the sound of breaking glass. "The sliding glass door!", thought Hope. She heard Robin scream "Please no! Please don’t hurt me!" Then there was a sickening thud and silence. Hope knew the screams had come from the family room and tried to map out in her mind the likely course of the mysterious attacker. The sound of the basement door confirmed that he, or it, was in the hallway—just outside the kitchen! She prayed that Puddy wouldn’t decide she’d had enough of the pantry and let out a badly timed meow. Just when Hope thought she heard the inevitable footsteps, there was a crashing sound near the front of the house. The door had finally surrendered. Hope knelt in terrified silence as she heard Leroy scream "I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!" Before the words were even out of his mouth, there was the deafening blast of a gun. Hope heard Leroy shriek and heard more glass breaking. Hope prayed that the attacker would not find her. She listened as the sound of footsteps moved closer. Whatever was in her house was only a few feet away. It was just like Peter to be away when she really needed him. Wasn’t he supposed to love and protect her? In the midst of her terror and her anger, Hope realized she no longer needed to relieve herself. She already had.

Just as Hope prepared for the worst, coming face to face with the intruder, she heard a familiar voice yell "Don’t move an inch or I’ll blow your fucking head off!" There was the sound of a brief scuffle and the loud boom of a shotgun. Unconsciously, Hope leaned on the pantry door and fell out onto the kitchen floor. She screamed when she saw Leroy lying in a pool of blood, a sawed off shotgun by his side, with Peter standing over him with her misplaced shotgun. As she ran to Peter’s arms, it all became clear to her. "Robin?" asked Hope, fearful of the answer. "He shot her in the yard," said Peter, seemingly without emotion. "I found her body in the front yard. I knew something was very wrong so I kicked in the front door. I found my shotgun in the living room. I shot that son of a bitch in the living room, but I had to finish it in here."

Hope’s eyes darted around the room and fell upon Leroy’s sawed off shotgun. Mindlessly, Hope picked it up and ran her fingers along the barrel. She straightened up slowly, deep in thought. "Oh God!" screamed Hope, pointing at Leroy’s body. "I swear he moved! Make sure he’s dead!" Peter knelt beside Leroy’s lifeless body and felt his neck for a pulse. As Peter knelt in silent concentration, Hope placed Leroy’s shotgun behind Peter’s head and gently pulled the trigger.

She carefully wiped the barrel of the gun on Peter’s shirt, placed it in Leroy’s hands and walked towards the garage for her cellular phone, rehearsing in her mind the call she was about to make.

Another Western Hero

I asked Corrigan if he wanted me to take first watch. "Nah," said Jim, "I'm too worked up over too little action and too many bad memories. You turn in and I'll take first watch. I couldn't sleep anyways." I knew Corrigan was wrong to keep blaming himself after all these years, but I knew he was right about not being able to sleep. And I knew he didn't need another sermon from me. "Okay, but wake me up in two hours and I'll spell you." Corrigan nodded but I could tell he wasn't listening. He was thinking about Becky, and about Jose. And he was blaming himself for not killing Jose earlier. It was a bad thing to think about. And Corrigan thought about it a lot.

I unrolled my blanket, looking forward to a couple hours sleep. As I was drifting off to sleep, the sound of movement made me stir and the first shot from Corrigan's rifle jerked me awake. A bullet at seventeen had taught me the hard way that a bunch of hell raising in the middle of the night usually means trouble. It was a lesson I would learn to apply to many different situations. Instinctively, I grabbed my pistol and rolled to my left, so I could take cover behind one of the big rocks surrounding our campsite. As I got to my feet, I tried to assess the situation. Corrigan was behind another rock about thirty feet to my left. He wasn't shooting anymore but the shot that woke me found its target. I could hear a man moaning off to the right, maybe twenty five feet from the center of our camp. I don't speak much Spanish, but I could tell he was in a lot of pain. What I couldn't tell was how many of his fellow bandits were not yet in pain. "Coop!" whispered Corrigan as he looked around the campsite. "Over here," I whispered back. "What in the hell is going on?" "Bandits" whispered Corrigan, "four of them. I got one of 'em but there are three more and damn if I know where they are! All I know is that they were trying to steal our horses. Well my horse anyway. I doubt even a Mexican would want your sorry horse." "Where's Tom?" I asked as I peered around my rock to get a better glimpse of the campsite. "Don't know" said Corrigan, "probably wet his pants and took off back for the farm." "Well if he did, he is going to have to run all the way, cause his horse is still tied up over there."

I noticed that the wounded man had quit moaning. I wondered if the others out there were his brothers. I hoped not. Just as I was about to convince myself that the others had decided to leave us alone, I heard a rustling in the brush between my rock and Corrigan's. I squinted to try to see who or what was there in the darkness. Much to my surprise,I saw a Mexican boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, crawling on his stomach towards Corrigan. He hadn't heard me, but I sure as hell hadn't heard him till he was in the middle of our campsite. I moved over to get a clear view. I picked up a small rock and threw it at him. He turned around quickly and as I pulled the trigger I saw the pearl handle of an American made Colt 45 in his hand. He didn't change expression. He didn't scream. He just died.

As I was silently congratulating myself for evening the odds, a voice behind me said in perfect English "Drop it senior." I thought about it, but Corrigan said "don't do it Coop, there's one got a bead on me too." I saw Corrigan standing with his hands in the air and his rifle on the ground. I dropped my pistol and walked slowly over to Corrigan. We turned to look at our captors. They were barely more than boys, maybe twenty years old. The bigger one, the one who spoke the King's English, stepped towards us. "My brothers and I wanted only your horses, but you have killed two of us. If we go home with only two nice horses and that ugly one, it will be an insult to our people. So I am afraid we must kill you. We are sorry." "He don't look too sorry," said Corrigan, noticing the young man's smile. Both men moved towards us, pistols in hand. "Adios amigos" said the smaller one. I was spending my last second on this earth wondering if he spoke English when I heard a dull thud. The two Mexican brothers bent over and fell, almost in unison. As they fell to the ground I noticed a knife sticking out of each of their backs. Tom stepped out of the darkness, reached down and unceremoniously retrieved his possessions. "There ain't much to do on the farm," he muttered, "except hunt, play the fiddle and throw knives."

Mr. Happy (Part 3)

So we drove off down the road, heading for Horseshoe Bay. Mr. Happy finally gave up trying to light his cigarette with a condom and dozed off in the back seat. Gibmonster, obviously affected by our brush with the truckload of rednecks, made me pull over at a Stop N Go for some Pearl Beer and chewing tobacco. While he was inside buying those goodies and a couple of very cheap baseball caps that said "The South's Gonna Do It Again" (do what again, get its ass kicked?) on the front, I sat in the car and watched a bunch of reasonably good looking women in halter tops use the pay phone, one after another. I've never understood why you see so many babes using pay phones at convenience stores. Once for my birthday, Mad Max went down to the 7/11 and rang me up. It was such a thrill. It would have been better if she'd had on a halter top. But she drew the line there. It was only the second time Mad Max had ever called me from a pay phone. The other time, she called on a pay phone from jail after she and Bo-dotty got busted for public intoxication in Galveston. It wasn't the same thing. Plus, for the hour or so it took me to get there to bail them out, I had to wonder what my woman was doing in Galveston with Bo-dotty. Turns out Bo-dotty was playing a gig at the San Luis and needed a ride, so Mad Max gave him a lift. They got all liquored up on the comp drinks, at which point Bo-dotty called Mad Max up on stage and they sang "Muskrat Love" nine straight times. The hotel manager couldn't decide whether to call an ambulance or the police, so he called them both. The police got there first. By the time I got to the jailhouse, Mad Max had sobered up enough to be seriously pissed. Bo-dotty had made friends with some other guys in the drunk tank and refused to leave unless they could come with him. As Mad Max and I walked out of the holding area, we could hear Bo-dotty and his merry band of criminals singing "Love Will Keep Us Together."

After Gibmonster got us loaded up with bad beer and a pouch of chewing tobacco, we were on our way again. We had planned to stop by Dry Creek on the way out of town, but we were too drunk to find our way up the mountain. So we just headed for Horseshoe Bay. Dry Creek is an old bar up on a hill run by a very old and unpleasant woman named Sarah. She was always really mean to us, but then again so were most young and nice women. We like it there because one night we saw a pretty little co-ed reverse snort a beer. We were so impressed, we asked her to go back to Houston with us. Fortunately, none of us were home when her parents came to fetch her. For months we tried without success to find another girl who could duplicate that co-ed's beer trick. Gibmonster took to going up to pretty young women and saying "if you can expel a mouthful of beer through your nose, I'll leave you alone." Lots of girls tried. Lots of girls failed. One girl broke a beer bottle over Gibmonster's head and called him a pervert. To which Mr. Happy said "that girl's right, but why did she have to waste a beer to prove it?" Mr. Happy loved beer. And he hated to see it get abused.

About half way to Horseshoe Bay, Mr. Happy woke up with a bad case of cotton mouth. He saw an Icee cup on the console between me and Gibmonster. Before we could stop him, he grabbed it and took a big swig. "God damn," he said, "that Icee tastes like shit. What kind is it?" "Red Man flavor" said Gibmonster. "Well it sucks" replied Mr. Happy as he closed his eyes and nodded off again. Gibmonster retrieved our spit cup and we sped towards the Drunkard's Retreat and all of the excitment which no doubt awaited us there.

Mr. Happy (Part 2)

By the time we hit downtown Austin, we were all righteously drunk. We decided that we couldn't begin the retreat until we had advanced our cause up and down Sixth Street. We ended up drinking margaritas in Wylie's and trying to remember the names of various Austin women who at one time would give us the time of day. Gibmonster tried to call Helen, a nubile but incredibly beautiful friend of his, but she had left town for the weekend. "She's gone to Houston to see some guy," Gibmonster reported when he came back to our table. "They gave me the number where she can be reached," he said, smiling, as he handed me a napkin with a number scratched on one side. It was Bo-dotty's line at THP. "Damn," I said when I recognized the number, "no wonder that sonofabitch wouldn't come with us." "Do you think he has V.D.?", asked Mr. Happy, always anxious to examine the dark side of any situation. "I dunno," said Gibmonster, "but I did see a can of Raid in his closet." "Naw man," that stuff's just for crickets," I enlightened them. "He got paranoid a week or two ago and went to the free clinic. Got himself a clean bill of health and a complimentary pack of Trojans." "That's good news," said Mr. Happy, with less than obvious relief. "I'd hate to see that poor girl lose her virginity and her health during the same weekend."

After three more rounds, I called Motown, an old college buddy of mine, and arranged to meet him at the Lakeview Cafe for a few last minute beers before we headed for Horseshoe Bay and some serious partying. The retreat was a once a year gathering of anyone who had ever visited or lived at THP. There was a permanent invitation, complete with the date and place of the next retreat, plastered to the wall by the front, and only, entrance. The attendence ranged from two, me and TP, my ex-wife, in 1984, to the 43 wild and crazy retreaters that descended on Lake Conroe the past year. Since all 43 of us had been permanently banned from Montgomery County as a result of that drunkard's retreat, we had to find a new spot, and Horseshoe Bay was the majority vote. La Grange was the early favorite until Wally and Mad Max scouted it out and discovered that the Chicken Ranch had been torn down by a group of greedy yankees who were now selling souvenir pieces of the once famous institution for $12.95 a pop.

We did scissors, stone and paper to see who had to drive from Wylie's to the Lakeview Cafe and, just like a bad haircut, the scissors let me down. Driving would have been manageable if Gibmonster and Mr. Happy hadn't shot the bird at one too many pickup trucks on the way. About a hundred or so rednecks in a king cab chased us all the way to the Cafe and would have caught and probably killed us had they not been pulled over for doing 85 in a 35. We managed to make it in one piece and enticed Ann Kennear Earhart, the hostess, to give us a table by the window so we could watch for Motown and\or the hundred, pissed off rednecks. By the time we had dusted off four beers a piece, neither Mo nor the rednecks had shown. We figured we could live with fifty fifty and departed for the retreat. On the way out, Gibmonster and I tried to convince Ann Kennear Earhart to accompany us. She said she couldn't because she hadn't known us long enough. "Damn," muttered Gibmonster, "that time thing again." "It's okay," said Mr. Happy, "she probably has V.D. anyway." Mr. Happy had a way of making even a bleak situation seem even bleaker. As we drove towards Horseshoe Bay, I looked in the rear view mirror and noticed that Mr. Happy was trying to light his cigarette with a condom, obviously thinking it was a book of matches. "Hey, I can't get this damn thing open," he finally sought help, "one of you dudes got some matches?" "Here, try mine" said Gibmonster, handing Mr. Happy another condom.

Brian Buffalo

Brian Buffalo can kiss my ass. He really can. Me and my buddy Larry run the heat set machine across the river at the Delta plant. We've done it for near 20 years. And we're pretty good at it. Fact is that we hold the fabric processing record company wide. We run more rolls in one eight hour shift than any other team in history. See, that plant record business was started back in the late seventies as a way to make us under paid and over worked textile workers work harder. They couldn't be obvious about it because during the campaign when they sussessfully convinced us to vote down the union, they told us all these reasons why we didn't need the union. Seeing as how things were already so good and all. Their motto was "The Union's already kicked our ass once, don't let 'em do it again," and it was always placed just below a confederate flag. Made a nice bumper sticker. And it worked. So, to turn around and tell us we had to work harder would've seemed hypocritical. More importantly, it might have caused us to reconsider our postion with regard to the union. That's how they came up with the plant record business.

A certificate suitable for framing and a $100 bonus. Plenty enough to make a working man work harder. So me and Larry figured that as long as the record business was hanging over our head, we'd be hearing all kinds of lame pep talks and what not. We decided that the only way to ensure our peace was to set a record that was so high it was unattainable. So one Friday morning we came upon a plan. Our shift started at 3:00 pm and lasted to 11:00 pm. We met at Sonny's Grill for lunch around 1:00. Had a couple of burgers, several Jolt Colas and about five black beauties each. By 3:00 we were cranking as we pulled into the parking lot behind plant #3. We turned cloth like a couple of fiends for exactly eight hours. Damn near doubled the old record. When the bell rang we limped to the infirmary to put in our request for injury time, seeing as how our hands were burned and raw and every muscle in our record holding bodies pulled and worse. We each got four days off, a certificate suitable for framing and $100. We threw away the certificates and drank away the $100. But we never heard too much after that about plant records. That was 15 years ago. Last week we got ourselves a new assistant shift manager. Mr Brian Buffalo, 23 years old and straight out of Chesterfield-Marlboro Technical College. His first night on the job he told everyone on our shift that he was gonna change some things. That he had challenged the shift supers for the first and third shift to a contest. The most productive shift each moth won. Larry asked what exactly did they win. Brian Buffalo said we'd win a certificate suitable for framing and his favor. I laughed and said that I figured we had all the certificates we needed and that he could do me a favor and shut the hell up. His face twisted all up like he'd swallowed a lemon and he said we had better treat him with respect or he'd have no problem writing a memo to the plant manager. Two years at CMTC and that's the best he could come up with. Well, it's almost 1:00 so I got to go meet Larry. We're having lunch at Sonny's. Brian Buffalo can kiss my ass. He really can

Mr. Happy

The first time I realized how naive Mr. Happy was was on the way to the drunkard's retreat in Austin. Gibmonster had Jimi Hendrix on the cassette player, wailing Foxey Lady. I had been telling Gibmonster about my friend Wheeler who had been Hendrix's foster brother in Seattle. Mr. Happy had been laying in the backseat guzzling beer one after another. Just when it seemed he had passed out, he leaned forward and asked "Who is that anyway?" Gibmonster looked at me and said "Is he fuckin' with us or what?" "It's Jimi Hendrix, Mr. Happy," I said. "Oh," said Mr. Happy as he leaned back and directed his attention to his tenth beer in less than two hours.

Mr. Happy has a way of making love to a beer when he drinks it. He has the same single-minded, totally focused concentration when drinking a brew that Gibmonster has when he trys, usually without success, to flirt with Nadine when we're drinking at the Gingerman, the bar where she works. Bo-dotty has that sort of concentration when he meets a new seventeen year old girl. I don't much have it for anything, except maybe for avoiding responsibility. Mr. Happy got his name after we read his first short story. It was titled The Earth Mother and was loosely about some chick who made pottery, but never sold any. We all suspected it was really about Rosemary, the secret love of Mr. Happy's life. She dug him and he dug her, but neither one would make the first move so they ended up sitting around the Gingerman trying unsuccessfully not to stare at each other. Their relationship was depressing, Mr. Happy's story was depressing and Mr. Happy was renamed.

We were all writers for various publications and were then living in and around Houston, Texas. Me, Gibmonster, Mr. Happy, Bo-dotty and Mad Max, who had the honor of being the only girl who would talk to us on a regular basis. Mad Max also had the dubious distinction of being universally known as my woman, even though she hadn’t even been remotely my women in years. But it served to keep a bunch of horney guys from trying to hit on Mad Max while we were drinking and that was something. Not much, but something. I had published almost daily during my tenure as a music writer with a local newspaper and, even though newspaper columns are not publishing in the classical sense, it was something. Not much, but something. So I was unofficially thrust into a leadership role among our horde of irresponsibility. The fact that I had abruptly resigned my position at the Chronicle to devote full time to writing fiction and playing darts only served to assure the others that they were correct in looking to me for guidance. Gibmonster was so stunned by my move that he quit his job two days later. The fact that he had worked for himself heightened the admiration that was thrusted upon him by his working friends. A month later, Mr. Happy returned from Kenya, where he had been teaching English to native children and adultry to native women. It wasn't long before the three of us moved into The Hard Place, an old three story house near Rice Stadium. Before long Bo-dotty moved down from Nashville where he had tried with only limited success to become a country and western singer. Bo-dotty moved directly into The Hard Place, THP for short, which was tough until we learned to keep our beer and our little sisters out of his sight. Mad Max still worked as a social butterfly at some law firm downtown and had a place of her own, but she could be found more often than not at or near THP. Another fellow, Wally Gator, stayed at THP on an intermittant basis, since he divided his time between Houston and Fort Worth, where he had a wife named Rochelle and three kids that didn't look a thing like him. None of us ever met Rochelle since the eldest child was a girl of seventeen and Wally knew better than to bring the girl anywhere near THP. Bo-dotty claimed that being with teenage girls inspired him to write great country songs. He may have been right since his only single had been entitled "I Wish You Were Legal."

Anyway, just before we hit the Austin city limits (the outskirts of town, not the TV show) Gibmonster took out Hendrix and put in After The Goldrush by Neil Young. Right smack dab in the middle of "I Can Really Love," Mr. Happy leaned forward and asked "Who's that again?" Gibmonster shook his head and said "It's Neil, man."

"Oh, Neil Diamond," said Mr. Happy, "That's cool, I like him."

Letters

Dear Raina and Kent,

Suprise! Anne fixed my old typewriter. I like it better than that sorry computer y'all tried to make me use. It kept locking up. If I hadn't shot it somebody else would've. Since Anne just left I don't need to send her and Garry a copy of this letter, which means that I can talk about them. I know you two wouldn't repeat anything I said.

Anne and I had a great time. We thought about going to Park Seeds in Hodges, but I don't have enough seeds to park squat and I never liked them Hodges anyhow. Josephine Baker went instead. Hmmm... Anne wanted to do some kind of exorcism on me, but I wouldn't let her. I guess the devil wouldn't let me let her do it.

Bill and Barbara Eutsler were here too. It was nice seeing them. Barbara had to leave early, but Bill stayed longer. He and Anne thought about riding to the airport together, but that's a long way on horseback. I don't know what they were thinking . Shoot, we'd have to go fetch the horses anyway. Anne and Emily had lunch. Actually a lot of people did, but they had lunch together. It's not timing that matters in this world, it's proximity. So there.


I got the lawn mower fixed, so now I have some meaningful transportation. And I bought a new weed eater. Damn fine one too. I'm going to take it with me when I go to Nashville in the fall. That way I know you guys won't tell anymore Bonanza jokes. Hoss bought it you know? I don't know about Little Joe. Adam did alright.

There were six hawks behind the house today. I guess if I was an indian and had a kid at that moment I'd have to name it Six Hawks Hanging. Remember that old joke. Funny, but not like Raising Arizona. Now that's a funny movie.

I had a leak in the kitchen, behind the wall. Darn thing flooded half the house. Just when I got the floats blown up and a six pack chilled Ernie came and fixed it. He's my best pal but he's too darn efficient. He's from Iowa. They sent some hay a few years back, so I haven't told him what Iowa stands for. I heard it at a concert a few years back.

Well there you have it. As Web Wilder once said, run hard, play hard, eat hard, wear glasses if you need 'em, or something like that.

Love,

Mom

Father's Day

My father's name was Lee Dale Johnson. He's been dead for a long, long time. About the only thing I can remember about him is that he liked to fish. When I was barely able to walk, he used to take me out to Uncle Walter's fish pond, the one behind the orchard, not the one where Aunt Lou drowned, to fish for bass and bream. Sometimes we'd catch a mess for supper, sometimes not. But it was about the most fun I ever had, which I guess means it's been downhill for the rest of my 38 years on this earth. I still have my dad's cane fishing pole. It's in my garage somewhere. And I have his name, or at least most of it. Lee Dale was also my grandfather's name. I never met him though, since he drowned in the Black River long before I was born. But by 1957, the year I was born, the Johnson family had a new Lee Dale. My dad's brother Walter had a son in 1956 and much to my father's displeasure, announced he was naming him Lee Dale. So when I came along the next year I was christened Lee Roy Johnson. But just to piss Walter off my dad declared that I was to be called Lee. So there was big Lee, my dad, little Lee, my cousin, and wee Lee, me. Well into my adult years I was called Wee Lee. After I joined the army in 1975 and left home I became just Lee. By the time I got my discharge I was Leroy. The day I became a citizen again I decided I would be Roy. That was the only good thing I got out of being in the service. Dammit I am Roy and this is my story.

Father's Day is one of those holidays that was invented by Hallmark or some other card company to generate business. Doesn't much work in my case since dad is gone. I do get a card every year from my son Wade. He's fourteen now and lives with his mother in South Carolina. After I got out of the Army in 1979 I moved to Myrtle Beach and overcompensated for army life by becoming a hippy, if you could still be a hippy in 1979. I worked construction during the day and played guitar and sang other people's songs at night at places like Zack's and The Afterdeck. I made a pretty good living but goddamn I got sick of playing Jimmy Buffett songs. One night I correctly introduced "Spider John " as a Willis Alan Ramsey song and almost got beat up by a bunch of drunk frat boys who swore it was a Buffett song because they had the record. After the show a girl named Marsha came up to me and said she knew "Spider John" was a Willis Alan Ramsey song because she was from Oklahoma and everybody in Oklahoma knew about Willis. Being the suspicious kind I asked her what other song did Willis write that actually made it onto the radio. "Why Muskrat Love, silly," she replied. To make a long story short Marsha and I got married three months later at a wedding chapel out on Highway 17. To make a long story even shorter she divorced me eighteen months later, taking our new baby, our furniture and my car back to Oklahoma. It wasn't until I moved to Texas in 1985 that Marsha began missing the beach. She and Wade moved back to Myrtle Beach in 1986. They live in the same house we lived in when Wade was born. So does Marsha's second husband Frank and their younger child Arlene. I still live in Texas, where I get a father's day card once a year. Damn crazy world.