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by Randy Ford

With such an imagination there was no way I could’ve kept out of trouble, and trouble followed me wherever I went. It all started, you see, when my imagination and I ended up in the classroom of Mrs. Jones, my first grade teacher. Now she was an angry person, who got angry over nothing. Could turn a molehill…or was it an anthill…into a mountain. And I exasperated her more than anyone, and she punished me for the least little thing. She was mean, I thought. Her hands shook…shook almost every time she warned me “you better watch out.”

In this partial refrain you’ll recognize a tune. I sang it over and over again and couldn’t get it out of my brain. Crowded out other things until there was nothing left.

Trouble equaled misery for both of us. Mrs. Jones’ long arms and big hands were like the legs and the talons of a hawk! She often seized me, shook me, or spanked me before I could get out the door… run the halls…even breathe. I couldn’t sit still or shut up. Once I moved, that was it.

She had met her match, and she knew it. She was considered a good teacher, but when it came to me…oh, brother!

As a rule, Mrs. Jones saw through my lies. I only burned her once. After that incident she questioned everything I said, but I think she wanted to believe me. I think it annoyed her that she couldn’t.

I didn’t mean to upset her so much. I know she worried about it. I didn’t think telling little lies hurt. When I got older, I tried to convince myself that stretching the truth wasn’t the same as lying, but I don’t think I convinced myself nor anyone else. And Mrs. Jones, bless her heart, once she got over her anger, couldn’t help but smile…smiled each time that she thought about the whopper I told about owning a Santa Claus suit. That was only one of many stories I told to get attention.

My mother, if I’d told her about my part in the Christmas program, would’ve gladly made me a Santa Claus suit. Wasn’t it odd that my teacher didn’t contact her? And I had the main part in the Christmas extravaganza, so it was as much Mrs. Jones’ fault as mine. Why the entire show revolved around me and my late entrance. So picture me in a-matter-of-fact way taking center stage in my street clothes and wagging my finger to “You Better Watch Out.” The extraordinary thing was that even without a Santa Claus suit I won a tremendous ovation. And by the end everyone there was on their feet except Mrs. Jones, who sat there in a chair with her face in her hands.

I’m not particularly proud of my behavior, but I must say I didn’t feel embarrassed. Actually I think I profited from it. In fact, I know I did.

Years later, when my lying became more sophisticated and carefully planned, I was never intentionally hurtful and never cared whether I got caught or not. I was so cavalier about it that sometimes I bragged about it. And poor Elaine, my bride, found herself in the middle of it.
Then as success came my way, I gave more and more time to my business. I rarely came home, and when I was home I was absent. Then, pretty soon, I wouldn’t call the welcome I got a welcome. Pretty cheerless. So why did I come home?

For the longest time, Elaine’s and my relationship appeared intact. I could’ve maintained the charade because I know how to play the game. I’m an expert at it. I know how to embellish almost any situation. Embellishing the truth, in my mind, isn’t lying. Then I’d get caught and have to make something up, so I easily maintained the charade by embellishing some more. I embellished the most elaborate stories. But to call it lying? Poor Elaine. Eventually, she grew tired of it, and I admit now that it was wrong. End of story. End of marriage.

Considering how often people do it, and in the overall scheme of things, what’s so terrible about a little lie? White lies? Something as trivial as why I didn’t come home for dinner? Lies woven into a web of deception: weeds that I never pulled. .

Bigger lies were unfortunately forthcoming. As for the process, well…the truth hurts, as the truth prevails, and sometimes, even today, that little voice inside my head screams! Thank God it was a childless union.

Here I could make a list. She could too. What happened in regards to who told the truth? Now and then regret would creep in and would get my attention. What happened between Elaine and me didn’t need to happen.

The Truth-slayer arrived and slipped in so quietly that I hardly noticed her. For business reasons I embraced her. She became my whore. I thrived on hoopla. Hyper became my modus operandi. (Modus vivendi, shit, I don’t know.) With the help of hype and hoopla, I became a legend, and, led by Truth-slayer, I made a killing. With Truth-slayer’s help, on billboards, stretching from coast to coast, we sold crap. Just as my old man told me, “If dressed in your street clothes you can get all those people to believe you’re Santa Claus, you can sell anything.” What it did for me was purge the word “can’t.” Hello, Miss Fraudulent! A big o’ welcome to Tricky Dick! Hi crap!

We! We exploded onto the American scene. But as I reached for the drug Euphoria, which all along I kept on my nightstand, my bubble burst…burst and another chapter of my life began to unravel. Then I heard her, with her harshness, my first-grade teacher, my nemesis, crooning, “You better watch out and better not shout!” I mean to tell you, it got to me. So I gave up selling crap. .

By then I needed my face slapped. You better watch out, she told I had better. It was then that I remembered my childhood when I told friends I owned the real Lassie…the collie on television, the star of the show and my hero, the dog that ended each episode by rescuing someone. (I wish I owned the dog now. Or the cat that died ten times.) But there has to be an appreciation for an imagination as vivid as mine, for instance an appreciation for all those pie-in-the-sky dreams I had, have; and continue to have. My flight of fancy often took me places that I otherwise wouldn’t have gone. But could it all be traced back to the first grade, and was Mrs. Jones’ admonition on the mark? So, you better watch out too.
I married again last spring, which brought me unexpected happiness, and the lying, I think, has stopped.

Randy Ford

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By Randy Ford

As for their old Studebaker, Jack always missed it. When people talked about Studebakers they talked about the car’s sleek design and advanced technology. As a mechanic, Jack’s father knew cars and knew Studebakers. He loved Studebakers.  As a mechanic, he knew Studebakers were easy to work on.  Jack’s father loved Studebakers because they were easy to work on. He knew which cars got best gas mileage and which needed to be lubricated less often and chose a Studebaker for those reasons. The sound of a Studebaker motor reassured him. He couldn’t see how it could be improved upon. He wouldn’t have to tinker with it much. He hated tinkering with his own cars. He disliked it, though his love of cars was incurable. So he bought a Champion Regal Deluxe, hoping he never would have to do anything to it.

When one Sunday morning (in1948) an urge to get behind a wheel got too strong for him and rest of his family were in church, Jack stole his mother’s car keys and went for a spin in his family’s Champion Regal Deluxe. This for someone with sticky fingers wasn’t difficult. And his father had taught him to drive, and Jack considered himself an expert driver. Then too he thought he could get the car back to church before the service was over, and no one would ever know. And he knew a back road where he could see how fast she would go. Roll window down, turn radio up, play piano on dash, and put foot to the metal: it seemed simple enough.  As a smart boy, it seemed simple enough.  As an exemplary son, Jack could get away with it because no one thought he was capable of it.

He thought about racing down Main Street and out of town on U.S. 40. But U.S. 40 was probably not his best choice. It had too many stoplights and was the main drag. But more than that, he didn’t want to get caught speeding.  He didn’t want to get caught speeding down Main Street when he intended to speed.  And he didn’t want to get caught speeding because he skipped church and took his family’s car. Otherwise Jack would’ve taken U.S. 40.

So not wanting to attract attention, Jack drove south through town. A Champion Regal Deluxe Studebaker was hard to drive around without people noticing it. It was special.  A Champion Deluxe Studebaker was special and different so it attracted attention. Knowing this Jack drove at a snail’s pace. He drove at a snail’s pace, but he couldn’t have thought that he could get away with it. The little fart was taken to the woodshed for lesser crimes.

Careful, no speeding! A superior engine was his worst enemy.   A Champion Regal Deluxe Studebaker had plenty of pickup and that could be dangerous. And to Jack it proved dangerous.  For luck he patted the dashboard. His parents never understood him, and with this in mind he could’ve kept going.  That was for later.

Once he got his hands on his mother’s keys, the rest was easy. Power, speed, a smooth ride was what a Champion Regal Deluxe Studebaker was known for. The car had style, attitude, individuality, and uniqueness. It was the first one in town like it. His father special ordered it.  His father said it was a prototype, one of first off the line.  Jack wondered how his father knew the car was one of the first off the line.   And Jack took a chance, forgot time, and wrecked his family’s precious car. all his skill couldn’t keep Jack from wrecking his family’s precious car.  All Jack’s skill couldn’t keep him from losing control and running into a ditch and a barbwire fence. It hurt his pride. It hurt his pride to lose control.  To lose control of his family’s precious car hurt his pride. more than anything. It hurt to think that he couldn’t control it. It hurt to think that he wasn’t an excellent driver. Now he would have to face his parents. It didn’t make him feel good to have to face his parents, having said this, there was very little damage to the Studebaker.  Studebakers were well built.  Studebakers could take it.

“Where’s Jack?” Their minister calmed his parents by asking the obvious.  Where was their brand new car?  He knew at once who the culprit was. He knew Jack was the culprit.  Their minister knew, knew, just knew Jack was the culprit.  Jack couldn’t get away with anything. It was impossible. He couldn’t get away with anything because his father owned a gas station on the busiest intersection in town and was everyone’s friend. Everyone knew Jack’s father, and everyone knew Jack. Then what was the worst thing that could happen, the worst thing, the worst thing that could happen to Jack? He wrecked his father’s pride and joy and, while Jack was too old to spank, spanking was out of the question.

From the cradle, Jack was taught right from wrong. He knew Christ. He confessed his sins and knew Christ, but it didn’t give him a pass at home.  It didn’t give him a pass anywhere.  Jack was a Christian boy, a good Christian boy.  Good Christian boys didn’t steal cars.

From an early age Jack had an urge to get behind a wheel. and it didn’t help that his dad ate and slept cars.  His dad slept and ate cars, and it didn’t help Jack.  Jack loved cars too.  Then when he finally learned to drive, he didn’t get to drive as much as he liked. He assumed his father would give him a car, but it didn’t happen. His father thought he shouldn’t be handed a car but should buy one. It meant that Jack had to work. To buy a car he had to work. He wouldn’t be handed one. The idea of working wasn’t foreign to him. Jack grew up around a gas station and saw how hard his father worked. He worked for his father some. His father loved working.  He was a workaholic.  Jack grew up around a gas station, so hard work wasn’t foreign. But the thought of getting stuck in one job never sat well with him. It never suited him.  Jack considered his father stuck at the gas station. And he couldn’t wait to leave, to leave Richmond.  Jack didn’t want to get stuck like his dad and knew it would be a long time before he could afford a brand new Champion Regal Deluxe Studebaker.

Once he experienced freedom behind the wheel there was no stopping him. Once he experienced freedom it was impossible for him to stay in one place for very long. And he made no secret of it and ran away more than once. And while his parents fretted and worried, they soon learned that there was nothing they could do about it. He was truly a riddle. He was independent minded. They never understood why he wanted to run away. So what if he faced an uncertain future. What did it matter as long as he experienced as much of the world as possible?

Sitting under an oak tree, Jack weighed his options. He knew what would happen to him if he went home. He knew he’d be restricted. Restriction was like prison. He wanted his freedom and didn’t want to go to prison.  Jack would do anything to avoid prison. He’d get restricted. He’d get punished. His parents were consistent; if not anything else they were consistent. There was a particular look he knew, and when saw it he knew he’d get punished. He stood back and looked at the Studebaker and studied scratches along its side. It was obvious that he was in trouble, and there was nothing he could do about it. He would have to face his parents. He had been in trouble before.

He supposed it could be worse. He knew very well that it could be worse. He could’ve totaled the car and gotten seriously hurt. Yes, it could’ve been worse. But there was nothing worse to him than getting restricted.  To him it was like going to prison.  So he decided to run away again. And he judged now that he needed to hurry.

Now Jack could run, and people were used to seeing him run. People watched him run and knew he could run fast.  There were times in his life when he outran everyone, and he was in pretty good shape. He also knew all the alleyways and shortcuts, and he could pace himself so that he could run all day. And for his age, he managed himself pretty well. Now he wasn’t thinking ahead. He just wanted to get out of town as fast as he could.  He would worry about essentials later.  He thought he didn’t have time to worry.

Graduation was fast approaching, and would Jack graduate? Graduation, the day of truth, and Jack threw it away. Yes, he threw it away, but he was prepared to make it up later. And at the same time other kids were getting ready for life ahead of them. And he would have to graduate to be highly respected. With graduation he would soon be on his own anyway.

He could work for his father and had in the past. With summer coming he was pretty much assured a full-time job with his father, but he knew he didn’t want to do that.  Jack considered his options and thought about working for his father, with the idea of someday taking over his father’s gas station, but it didn’t appeal to him. He saw what it did to his father, so he didn’t want to take over his father’s gas station.  Jack didn’t want to be like his father.  It was the last thing he wanted.

Jack kept running. He had a few dollars in his pocket, money he earned pumping gas. But he knew it wasn’t enough, enough to get him by.  Then why didn’t he turn around?  Then why didn’t he go home.  He had a home, a loving home?  There were more reasons for turning around than simply not having enough money. There was a matter of a girlfriend and plans they made, but it didn’t mean a lot to him. Keeping a girlfriend, keeping her happy was an added worry. It was an added worry, bother he decided he didn’t need. Some of his buddies were getting hitched. Good for them, but they could have it.

Jack was more independent than most, so he was used to being on his own. And he thought that many of his classmates didn’t know what they were doing, so they were getting married and it seemed like the worst thing they could do. To Jack, it seemed like the worst thing they could do.  A light bulb went off in his brain, and Errol Flynn came to mind. He already idolized Errol Flynn.  Errol Flynn was Jack’s hero.

Now Errol Flynn didn’t belong to a class of people that most of us would want to emulate. The movie star became Jack’s hero the moment a Spanish teacher talked about meeting the actor on a freighter bound for Marseilles. This stuck with Jack. Errol was a citizen of the world, someone engaged in careless living, with an enormous drive for sex and money, careless living and money, sex and money. It didn’t matter to Jack that Errol Flynn was a drunk and a bum. Flynn traveled the world, and it didn’t matter to him whether he was on top or not. Jack watched all his movies at least twice. He marveled over how Flynn rebelled against God and country. Making movies was always a side venture for Flynn. But what Jack didn’t know was Errol had some will-o-the- wisp desire to please his mother. Errol placated his mother as much as he could, and they continued a lifelong feud. Stress the word feud. Whenever they were together, it was like a tiger and a lion in a cage, in the same cage. She tried to control him and treated him like a dope. Even as a grown man, she treated him like a child and a dope. So “cheers mamma and damn you too!”

Flynn who entered Jack’s psyche served as a model for the young man, but the idea that they didn’t have a rudder was totally false. The two of them were simply a different breed. And Jack owed his mother more than he was willing to admit.

Flynn and Jack, both men felt impatient. Flynn and Jack, both men were always in motion. No shillyshallying. Both of them believed that all they needed was a good head start.

Errol made bank, played with confidence, and his luck was better than most. How much better was it to win money, money than earn it? So, in Manila, he rigged cockfights. In Macao, he counted cards.  Bets were high; stakes, higher. He was loaded with dough and could afford to lose. You could say he was lucky. Who wouldn’t mind winning that kind of dough? And both of them … Errol and Jack … knew that it didn’t do any good to fight a bad streak.

Jack always regretted that he didn’t say goodbye to his family.  He always regretted that he didn’t say goodbye to friends.  Jack regretted that he didn’t say goodbye to his girl.   It wouldn’t have been a simple matter to say goodbye. Maybe they would’ve talked him out of it. Maybe not. Questions would remain unanswered.

The sun told him that it was around noon and that church was getting out. He didn’t know how long it would take them to realize that he and the car were missing. Then they would call the police, but the police wouldn’t immediately do anything. But how long would it take them to find the car and put together a plausible explanation for his disappearance? All this bought him more time.

Jack was never obedient, so they figured he would come home by suppertime. He ran away before, so they thought he would come back, would come back, come back home, that he would come back for supper. He came back before, so they hung on, thinking he’d show up before dark. And calling police didn’t amount to much until they found the car abandoned not far from Jack’s home. Everybody thought Jack would eventually show up.  But they didn’t know Jack well.  They were wrong.  Jack didn’t show up before dark.

They knew that Jack was impulsive. They knew he ate and slept Errol Flynn movies, just as his father ate and slept cars, but they didn’t know how obsessed he was or how big an urge he had. They didn’t know how determined he was.  Or how much he wanted to be somewhere else. It was as though he was released from prison.  Jack didn’t know where he would end up.  He didn’t care where he would end up.

They never suspected he was running for his life. Since he was running for his life, he avoided highways and roads like a fugitive. He relied on his senses and avoided open fields and set a course through woods. And when he heard a brook, he said to himself, “At least, I won’t die of thirst.” Well, there he was without food, but he wouldn’t die of thirst. He then decided to condition himself by going without food for a week.

Some of his other ideas were more conventional. What else would you expect from someone determined to shake dust off his feet? But shouldn’t he have followed advice of teachers and graduated and enjoyed commencement? If he wanted to impress someone, shouldn’t he have graduated? He would’ve gone a different direction if he’d graduated. But there was no danger of him now graduating. And the last thing he’d do was impress someone. There was enough to worry about. If he stopped for moment, he would’ve been frightened.

Two long days with nothing to eat, but wild berries … power of mind over body! But he couldn’t get his mind off food.  He was hungry.  He was really hungry, starving, and he craved real food.  He craved his mother’s cooking … mother’s potato salad … mother’s fried chicken … the best fried chicken in the world.

Since he hadn’t planned, Jack told himself that he didn’t believe in planning. He didn’t have a compass or a map, so he gave up an idea of getting lost. And he never did, and never would, would never get lost, would always know where he was.  But something had to happen or else he would starve. He could get sick, but that was out of the question. He was never sick in his life, if you didn’t count measles, mumps, and earaches, normal things kids got before there were shots. So getting sick was one less thing he worried about.

So who doesn’t like fried chicken, fried chicken, smoked ham and potato salad like mamma makes? A spread that none of us can forget? Mamma’s chicken loaf … mash potatoes and white gravy and mamma’s chicken loaf. And the thought of never tasting mamma’s chicken loaf again made him want to run home. For he loved his mother’s chicken loaf, ate and slept his mother’s chicken loaf, just as his father ate and slept cars. At the same time, he learned to sleep on the ground. He didn’t have a sleeping bag or patting and soon had chigger bites all over him.  Chiggers, damn chiggers, and he itched.  He hadn’t had a bath.  And there was but one person in the world who could fry chicken right and for whom chicken loaf was a specialty and it was Jack’s mother. But she didn’t raise a baby.  He could sleep on the ground.  Since she didn’t raise a baby, he could sleep on the ground and put up with chigger … mosquitos, chiggers, and critters.   So since she didn’t raise a baby he didn’t see any reason to turn back.

But he already missed his mother, and missed his dad and sister too. He missed Margo, his sister, his bratty sister.  This surprised him. It surprised him more than anything, more than he imagined. For the first time he felt fortunate to have a mamma like his mamma. And although it wasn’t enough to make him turn around, he craved his mamma’s cooking. Man, was he hungry!

All day long Jack marched along. He soon got into a rhythm.  He made time and covered distance.  He cautiously circled fields recently planted in corn, soybeans, wheat and hay, fields yielding a precarious living, and fields passed from generation to generation. Hay, cows, and horses, staying out of fields, away from farmhouses, and as much as possible staying in trees, Jack, never one to complain, thought about making a hog of himself. His stomach hurt.   His stomach ached.  As he thought about making a hog himself, his stomach hurt and ached and Jack took it for punishment. He deserved it, he told himself. It was harder than he imagined. His stomach hurt and ached.  It cramped. His stomach cramped.  It never hurt so much. It never ached so much.  Still he didn’t turn back. He never experienced such desolation, such hunger, and it was a lesson he never forgot, but still he didn’t turn back.

From Richmond, an inner compass guided Jack to the Ohio River.  The Ohio, something new for him.  Before he left them he was tired of trees, though he appreciated the landscape, landscapes, hills and dales.  He took his time, yet he covered distance.  He took time to study everything. As if he were reluctant to let go, he studied everything down to minute detail. And without realizing it, he was preparing to leave a landscape he loved … a landscape he knew all his life. He noticed little changes, little things and open expansions … colors and smells, color of clay, sweetness of alfalfa, and smell of silage. He would miss fields of corn, soybeans, and wheat, round hay bales, and most all barns and silos. There was so much he would miss. Shooting the breeze with idlers at his daddy’s gas station and eating out at Oasis Diner were still things that were sacred to him. These were things he missed. He was already homesick, but he didn’t head home. It didn’t add up, but he didn’t head home.  He headed for the Ohio.

Only a week in the woods, but it seemed like a year. A farmer with a rifle and a fishing lantern surprised him as he tried to sleep. Jack had to think fast. He didn’t want to get shot. “Damn!”

“What are doing out here? I could shoot you for trespassing?”

“You almost stepped on me. I’m camping. I’m by myself.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without a tent? Without gear?”

“Yes, sir. I’m an Eagle Scout.”

“And I’m Daniel Boone. Now son …”

“I’m not joshing you. I’m an Eagle …”

“Eagle Scout? And you’re truthful, loyal, helpful …”


“Never mind.”

“On a survival course. So do you mind?”

“You from around here?”


“I don’t think so, but …

And of course the farmer saw through Jack. Yes, and probably because Jack wasn’t the first or last boy he saw on the road. And perhaps he had been on the road himself. And had a few stories of his own to tell. And some of them true. Perhaps there was something they had in common. Memories. Memories that last a lifetime. Tales. Tales so harrowing that they raise hair on the back of your head. About Wild West, wild Indians and wild animals. Notions about cowboys, about drunk cowboys, about singing cowboys. Cowboys in general. Cowboys who shot up towns for fun of it. About mad dogs, windmills, and weather vanes. About differences between truth and a lie and how to keep the two straight.

“So long,” the farmer said. “I hope you have a good trip.”

And that was when Jack knew that the farmer knew that he wasn’t an Eagle Scout, knew, yes knew, and not even close to being one. But it never occurred to him that the farmer could’ve given him a few tips. And suddenly he began wondering how the hell he got where he was. How did he get where he was? Where was he? And he started feeling sorry for himself. It was like he hadn’t learned anything. Every night was that way. Was he stupid or what? He wasn’t sure. And it kept happening over and over. Then something would happen, like it did that night when the farmer instead of shooting him returned with a plate of leftovers.

So it happened every time he began feeling sorry for himself. It happened every time he felt lonely.  It happened every time he felt homesick.  And those leftovers tasted better than his mamma’s chicken loaf ever did. The farmer also suggested that “roughing” it in his barn was probably more comfortable than “roughing” it in the woods. “And just in case it gets too rough I’ll leave my screen door unlocked.”

The barn was built so that a prevailing wind blew across the threshing floor. Jack never took it into account, and creaking and flapping and worrying made for a restless night. And as the night progressed, Jack felt more and more uncomfortable. He imagined the farmer on a telephone. He imagined him calling the State Police. It would only take one call. He knew that they were looking for him, and it would take only one call. He knew his parents were worried, and his dad wouldn’t stop searching for him. He knew it only would take one call.  One call to the State Police would be all it would take. A search meant involving the State Police. So he didn’t wait for the sun to come up.

Jack refused to backtrack. He never backtracked, but sometimes he looked backwards because he missed his family.  He missed home.  He missed Richmond.  He missed his mom and dad and his younger sister Margo.  Yet, he didn’t backtrack.  Hello.  And along the way he had many experiences.  Along the way he learned many things, but he refused to make the same mistake twice. He learned how to hitchhike and learned how to choose a ride by making mistakes and by not making the same mistake twice. Hitchhiking, there were some rides that he wished he hadn’t taken and there were some rides that he wished he hadn’t refused. There were no rules, or if there were he hadn’t learned them. He relied on his gut. He never knew what he would run into, so he had to pay attention to his gut. It was a risk, but he thought it was a manageable one.

They circled back and passed him twice. You never know. He suspected they were okay because they were girls. Girls! Oh, goodness me. And they were stopping for him.  Girls! Jack was thankful. Jack was thankful for a ride after have stood by the side of the road for as long as he had.  Girls!   It had to be his lucky day.  Beauties.  It had to be his lucky day.

They liked to party. And these girls pretended they had nothing to lose but their virginity and pretended losing their virginity came about easily for them.  So they liked to party.  They pretended … yes pretended and flirted.   With nearly a full bottle of Schenley left, they pretended and sang, “As Sunny says, praises to the quality whiskey that wins your favor, try Schenley’s sunny morning flavor.” The kind of girls these girls were obvious, obvious to Jack.  Jack felt sure they weren’t virgins.

As they drove by him the first time in a new, blue Mercury convertible, Jack heard the girls over the motor sing, “Sun shining, surely one little drive in the country won’t do us in” and he smiled. They were having a good time.  They were wild and having a good time.

They were in a mood for love! Now they shouldn’t have picked him up. They didn’t know him, so they shouldn’t have picked him up.  He was a stranger.  It wasn’t safe to pick up strangers.  They should’ve known it wasn’t safe.  If they didn’t know him, they should’ve known better.  In those days it wasn’t proper for girls to pick up strangers, but girls were all different, though in some ways they were all alike. Girls that age were boy crazy, and those girls were boy crazy, and they probably figured that there was safety in numbers. There were four of them and one of him. With four of them, he had his hands full, and Jack kept his hands busy, but what did he care.  What did they care?  It didn’t matter. They didn’t know him. He didn’t know them.  It didn’t matter because he didn’t know them and they didn’t know him. Driving along he soon got to know them well, really well.  It didn’t take long for him to learn that they were hot, really hot, really hot babes.

Man, were they hot! And this was not something he complained about. Who would complain?  What young man would complain?  But it turned out that they were more than he could handle. Hellzapoppin’, they were bombed, bored and were skipping school. They had transportation, had freedom, freedom of transportation and were skipping school.  He was keen at first, and they were peachy keen, and oh-so peachy keen, and took a sportsman’s aim at getting laid. There were no Paris pin-ups in Indiana, and very few in America, but flaming red hair drove a young man from Indiana mad. Blonds drove a young man from Indiana mad.

Jack saw his last apple and banana in Richmond, his hometown. How many days had it been since he last ate an apple or a banana?  How many days had it been since he said goodbye to Richmond? He asked himself that, as he eyed the girls’ sack lunches. For a second or two, in the back seat between two babes, he tried to contain himself. Then as the speedster drove down the center of the highway, Jack tried not to look. He liked where he was, liked where he sat but tried not to look. Then something occurred that he never forgot.

He preferred not to talk about it. It can be imagined what affect it had on a young boy not out of high school yet when she placed her hand on the inside of his thigh and slowly inched it up. And he pretended he didn’t notice, yet he felt embarrassed.  Later it wouldn’t be such a big deal as then. But hellzapoppin’, it sure was then when his zipper felt like it was popping open.

Why wait for introductions?  Why wait?  And in spite of him smelling and not having a shower since Richmond … how many days ago?  … and yes needing a shave … the girls wanted to kiss him. And French kiss him too. Now he wasn’t particularly a good kisser. He hadn’t had much practice and believed that everyone along way was a better kisser than he was. And those girls seemed experienced sure enough. He had not seen such a wild bunch. The driver was the prettiest, he guessed … a flaming red head … the prettiest girl in the whole world, he reckoned, and he didn’t know just how pretty she was until she exchanged places with one of the girls in the front. Until then he didn’t know.

They all took turns before he escaped. And it wasn’t only kissing but exploring, as though they’d never get an opportunity like this again … as if they couldn’t get enough.  A boy’s dream, a young man’s … well.  There was intensity in clutching. There was intensity in exploring.  He went further with them than he ever went before. Each offered him something different, and he put his hands in places he never dared before. And he hadn’t brushed his teeth, but they didn’t care.  They didn’t care that he hadn’t brushed his teeth.

If they didn’t care, why should he?  If they wanted him to kiss them, why shouldn’t he oblige?  If they wanted him to touch them, why shouldn’t he?  If they wanted to touch him, why shouldn’t he let them? So much for principles. Such was temptation. One of them even had a class ring around her neck.  The flaming redhead was going steady.  It wasn’t however only girls but food also grabbed his attention. There were apples and sandwiches in those lunches. Ham sandwiches. He loved ham. He immediately eyed them. He would’ve done almost anything to get his hands on their sack lunches, and their apples and sandwiches interested him then as much as girls.  Man, was he hungry.

They offered him a swig, and it didn’t make sense why they picked him up. They were absolutely crazy, or acted like they were, but his hunger was overpowering. Later he would ask for what he wanted but first he had to overcome Hoosier pride. First he had to satisfy his hunger. The best approached was a direct one, but he hadn’t learned it yet. He played along, and you can’t say he didn’t enjoy it, but he kept his eye on the sack lunches, which was hard considering all they were doing. The best approach then seemed to be indirect, but it wasn’t easy. Since they should’ve been in school and shouldn’t have had anything to do with him, they should’ve treated him like poison ivy. This experience was new for all of them. It was new for Jack.  He didn’t know if it was new for the girls.  If it was new for them,

they never let him know it. It didn’t matter to them because they knew they wouldn’t see him again.

There were so many ways that this could’ve gone. He wasn’t on his turf.  Jack wasn’t on his home turf. On his home turf he would’ve known what to do. On his home turf he would be in charge, instead of the other way around. You shave and comb your hair. You brush your teeth. You put on deodorant. You would know what to do. On his home turf Jack would know what to say. He would know how to make a good impression.  He would know if they had steady boyfriends if they had them. They were dressed for school, but if they were schoolgirls would they French kiss a dirty stranger? Would they be drinking, drinking and driving? Now they were drinking and driving. Would they be drinking if they were going to school? They were barely old enough to drive. If he thought about it, Jack wouldn’t have accepted the ride. If he had listened to his gut, what would he have done?

So Jack dove into map-less territory. Some ten minutes later and ten miles down the road, the girls exchanged places again. They took him for a ride, played stupid 1948 games, of flirt and tease. He didn’t care. They didn’t care. He enjoyed it. He was amazed.  He was amazed and enjoyed it.  He was in heaven. Between kisses, they joked and laughed and fooled around. He didn’t know that they weren’t bad kids, bad girls. It was fine. It was fine that he didn’t know. Would it make a difference if he knew? It was nice.  It was wonderful.  It was exciting, but he was too hungry to take full advantage, advantage of them.

Instead he helped himself to their sack lunches. And why shouldn’t he? No sense of guilt. They used him, and he took their lunches. Fair?  To Jack, it seemed like a fair exchange. They left him alone when they went into a restroom at a gas station. That was their mistake. Then when they returned, and he wasn’t there. They never gave him a second thought.

And he soon found himself on the banks of the Ohio River. It was Sunday because as he approached a landing he heard a church choir singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”  Jack knew “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” from his Sunday experience.  It was Sunday, and it reminded him of home. “Umph!” He still didn’t feel pushed away. It reminded him of home, and yet he didn’t want to run.  It reminded him of home, and yet he didn’t want to return.  Every town had churches, and he avoided them as best he could except … except this time.  Now he was confronted with a whole congregation. Some of them were shouting rather than singing. Shouting Methodist!

He wasn’t opposed to churches. They just bored the hell out him. Now it seemed like everybody was down by the river, and they spotted him. Jack grew up going to church twice on Sunday and on Wednesday nights. And he went along because he didn’t have a choice. His parents made him go.  His mother more than his father wanted him to go. And since going to church wasn’t on top of his list, he now didn’t care rather he got involved or not. He liked music, church music, music praising God but didn’t care for persuasion. He considered it arm-twisting.

Converts stood in line waiting their turn in waist-deep water. They thought the best water for baptism flowed down the Ohio. It wasn’t as muddy as the Mississippi. The minister dunked one about every minute. It was the last day of a revival.  Of course this meant he baptized a great many people, but how many of them knew the meaning of baptism? The scene reminded Jack of his own salvation and baptism and his guaranteed ticket to heaven. He had a pass and was thankful. After French kissing a carload of strangers he was thankful. The good news was that he could sin and still go to heaven. Go to a camp meeting or a revival, and see for yourself. Sing “When we all get to Heaven.” What a joyful drama! Oh, what a joy!

Sure enough the best water for baptism flowed down the Ohio. And there were many reasons for shouting, both in English and in tongues.  Many people shouted in tongues.  They shouted and shouted.  They shouted in tongues.   It sounded like gibberish, gibberish to Jack. And the clear water of the Ohio was one reason for shouting. Shouting. It was irresistible. But Jack was a backslider, and maybe the trouble was, why he turned left when he should’ve turned right was that he was afraid of what he would face.

The water at the landing wasn’t deep.  The water wasn’t swift, and since Jack needed a bath he waded in and splashed about. The preacher was taken aback. He didn’t know Jack, so he was taken aback. Jack wasn’t a member of his congregation, so he shouted hallelujah!  Jack hadn’t been to the revival. Their revival.  The minister didn’t remember Jack attending the revival, so he shouted hallelujah because he had a new convert. The preacher was a gigantic, a gigantic black man in a black-and-white gown and should have been bothered by his new convert disrupting his service.

Jack never thought ahead. He acted on impulse, and wasn’t out to steal the show but did on this occasion. And among things he did was holler “see the Glory-gate unbarred!” And he wasn’t black.   Jack wasn’t black.  Here was a white man “see the Glory-gate unbarred!”  “see the Glory-gate unbarred!”  Jack couldn’t remember when he had so much fun.  He didn’t take it seriously, so he couldn’t remember when he had so much fun.  Thus it was that on that Sunday morning that something strange and wonderful happened, and perhaps it was a first for all of them. All of them except Jack believed in miracles, and all of them believed in the power of baptism … though they may not have known the meaning of it … and here was Jack splashing about and having the time of his life.  Here was a new convert, so everyone shouted hallelujah! Remember they were shouting Methodist.  Hallelujah!

Actually their reactions ranged from horror to jubilance. Hallelujah! Digesting it didn’t happen immediately. Yet each of them was transformed, and it was a miracle. At the same time Jack regarded it as nonsense until he ended the day at a potluck supper.  There was a potluck supper at the church,

The next day Jack got an early start and put as many miles between him and home as possible. He aimed for New Orleans. After his experiences so far, he didn’t give a damn anymore.  He didn’t give a damn anymore.  This attitude felt good. This kind of life agreed with him. He liked it.  He liked this kind of life.  Beyond that he’d have to wait and see.

A towboat slowly pulled away. Jack would have to decide, decide to jump or miss a chance. He was overly interested in the river and towboats, and had been for a long time. Now he had an opportunity he dreamed of and almost missed it. When he finally jumped, and for a second time in two days, he landed in water. He hadn’t intended to land in water.  He didn’t intend to land in the river, but now he found himself having to swim. So much for gracefulness! Luckily, he caught someone’s attention. And it was a good thing too.

It was strange how they took Jack in, how a lady threw him a rope and didn’t let him drown … how a lady threw him a buoy and didn’t let him drown.  Then there was a captain, who gave him a job in exchange for meals and comfortable quarters. He exemplified Wesleyanism. Jack felt so blue and miserable when a lady pulled him out of the water … blue and miserable but thankful, and thankful they didn’t let him drown and gave him dry clothes. This got to him.  Why did the captain hire him?

Jack had no money but intended to hitch a ride on a towboat. At first he felt uneasy and suspicious, but he knew he committed himself. He accepted a captain’s terms, and the terms weren’t bad. But why? Why did he do it? “Because,” said the lady, “he’s like that.”  The captain was like that.

But what about the pretty young lady? He never expected to find a pretty young lady like her working on a towboat, doing a man’s job and doing it well.  How could she … how could she stand smells of bilge, tar, and fertilizer and work so hard? Jack couldn’t understand why she wasn’t married, married to the skipper. Married! “Nonsense,” said Jack’s new friend. “You don’t understand. Marriage can be murder and children a penalty. Now, let me introduce you to modern thinking.”  Modern thinking?

This skipper caught them together, and this lady stopped talking. He was a gallant figure and old enough to be her father. What thoughtfulness! The opposite of what you would’ve expected, but it would’ve been a mistake to misinterpret his thoughtfulness. You knew not to mess with him. And if Jack had he wouldn’t succeed. The skipper was rough, tough but thoughtful.  Indeed, Jack never met a nicer man. But because of him the Ohio lost some of its romance. Jack expected something else and felt disappointed. Still what a man the skipper was. What a man.  Man, a man’s man.  Made of granite, while he subjugated himself to great rivers, silently as they moved along.

The skipper hardly said a word at the supper table. Taciturn was his nature. He rarely said a word. He didn’t need to say a word because there was also there … in him a hard drinking river rat.

Jack was fooled, totally fooled. He always remembered a gigantic man, a man who was the opposite of a stereotype. A man who gave Jack a chance when he didn’t deserve one. A man who was the opposite of a red-blooded, rowdy like he should’ve been. And without being half horse, half alligator, someone who could out-run, out-dance, out-jump, out-dive, out-drink, out-holler, and out-lick anybody, he ran a tight ship. He was adjusted. Channeling and diesel engines changed everything. Gone were rough and tough pole men, men who had to be rough and tough. These rivers produced courageous men. They had to be courageous and strong, and privation made them resourceful. Still Jack was lucky that those days were gone. Not that he would agree.

On the long journey down the Mississippi, he spent a great deal of time watching.  Jack learned a great deal by watching.  He learned about tug boats.  He learned how tug boats hummed.  He learned about the Mississippi. He spent a lot of time sitting on the bow watching the river and learning.  He soaked it all in.  And he didn’t give anyone any trouble and worked hard.  It was easy to let the day go by watching, learning, and working.  It got him motivated. Nobody was paying attention when he took an interest in what kept the towboat humming.  Everyone else was too busy to notice.

One doesn’t have to be sensitive to learn something about towing … just observant, that was it. And if Jack hadn’t wanted to learn, it would’ve been acceptable, but he couldn’t stand boredom. And he wanted to learn and earn his way, so he helped out where and when he could. He started with the lady of the towboat. She stayed busy all the time. Jack helped her with numerous tasks, and he jumped each time she said to.

The captain sang and smiled and never gave an order nor suggested that Jack do anything. Jack liked to coil rope, and he coiled it until he could coil it without thinking. Liked to help cook and take the pilot chicory. He tackled all kinds of things. And he did things without being told and did things before people thought he could, and did while watching for the slightest frown. To put it plainly, he tried to become indispensable. And as he became indispensable, more indispensable, his duties became more critical. There was nothing he wouldn’t try, which was why he was given responsibility, responsibilities. There were important things such as poking a flashlight into a little hole so that the engineer could fix a deck valve. Or help deckhands re-lash a tow. One day they let him tie up so that some of them could go duck hunting. He learned how to handle rope fenders and mooring lines during storms. The skipper even let him pull engine levers, causing diesels to throb and the towboat go faster.

With or without an education, many young men would’ve been happy with $275 a month including room and board and would’ve happily spent their lives living a dream. But not Jack. He had other ideas and, as we see, a determined constitution.

While waiting for a tow, the barge lady thought that she needed a break and that they should go tom-catting in a nearby town. “Raise some hell. It’ll do us good.” Time to buy a Stetson and a pair of box-toed shoes. Jack planned to dance and showoff in front of her.  Jack could be a showoff and thought he could dance. To him life didn’t get any better.  No, sir.  Not any better.

The towboat lady wanted to show him a good time but also felt that she needed to watch over him. She thought she needed to look out for him because she knew he was young and inexperienced.  Happily, she demonstrated that she could do without sleep, and she checked out each bar acting like she was looking for a fight. She fought and swore, and never fought to lose and always won. She was a big girl; only little girls came home in tears. It was one thing Jack remembered very clearly … one thing that stood out. She was a big girl and could hold her own.  She was a big girl and felt responsible for him.  She was willing to take punches for Jack.  Literally.  He couldn’t figure it out. She was an enigma to him. Jack never met anyone like her. He knew that he couldn’t force her to do anything that she didn’t want to do. And in many ways they were equal, except she was nuts.

The lady leaned on the bar and yelled, “Set me up with a black eye or another set of teeth, please!” Then she swung first.

“By golly, gracious me! She landed a good one!”

And there was Jack, who after only the slightest hesitation and totally drunk, defending a lady. This was a colossal mistake.

“The idiot,” she thought t with approval, even affection, as she watched Jack hurl himself in front of her … as he got hurt trying to defend her. She then popped the guy before he could hit her. Already known as a troublemaker (a compliment) she faced a dilemma of worrying about someone else more than she worried about herself. She hated feeling motherly. Cursing, she threw her arms around Jack and carried him into the street. Some of the men thought it was funny but didn’t smile. Behind her, instead of snickers, she heard smashing glass.

Jack was humiliated and hurt all over. Upset, he cried. He cried because she saw his downfall.  He cried because his pride was wounded.  He cried because he hurt.  That he no longer trusted his instincts made it worse. It surprised him and made it worse. How could she be a Christian, a Christian woman? And she said she was a Methodist. It seemed like she gave him permission to have thoughts about her that were immoral.

They hurried to the towboat where everyone was asleep and where to follow her to her quarters was dangerous. Right in front of his eyes she changed. He never forgot how much she changed … how she loosened her hair and pulled him to her.  He never forgot how hee felt her breast heave, as she gave him a wet kiss. Forgetting preliminaries, he heard himself say, “What the hell!” And naturally wondered what his old friends would think. He never met anyone like her and figured he never would again.

A real buck-a-roo!  Here was Jack, a hell seeker, cavorting with a rough Christian siren. Jack had but one thing on his mind, and she didn’t object.  But naturally he worried about satisfying her. It was like he had a stick shift and she, an automatic transmission, and it wasn’t long before he got down on himself. But hell he couldn’t help it that a lady fell for him, a lady from the least likely place. Not content with getting down on himself, he said, “We could get married.” When in doubt, you could always get married. And he grew up thinking that marriages were made to last, but she came from a different world and considered a tryst an interesting triumph.

Bragging to the boys, she said, “He’s cute” and something about having to draw him a diagram. “A diagram!!” she laughed.  A spitfire, she was salty. In those days, no one referred to her in terms of her pussy for she earned respect of the boys by referring to the length of their dicks.

The towboat now pushed additional barges of grain and gravel toward New Orleans. Getting there still required sweat and tears. Rather than fool themselves about taming a river, men were happy to go with the flow. Jack proved himself and made friends with the crew; so when they reached New Orleans they gave him their addresses, where they had wives, kids and yards. He knew little about them though.

Saying goodbye took him a while because for a while he lived a dream. Saying goodbye to the crew was like saying goodbye to a family, and saying goodbye to his family was something he failed to do, so it took him a while this time to say goodbye.  As an only son, he gained a second father and would’ve been satisfied running rivers the rest of his life. It was a dream since Jack first heard of the Mississippi. M-I-S-S-I-S-S-P-P-I Mississippi! There were memories of the Ohio and the Mississippi that he never forgot. And Jack clung to these experiences, as if his life depended on it, memories of heavy fog and swift water, blinding rainstorms and lazy bends. He took with him more than he hoped for then, a reason in itself for living.

He especially remembered a towboat lady: “Fasten your seat belt, and get ready for a ride of your life.” Oh, yes, everybody knew it by then. Didn’t she remind him of Betty Davis? “A good spanking was too frivolous.” Thinking of her made him crave for more, and Jack smiled every time he thought of her. With a voice pitched between a taunt and a whine and obtruding eyeballs, she was no counterfeit, and Jack was amazed that her sex never softened her. In comparison he was a pussycat. As often as she wanted she had her way with him.

The few dollars Jack saved gave him a few days in New Orleans. The few dollars he saved while working on a towboat he blew in New Orleans.  He saw sights, watched people, got drunk, and went through his money. He loved the city from Bourbon Street to Congo Square and did as he pleased. Seduced by crowds, pulled off streets by jazz and peep shows, honkytonks and beer joints, he set out to prove that he was a man and couldn’t escape that he was still a kid. There were stripping blondes and gyrating brunettes named Cup Cake and Tinkerbell, Cowgirl, and Annie Freeze. (Know how to make Annie Freeze? Take her clothes off.) Taking it all in, he rode up and down Canal Street, caught a street car named Cemeteries, got off, ate red beans and rice, added smoked sausage and all for a buck. He tried to talk to a bouncy lady at a counter. Never got beyond a smile and “hi darlin’.” Starving as much for conversation as for pork chops. Didn’t think he’d like collards. He learned to talk to strangers, people who told Jack about high stepping and strutting. Poor Jack, he kept thinking of Betty Davis. Found a place where pirate Jean Lafayette plotted to rescue Napoleon from the Island of St. Helena. Learned to love and eat chilled, salty Louisiana oysters.

Sex pumped him up. Sex got him down. Up and down, that’s how it went. Constant foraging which verged on theft, promiscuity and a taste for wicked women, these experiences were new and different. Wicked women took his money.  It was theft.  Letting impulse guide him, he achieved with strangers a degree intimacy that he never enjoyed before. But Jack saw danger in having too much freedom. There was danger in too much intimacy with strangers.

No, not all of us have strayed into a Y without knowing anyone there. You know the YMCA and good times that can be had there. Jack stayed the maximum time; but he wouldn’t have stayed so long had he not picked up an old, worn, dog-eared copy of Wendell Willkie’s ONE WORLD. Willkie also came from Indiana. ONE WORLD, a dollar book, sold a million copies faster than any none-fiction work ever had. Willkie loved bantering and loved long bull sessions. He was a politically inexperienced lightweight who ran for president. Willkie took a trip around the world, disregarding protocol by cracking stale American jokes and slapping the Shah, the King of Kings, on the back. Everybody loved it. Everybody loved him. He flirted with Madame Chiang Kai-Shek who flirted back, and became cozy with her husband. She loved Wilkie, and he loved her.  Everyone loved Wilkie.  He was lovable.  As for Madame Chaing Kai-Shek, Willkie said it was the only time he was really in love.

Wilkie misunderstood, or misrepresented in his book, the truth about Generalissimo’s army and said Chiang was fighting “truly a people’s war.” Jack didn’t know that Willkie’s dream of a New World order had already been damaged by Mao Tse-tung. And he didn’t know Burma was falling apart. The Communist plan, laid down in 1920, was to create Communist governments in all colonies of the world. And about then McArthur declared, “I will defend Korea as I would my own country, just as I would California.”

Do you think Jack knew about a great agrarian awakening, much less evils of a great agrarian awakening? Or knew about an international proletarian conspiracy, revolutions? Willkie’s vision was best depicted in World War II movies, where a Brooklyn Jew, an Indiana farm boy, an Italian from Chicago, and a Polish emigrant from San Francisco all pull together to defeat Nazis. And who knew who lost China? Or who allowed Manchuria to be turned into a hell? His obituary should’ve read “Give General Cheng a stout rope and he’ll hang himself. Trust us, arm us and we shall fight Communist bandits.” Lying in a grubby room at the Y, not far from the French Quarter, how could Jack have felt blows amid shouts of “Get down!” “Get down!” and “Free speech!” “Free speech!” or understood the havoc those words caused in China? He couldn’t have heard wicked bandits sing bitter songs.

“Some say we’re Communist raiders.”

“Old Chiang, old Chiang, we feel sorry for you.”

With a possibility of becoming a river pilot, and maybe a skipper, why would he want to move on? He needed to consider every opportunity … an opportunity, the opportunity of becoming a river pilot, and maybe a skipper. Accordingly, a particular bend, where the Mississippi was so majestic, spoke to Jack in a way that he could never explain. So there he sat for hours, sad and adrift, trying to make up his mind. Hadn’t he already made it up? It took him several days to turn away from the Mississippi.

Which way to go from there? Without much drive, he turned west. It was west, west that first lured him away from home (a more palatable idea than being driven away), so it was west again for him. It was perhaps the West that would cure his sadness, the West where his passions would find expression. The West was big enough for him to lose himself.

From New Orleans, Jack hopped a freight train heading west. Before long his face got dirty, very dirty and was covered by a partial beard, and then a beard, a long beard. He grabbed boxcar doors or ladders and swung himself up. Often challenged by railroad dicks yelling, “Where you goin’ boy?” “To the dogs, you fool!” became a pat answer. And it seemed to be what they wanted to hear. Often he shared a car with bums, bums who never worried about having a frying pan or nothing. His plan led him through Texas.

He learned to worry over nothing, except sometimes shacking up with a goddamn whore without protection, which seemed a hell-of-a-lot better than with protection. It sounded good … shacking up with a whore sounded good to him … shacking up with a whore without protection sounded good to him.   He liked trading favors with a whore, but there were customs and attitudes that bothered him … customs and attitudes of his family.  While Jack wanted to know about everything, he soon learned that he could get into trouble because he didn’t know everything.  He thought he knew everything, but he didn’t know enough to escape every time … everything.  How about hominy and grits or getting arrested for having a gun when he didn’t have one? How about guys who wear tin stars and are called bulls? Some were natural-born, and some were not. And after bouncing an inch or so off splintery floors for days, he was less inclined to worry about shades of difference. He tended to think that it really didn’t matter about most things. For smoother rides, he looked for gondolas or flat cars and was glad it wasn’t winter.

Summer had truly come, and he couldn’t drink enough water and roasted. Drank from Clorax bottles and roasted. No substitute for water ‘cept for fifty-cent-wine drunk with fucked-up tramps … fucked-up bums, washed-out bums and when heat and wine burned from inside out. Shirts did no good. When he was hungry, Jack ate almost anything. But it wasn’t hunger that dogged him most. His good looks helped. His good looks helped with whores.  He always looked for freebies.  He always had his eye to the ground.  There were high incidents of accidents that plagued them all, all of them. So Jack learned about hard knocks the hard way. He learned that tramping was no snap, but still ridin’ rails got into his blood. It got where he didn’t want to stop. It got where he had to keep going; and where he didn’t give a shit where he was going as long as he was going because things he was running from totally disappeared from view.  He didn’t look back.

Friends on the road ate out of cans and heated beans on coals until they bubbled. They carried everything with them, frying pans, oleo, and eggs, except food never kept. So there was little waste and little to wash up. The only problem was that it made them feel righteous about how little they had. They didn’t like feeling righteous.  Righteousness didn’t suit them any more than dignity.  Jack liked listening to them talk, talk mainly about themselves. A want-to-be, he assured them that he wasn’t Jesus Christ. This surprised them because he looked like a choirboy or a Bible thumper. For sure he wasn’t telling the goddamn truth about being an atheist. When he paid lip service to something, his listeners seemed sympathetic. All of them sat around shooting shit and acknowledged each other with nods.

Painfully away from a daughter and grandchildren (too ashamed to look them up), Tex called boxcars home. He was crossing his native state, close to home. As a vagrant, he felt guilty as charged. This should’ve satisfied Tex greatly; and Jack saw that it did. But instead of boots, the old cowboy wore worn-out shoes. And he had nothing to prove that he once rode the rodeo circuit but healed breaks that still gave him fits when it turned wet and cold … more so when it turned wet and cold.  More and more it hurt him.  More and more it hurt him as he got old older and older.

Jack didn’t know then just how close to the end of the road Tex was. At one time he was a successful horse wrangler, a character familiar to those who go to movies and recognized as ranch foremen, people admired for independence and detachment. But Tex left his ranch after a bitter divorce. Sad and bitter, he never picked himself up again and expected to die a lonely death, lonely and meaningless. After experiencing a breakdown, drunken wanderings, drunken moments, drunken memories of drinking, drinking half-serious and half-staged on wobbling legs, Tex often spilt his whiskey. And Tex often fell.  And because of it, he was considered a serious drunk.

Imagine Tex fighting an Apache with a rifle aimed at him. And he dives for cover.  A serious drunk, he dives for cover.  Then at the same time the tall cowboy spirals into a personal hell and feels bankrupt. No one can save him. No one can save him, save him from his alcoholism.  Here was Jack, and no one could save him. Jack tried to save Tex, but he couldn’t.  He couldn’t because Jack couldn’t save himself. And here was Jack’s West, a parody of Westerns, where one man withstands a compulsion to shoot himself or stands in the line of fire of Apaches. Perhaps Tex was still waiting for the cavalry: Jack never knew.  And the cavalry never came.  The cavalry never came in time for Tex.

Here was one man’s struggle made worse by a rough life. Tex was a bum, a tramp and was one most of his life. Still he lived by a code that came from the frontier, a code that demanded that he stand tall and not sink into self-pity. But he still felt in his bones Texas, barren and savage Texas, and was preoccupied with a dream of someday being taken seriously.

Tex, same as Jack, always looked for a chance to break free. It was not hard for Tex to see himself as a lone rider, a lone rider astride a horse, followed by a pack-pony trotting to keep up. He lost his bearings more than once.  More than once he lost his bearings. With his help, Jack entered a labyrinth of rocks and saw Apaches. He got off his horse. Naturally he got off his horse and had a gun and got off a shot. Just one shot. But in reality Jack couldn’t or wouldn’t shoot an Indian; while he was absorbed in speculation over rather he would or not, but he missed a section of the film that would’ve shaped his destiny.  He missed it.

Jack began to think thatTex had no guts. This was bound to get him into trouble. It took guts to do most things. It took guts to do most things, and it took more guts than most people had to ride rails … like riding broncos it took guts to ride rails. Sitting close to Tex, sitting close enough to touch him, he asked, “Have you ever shot anyone?  Have you ever been shot?  Have you killed anyone?”

“No my friend, I only carry a pocketknife.”

A pocketknife, a handy tool. There were more things you could do with a pocketknife than with a gun. If you had to choose between a pocketknife and a gun, Jack saw why Tex chose a knife. But the legacy of frontiersmen included packing a gun. There were times when Jack wished he had one.

A bond between the two grew stronger. They had plenty of time to get to know each other. Texas is a big state, and Jack wanted to see Texas, so they had plenty of time to get to know each other. Tex had been across Texas many times and told Jack all about Texas.  Like most Texans, Tex was proud to be a Texan.

As they crossed Texas, something happened that they hadn’t expected. They hadn’t expected to feel close to each other. Feeling close and responsible for each other was something they hadn’t expected. And it was painful for them both.

Jack listened while the old man, with few words, make a frontal attack on society. He attacked society.  He attacked society with all he had.  He would attack society until his last breath.  He wasn’t trying to convince Jack, but he was convincing. As often as he could he included theory and chivalry. He said, “The highest good can be a source of evil, and too often heroes die an irrational death.”  Where did Tex come up with such stuff?  It amazed Jack.

Gone were easy answers. “Idealism suffers in the face of evil,” or “we’re all lost.” “Sheriffs carry long rifles.” “And heroes are roped and dragged through fire.” But what did any of it have to do with Jack? Yet he knew exactly what Tex was talking about. Heat, oppressive heat. Loneliness, frightening loneliness. There were times when he succumbed to heat and loneliness, and that was why he always talked to people he met.

Now Jack sat in an open boxcar door, with familiar click-clack, as he soaked up Texas. Now it was hard to do, Texas is a big state, but he gave it a try. Never before had he experienced such open and rugged land. Where buffalo roamed, he saw himself becoming a cowpuncher. Or a prospector. A man can’t pull a donkey if a donkey don’t want to move. Man against beast and lost on the plains with only a pocketknife, but no that was wrong. Jack never felt lost.  Perhaps you may be like Jack and been on a great adventure and had time to ponder the vicissitudes of your fate.  Perhaps?

“I’m mind of when I wuz young an’ roamed whar mountains riz on high,

An’ grassy prairies spread fur-wide a-neath a clean sky….

I’d nary care, nor tho’ it o’ fear, when youth wuz in my eye….”

How Tex sung and Jack saw mist in his eyes. Fancy a life of roamin’ whar mountains riz on high and dreams of grassy prairies spread fur-wide a-neath a clean sky. But how big a lie was I’d nary care? Was it a lie? Nor tho’ it o’ fear? Was there something to fear? Was youth ever in his eye? No, he was old, obviously old. So much for raising hell!

Tex caught rodeo fever, which carried off many a good cowhand. He never won more than what it cost him for entry fees, travel expenses, and grub, but he couldn’t stop. So he lost his wife. He lost his wife because he never brought home enough. And he lost his family because he never bought home enough. And he wasn’t home enough: gone all the time and never brought home enough. He never bought into home enough.  Thought he’d never give up bulldogging. “Yep,” he said, “for ten years I lived a life with most of my bones cracked or broken. And Maggie didn’t like it. Shouldn’t she have understood? Maybe.  Maybe not.  I don’t blame her.  No, no.  Maggie was a good woman.                                Maggie was … is a good mother.  I love … still love her.” Here his voice trailed off. Why hadn’t pain vanished? He missed his kid and missed seeing his grandkids. His kid was no longer a kid; still he missed him. Once or twice he sneaked up to the front of the old ranch house at night, as close as he dared git, hopin’ a horse’s whinny wouldn’t give him away. “From another time until it was too late,” he said.

During uncertain times, he relived his errors, but it didn’t mean that he vacillated. He paid a heavy price, but it no longer mattered. He shared the only picture he had of his wife and kid and remembered a day when he lost them both. A look at a three quarter moon through a cracked window, when it was impossible to make love: that craziness, still not deciphered, occurred on a ranch in south Texas, where civilization only existed at the end of a long ride. It had its roots in endless isolation. O, bitter was his sorrow. One discovers too late what is important. Not until a love has been crushed does it come home, come home to roast. Still he said he wouldn’t have done anything different.

On the rodeo circuit, Tex chased every skirt he could afford, but he left at home a woman he loved most.  On the rodeo circuit, Tex chased women while he loved one woman: Maggie.  At the same time, he said he left Maggie to find happiness. Yet he was always happy to get home, and through big, salty tears, he always apologized. Then from those he wronged, he sought benefits, benefits of home.

“Y’u know,” he sung. “How it was. Sanctity of marriage, and how Maggie was, and how homs … But ‘pears they helt a quarlin’ spree, which hawtted their romance; and jealous Maggie figgered she’d humble Tex, first chance! He then followed every rodeo skirt that he could corral. He’d hug ‘em an’ kiss ‘em and fucked ‘em. Yep! They’d kiss him right back. So, wa-a-l, y’u know the rest.”

A jealous Maggie was what he often contended with. Now there were a few joyful moments still. And it didn’t mean it happened all of a sudden either. If he saw it coming, he might’ve done something about it. It? A cold chill settled over the ranch. A cold chill settled in the house proper, a cold chill settled in the bedroom, first when he was gone and later when he came home. It never warmed up. Let’s say he chose something different, and it confused him. It confused him that Maggie didn’t warm up.  Tex expected her to wait for him.  He expected it to warm up.  He diligently tried to find what he lost but he never found it. He never found it at home.  He never found a warm home again.  And he never came up with a satisfactory explanation.

That was a reason Tex gave for drinking so much Black Velvet. Divorce. Jack, just like Tex, betrayed people who loved him most. Jack, like Tex, betrayed people he loved most. And he, just like Tex, was bothered by it. But very soon, both men got arrested and detained for something else.  Arrested!  Arrested and thrown into a Texas  jail   It was the first time Jack was arrested and thrown into jail.  And he prayed it would be his last.  Yes, he prayed.

It seemed a great injustice and gave Jack an excuse to run some more. Now you might think that he didn’t need an excuse to run, but by then he was getting pretty tired of running. In addition, he needed a reason to continue, and until then he didn’t have one. ‘til then he never considered himself a criminal or a vagrant. Yet he and Tex got themselves arrested like criminals. They were arrested for vagrancy. It was simpler after getting arrested because he then had a record, got locked up. Having a record gave him an excuse, an excuse to run some more. And it carried with it a little prestige in certain quarters but certainly wouldn’t have pleased his parents. And there was something else he needed to prove. That something was that he was quite capable of taking care of himself, or if he got in trouble, he could get himself out of it.

They found no mercy in a tiny west Texas jail, no justice. Held for a night behind bars Jack felt rage and expressed it in a way that only made it worse for him. He tapped a reservoir of anger, a reservoir of hate that built up quickly after watching a bull beat the hell out of Tex.  No justice, the son-of-a-bitch picked on a weak, shaky, old man, a fellow Texan whom Jack grew to like. The bull got madder and madder and meaner and meaner with each blow.  The son-of-a-bitch beat the hell out of a weak, shaky, old man, a fellow Texan. The son-of-a-bitch tried to kill a weak, shaky an old man, as the train pulled away, making it impossible for Jack or old man escape. As the bull’s face turned red, Tex’s face grew pale. While Jack stood nearby and did nothing, fury kindled laughter. The bull said he wouldn’t take “no shit from a goddamn bum!” Some people go crazy with a bat in their hands. He said, “I won’t take no shit from a goddamn bum!” as he beat Tex with a bat over and over again. Fuck it! That’s how you get killed. The bull threw them both into the back of his car when Tex instead needed an ambulance … needed an ambulance after a beating.

And yet Tex looked like he would survive. And he said he’d been through this, worse before. And there was no reason not to believe him. Even though his head bled, the old man sat up, and as Jack tried to stop bleeding with the old man’s shirt as he saw swelling spread to the old man’s left eye.  Tex had other injuries, internal injuries.  Jack didn’t know he had internal injuries.  Jack was no doctor.  He never had a first aide course.  He was never a Boy Scout.

Silent they were to begin with because friends were often silent when strangers have to talk. An awakening was what it cost Jack.  It cost … it cost Jack his innocence.  It was the nearest thing to Nazism that he ever saw, and it was something that they didn’t want to relive.

Fucked up with so much anger and hate … fucked up with so much to think about and even before Jack knew Tex wouldn’t make it.  Fuck it.  Fuck up.  Fucked up.  Fucked up.  Fuck ‘em! There are brave people who don’t make a fuss about anything, and cowards who let everyone know how tough they are. Tex didn’t say nothing about where he hurt. Jack could see that Tex was in bad shape.  Jack could see that Tex hurt.  Tex was hurt, yet Tex didn’t complain. Tex didn’t say nothing when he spat blood. Tex said nothing when he hurt inside.  Jack was no doctor, no Boy Scout, but he could see that his friend hurt. And he was just as hurt when early the next morning they were shoved back onto a train. The day before Jack had been in his prime, while by the next morning he was a hundred years older. And he wondered what they did to justify what was done to them when nothing justified it.

In pain, Tex found dying a challenge and found a friend in Jack. And this made him feel better. He hurt all over, hurt inside and out, but this made him feel better.  Having Jack as a friend and having Jack with him made him feel better. It was the first time Jack watched someone die.  Jack didn’t know anything about dying.  It scared him.  Death scared him.  Made Jack tremble. Made Jack shake. Made Jack vomit. Where the Texan was going, he knew he’d follow. And it made him vomit.  Instead he wanted to follow his parents and Margo. He could report this honestly and prayed, prayed his first honest prayer. He prayed and prayed and felt like no one else gave a damn.  Prayed to God.  Prayed, “Please, please let Tex live.  Please God … please!”

Then Jack made Tex mad by saying, “You can keep your fucking Texas!” Jack said “You can keep your fucking Texas” with all emotion he could muster. “You can keep your fucking Texas!” And Tex got mad and tried to defend Texas. “You can keep your fucking Texas,” Jack repeated and repeated.  “You can keep your fucking Texas!” And Tex tried to defend Texas, but he couldn’t change Jack’s minded.  The worst part for Jack was he saw he hurt Tex., when it was certain that he wasn’t talking about Tex’s Texas, or even the worst part of Texas. He was just talking about some people in Texas, some places in Texas. And Jack had to admit that you could find bad asses anywhere.

“You bum, don’t die!” How could wantin’ to live be held against Tex? You couldn’t fault Tex for wantin’ to live.  You couldn’t quarrel with Tex wantin’ booze to ease pain. And as much as he loved his booze it was probably rotgut that killed him as much as anything. His injuries didn’t seem life threatening, yet he was dying. And what could Jack say about Tex that was nice? Say something nice to cheer him up. He did his best to keep it light. Was he a bum? Was Tex a bum? No, he didn’t fall into the category. Of course, he drank, but he wasn’t a drunk with an unhinged brain or wild habits. It went deeper … deeper.

A monster lived while a gentle soul died. Nobody knew where he wuz. Nobody knew who he wuz with. Nobody, nobody ‘cept Jack.  Tex’s ex didn’t know where Tex wuz.  Tex’s daughter didn’t know where Tex wuz.  Nether Tex’s ex nor his daughter knew whether Tex was alive or dead.  A monster out lived Tex in west Texas. No doubt he died of old age?  There was no justice, no justice. Who played cop, ruled the world, and made up laws as he went along.  Not Tex. Not Tex! Rules.  Some laws.  Necessity obliged men and women to follow them. All Tex ever carried with him was his social security card. His character was set before he knew it, and all he carried was his social security card. And the way he lived was his business; and that was how he was, from one end of the country to the other, back and forth.  In the short time Jack knew him Tex revealed as much as Texever revealed to anyone, and that wasn’t much.  And then what would happen if Jack lost his social security card?

A beating he didn’t deserve, jail time instead of medical treatment, and to lose his life because of it. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right.  Hell, no! Tex didn’t deserve it. No answer to why it happened. Jack never got one. It took tough men, hard working men and hard drinking men in coveralls to run trains; and contrary to what you might think there was little sympathy for bums, no sympathy. There was no changing it. They had no sympathy for men who repeatedly got their ass kicked, ass kicked off trains or needed to dry out.  Bums.  And they didn’t see that Jack didn’t belong there.  And they didn’t see Jack wasn’t one … wasn’t a bum.

Jack asked himself what he could’ve done had he stayed with Tex’s body.  Jack asked himself what would have happened had he stayed with Tex’s body. He didn’t have a choice or did he?  It wasn’t right. He couldn’t do it. And hadn’t Tex himself urged him to jump off the train before it reached a town or else face too many questions. Jack planned to stay on the train until it reached California, but he was too afraid by the time they crossed the Rio Grande. He listened for the return of bulls for as long as he could stand it. It wasn’t right to leave Tex’s body, but screw ethics.  Screw ethics.  The thought of jail got in Jack’s way. Screw ethics, screw what’s right, screw everything.  Jack had enough jail.

Tex’s worst errors never amounted to much. He never committed a serious crime. He was generous to a fault and bore little malice. There came time when Tex was too old, too weak to work hard. There came time when he could no longer punch cattle. There came time when he could no longer ride bulls, and like most Texans were, Tex was full of bullshit. God loved him. Tex was full of bullshit. His kid loved him. She surely did. She surely remembered Tex.  And Jack loved Tex too.  He surely did. Jack wished that they could remain friends forever. He surely did. And learned from him about eating rabbit and rattlesnake. Which tasted better, rabbit or rattlesnake? Jack never knew if Tex knew his stuff when it came to horses and women. Could he have taught Jack how to tie a diamond hitch? How to rope a cow or how to aim straight? Or hunt mountain lion? He didn’t know that a scarred riding saddle that Tex once owned now gathered dust. Tex often yearned for his old spread, which was sold after his divorce. Remembering a corral, a house, and a barn were among Tex’s favorite memories.  Among Jack favorite memories was sleeping an Indiana barn.

Before doubting Tex … before kicking dirt on his ashes, and picking up cans he left behind, as Jack thought about jumping off a train, consider the direction the young man could go. Jack could ride rails the rest of his life … just as he could’ve tackled rivers the rest of his life. But forever was a long time and forget any idea that there were constants about Jack. Jack might say he was going to do something one day and do the opposite the next. The only thing certain about him was his inconsistency. It was likely that he would change and that terrain he was going through wouldn’t appeal to him very long. Distorted landscape.  Desert. Nothing on the horizon. Nothing but desert.  No way to judge distance. Nothing. Only sand and more sand. Desert.  No shade. No trees. Only creosote and cactus. Not a cloud in the sky. And to think that some people thought it looked beautiful.

And the last place Jack went through wouldn’t be the same if he went back there. There was nothing to see so why backtrack? And he would soon grow tired of long, cold nights and surviving by canning … scavenging aluminum, copper, and brass … and instead of in a house sometimes sleeping in a cardboard box.

Tex learned lessons of rope and how to avoid burns. Loosening his saddle girth gave him a chance to take a breath. All his life Tex enjoyed roping. It felt good to rope and because he was a good roper. Not into praying … chose cursing instead of praying.  Tex preferred roping to going to church.  He took pride in being un-churched. He took what life gave him. He wasn’t good enough for the Cowboy Hall of Fame.  He wasn’t good enough for Roping Hall of Fame and instead of fame and money, he ended up anonymous and broke. This hour was his last, and he didn’t have much left but memories.  This was his hour, and he didn’t have family or friends around him.  Correction: Tex had one friend there when he died. Jack.  Jack watched Tex die.

Give a steer a lead, lasso it with a rope; reach down and grab it by its horns and slide off and plant your feet into dirt and slide until you stop.  It was magical.  Magic.  Give an old hand a rope and let him do his thing until his body no longer worked: that was what he deserved.  Was it?  Was it what Tex deserved?  And once a cowboy is finished, let him finish.  While some died curzin’ and many died prayin’.

Hot.  Hot.  Hot.  He saw white bones bleached by a very hot sun.  Hot. Blistering.  Blisters. Blistering heat.  Sunburn.  O wind and heat, and clouds without rain, no sign of water. Dying of thirst.  Water was crucial. It hadn’t been a good day, and the worst was far from over. When he jumped off a train, he got into cactus, or cactus bit him. Cactus jumped at him and bit him. For more than twenty miles a basin, and it didn’t seem like he was making progress.

Jack pushed on in spite of being on verge of insanity. On verge of dying.  He met death again, or Jack thought he was on verge of meeting death.  Suppose he met Cabeza de Vaca, or Yaque Indians. Imagine how he’d embrace them. For Catholic Spain and for God, conquistadors were determined to succeed in this harsh land or die trying. Jack could see why deserts became a proving ground, a proving ground for conquistadors, those early explorers.

Jack finally reached a dirt track, and it so revived him that he took off running. A dirt track gave him false hope. He scoffed at anyone saying that it was a dirt track and not a road but felt lucky that it was something after so much nothing. He could’ve wandered for days. Now he had something, and he had a dirt track that led to Paradise.

He thought of his mother’s piano that she never played and a sewing machine she never used. Thought about Indiana and Blue Hole Lake near Brazil; and a train that left a trestle and with three cars and an engine that plunged to the bottom. His own train seemed derailed … derailed.  He thought of his dad and wondered what he’d be like without a track to follow. Jack thought of his dad and wondered what his father was doing.  Working, no doubt.   His father loved fishing at Blue Hole Lake.  He never had time to fish.  Jack missed lakes and streams and roads and hills and hollows and missed Indiana, and always would, always would.  Thinking about catching bass, out of a hole or a sink, kept his mind occupied. Bob Ruby liked fishing. Jack’s father liked fishing.  He liked fishing Frog Pond better than Blue Hole Lake. Firewater drove poor Bob Ruby loco, while like every Hoosier he spoke his mind, and while he planted lies and debated weather. How could Jack forget soldiers for Christ marching with an army with banners, while they lived wicked lives with impunity? Jack let his mind wander like this until he collapsed from heat and thirst.  Decimated by heat and thirst.  Decimated and dehydrated.  Almost died.  Almost joined Tex.

In Paradise, Jack slept between clean sheets. Whether he would ever wake up seemed questionable. Did he dream of prospecting gold and of rougher it and racier times, when money was easy and life was gay? Of drinking, fighting, gambling, and whoring? Of when a promise of Paradise meant good men caught gold fever and fever drove them mad? Imagine men with cyanide, sage, and silicate in their blood, and miners, promoters, and gamblers losing sight of everything else but gold. It was a crapshoot, when those who didn’t strike it rich lived or died for another chance.  Jack knew it was a crapshoot.

Let’s suppose Jack dreamed.  Let’s suppose Jack was dreaming.   Let’s supposed his dream, which he enjoyed contained voices of senioritis and their intonation of “no sabe,” or “quin sabe.” To be enjoyed.  Let’s suppose Jack enjoyed his dreams.  Let’s suppose Jack had few nightmares.  Let’s suppose.  You couldn’t know how sweet it was without being in Jack’s shoes.

What was in store for him? Suppose he caught a fever, suppose it was gold fever, would he trudge on, trudge around in boiling and then freezing deserts, searching abandoned cuts and tailing dumps and rocky canyons to satisfy his lust for gold? How would he conquer such an urge?  Can you?  Could Jack?   This old camp nearly died and Paradise was too far-gone to be revived.

Abandoned except for four women. They lived there alone. Four women lived there alone and between them owned the whole town, lived alone in Paradise and owned it.  There were those who thought they were well off.  There were those who knew differently.  Then Jack entered their world. Unceremoniously picked up and given supper, a bath, and a bed, after what he went through … through hell … how could he turn it down when it meant he lived?

It was Jack’s American face and his guileless nature that made Juanita’s heart skip. Juanita’s heart skipped and missed a beat when she saw Jack’s angelic face.  Yes, Jack had an angelic face.  He had blond hair, fair complexion, and blue eyes, so Jack was painfully sunburned.  Was he the gringo of her dreams? Was Jack the young man of her imagination? Handsome, would Jack make her day?  Handsome, would Jack find her desirable? Yes, Juanita dreamed of Jack and dreamed and dreamed.  Was Juanita the woman of Jack’s dreamed?  Juanita hoped.  Dreamed.  Dreams that she couldn’t distinguish from reality. Waiting for him to wake up, two of three women sat close by.  On each side of a bed Jack was in. Happily, Juanita watched Jack smile while he ate his first cooked meal in days. Before she knew him, she liked Jack’s smile.

Juanita was from Mexico, part Indian, and worked most of the time.  She worked hard.  She did men’s work (someone had to do it). She had muscles where Jack expected flab, muscles she used to wash and mend for him. She intended to take care of Jack. She was shocked by Jack’s condition, but she intended to help him recover. He was filthy and exhausted.  He was filthy and sunburned.  He hadn’t bathed in weeks and slept in days, so he was filthy and exhausted. After riding rails and trekking through desert, he needed to bathe and sleep. She knew from childhood what wearing dirty clothes meant. She knew from childhood how it felt. So she fluffed Jack’s pillow, made sure his sheets smelled clean, gave him a razor and a toothbrush, and often checked on him while he slept. Nothing felt better to Jack than sleeping in a bed, between clean sheets so he never wanted to wake up. Assuming she burned his clothes, he let Juanita wait on him and was once again content. He enjoyed being waited on. He enjoyed hot food.  He enjoyed bathing.  And Jack expressed his appreciated to Juanita and two of the other women.  And while Juanita preferred a steady beau, his ideas fluctuated.

On the other hand, Hetty had nothing to do with him. She was an individual and was determined to remain an individual and was proud of it. She got her greatest joy from digging and panning for gold. Never content, Hetty hoped that someday her sweat and toil would pay off.  Early on, she caught the gold bug.  Gold fever drove her mad, mad just as many other people were driven mad by gold.  Heavens! Could she have been a beauty queen? She was beautiful.  She was desirable.  Could someone so hard and rough have been a beauty queen? Yes, she was a looker. Someone who could work all day as hard as a man and who left behind remains of a sewing machine and a kitchen stove? Yes.  Left behind the remains of a sewing machine and a kitchen stove to become a prospector.  A beauty queen and desirable, yet she looked like she was born with a pickax and a shovel in her hand.

Much had changed for her, but some things never would. There was still a woman inside Hetty. There were still dresses in her closet.  There were desires to be met. But since Jack’s appearance, she worked tailings, worked tailings all the time, with wind messing with her hair. She was always first to start digging and last to call it quits. She also was attracted to Jack but felt that she didn’t have luxury to wait on him. She was smart and thought while he slept that she needed to maintain a routine.

A widow, Lenora was a mestiza like Juanita. She had a white dad and an Indian mother. She had blue eyes, shiny hair, and expressed herself in a passionate way. She was passionate and sexy, sexy and passionate in every way. There weren’t many women left like Lenora, women who lived through hysterics, slurs, and banishment. Her eyes were a dead giveaway. Her eyes reminded people of scandal.  She was hurt, hurt, hurt, and she didn’t want to talk about it.  She didn’t talk much and remained a mystery.  She liked it that way.  And her intolerance wasn’t appreciated. Life hadn’t been fair to Lenora; so she felt she had more of a claim on Jack than the others. Agony made it certain that she told him about her Anglo Saxon father.

“O, Juanita,” implored Lenora, “can’t you see that you’re not giving him room?”

But no one could stop Juanita from hovering over Jack.  Whenever she was free, Juanita stood guard over Jack.  She ignored her chores to look after Jack.  Juanita fell for Jack, fell in love with Jack, fell hard for him.  Lenora saw what was happening and didn’t like it.  Lenora resented it, resented Juanita for it.  Lenora didn’t like it and started plotting.  Immediately starting plotting, Lenora knew that she would prevail.  She plotted and plotted and viewed each setback as a challenge. So Lenora sat close to Jack’s head, while she engaged in a stupid struggle with her rivals. How long would this go on?

Lenora suggested, “Maybe he’s coy and is pretending to be asleep.”

Juanita paid her no attention. She never considered the allure of Lenora’s blue eyes, and it all soon came to a head. They had a real snit, Lenora and Juanita. It became a major rift, a real snit, that became impossible to bridge. They fought like sisters, cats and sisters.

In charge of cooking, Christina was an excellent cook. A fifty-year-old widow, who marveled at changes in life, particularly changes in her body, she found joy in the kitchen.  She had a pleasant personality. She often sang.  She loved to sing, sing and cook, singing while cooking, sang and cooked to escape confusion. Let her hasten from conflict to joys of the kitchen, where she opened curtains and windows and escaped confusion, chaos, and cat fights. She couldn’t help herself, as she went back and forth, cooking and singing.

Had Jack been a prince, Christina would’ve done more to get his attention. A maid-of-all-work, she wasn’t shy. She had a hint of pink in her cheeks from pinching them. Voluptuous, Christina had a supple body and had as much pride as a duchess. She kept her hourglass figure in spite of having two babies, gifts of love, once from a husband and once from a lover, a priest. Her pleasant demeanor covered up defects.

Christina of all people became a Catholic and wore a crucifix of silver. She sang like an angel and often as she sang and cooked thought of her good priest who gave her a special gift. It was with a loud voice that she proclaimed happiness, for a priest gave her a child … what better gift?  Both children were grown now.  Both had children now. Both had families now.  Public exposure might’ve driven a lesser woman away from the Catholic church. It certainly didn’t do this priest any good.

Christina got to a place where no one could hurt her. Cooking and singing gave her sustenance; and Paradise was the only place she wanted to live.  Paradise on earth was enough, and she sang about it.  Contrary to many women, she wanted to remain a widow, though widowhood was new and sad for her. Jack could’ve been her son, another miracle child; and he let her call him any name she wanted.  She warmly called him son.  He was just a boy, too young for her, a boy who came out of nowhere and reminded her of her husband. An American, who rode into her life on a horse, Christina’s husband followed an unbeaten path. Her Bill may have lived long enough in the West to call it home but unfortunately mistook a chorus of coyotes for laughter of madmen. You can imagine how Christina felt and how her feelings were misconstrued.  You can imagine how hurt she felt.  She was devastated and hurt when Bill left her.   And there was Jack, wide-awake now, but not out of bed yet feeling embarrassed. But how could he object to so, so much attention and kindness.

Then Lenora saw Juanita caress Jack’s arm. Caught in the act, Juanita jerked her hand back. All she wanted she said was make sure he felt comfortable.  And all she wanted she said was feel Jack’s pulse.

Excuses were made about the room, bed, and house; and there was a need for excuses. Lenora muttered something about Juanita being a bitch, about her shameful behavior, and a great deal more that wasn’t translatable.  Bitch.  Bitch.  Bitch!  Lenora never had a reliable man; a reliable horse yes; but a man, no. Here was a possibility, a young and trainable male. Lenora, though, was not sure. She was as ready as she was at seventeen; but how to proceed eluded her. “You were sound asleep, beautiful sleep….” was all she said. She could tell Juanita liked him too.  She knew she had rivals.  Christina protested that it wouldn’t be any trouble or would hardly cost them anything for extra food and, without consulting Hetty, asked Jack to stay.  Christina resented Juanita, resented Juanita for not doing her chores, not doing her chores since Jack arrived.  Christina refused to pick up the slack.

Hetty felt abandoned, as she searched for a few flakes of gold. When she found a few flakes of gold, Hetty felt lucky.  Most of the time she found nothing.  Most of the time Hetty felt unlucky, and she pouted, cursed as she picked through rubble at the end of Main Street near Piety Hill. Finding gold would’ve cured her pain.  Whenever she found a few flakes of gold, Hetty felt relieved. Gold enough to pay mortgage and a few other bills. Hetty held onto a notion that Paradise hadn’t died. It didn’t matter then that men didn’t understand how she showed affection for Paradise. How could she show affection for Paradise?  Sober or not, she cursed all gringos, as she picked through rubble at the end of Main Street near Piety Hill.

Poor, misunderstood Hetty, unlucky Hetty, stopped several times for shade and water. Healthy, barring fevers, she suffered from gold fever, silver fever, and yet boiled inside over being left out. She boiled in the heat over being left out most of the time.  She had a problem with it, a problem with men, gringo men, and clung to an idea that tasks around there should be equally shared. She, however, avoided an explosion, somehow. She stopped thinking about fairness. Look, there was no excuse for it. After ore played out and a ten-stamp mill shut down, everybody left Paradise, almost left the town to wind that caught pieces of corrugated tin and made a terrible racket. The sound grated Hetty’s nerves until she nailed the tin down. She, unhappily felt let down, but believed that her problems could be solved the same way as when she nailed down flapping tin.  She was thankful that other people, most other people abandoned Paradise.

Jack never forgot the women’s hospitality. Whenever he thought of Paradise, he missed it and wondered what would’ve happened had he stayed in Paradise. He soaked up attention, and still young and essentially a boy among experienced women, he didn’t know what to make of it.  He always wondered what would’ve happened had he stayed in Paradise, wondered what would have happened had he became part of Paradise, a permanent fixture of Paradise like the old tin stamp mill. He could’ve easily gotten used to it, but it wouldn’t have been long before he got lazy and rotten.  Jack could have easily stayed.

Jack rejected what his folks taught him. They were wrong, wrong about many things. He was learning they were wrong about many things, Jack thought … wrong about the amount of respect you received was proportionate to the amount of respect you gave. He couldn’t explain why it didn’t work. He just knew it didn’t.  Jack thought his parents were wrong about many things as he rejected them.  He had three women waiting on him; and couldn’t explain it. He soon got into a habit of sleeping late. He also ate and drank too much, but instead of disgusting them, it amused three of his hostesses.  It amused them, and they enjoyed it.  Three of them enjoyed his company.

Mornings he wasted.  Lounged around half-dressed, loitered, and sometimes never got out of bed. He insisted on hot water. He insisted on hot meals.  Cold water wouldn’t do; but shaving hardly mattered. He often nicked himself and rarely shaved all his whiskers off. Rising hours before he did, the women treated him like royalty. They heated water for him. Christina served him heated meals.  They treated him like a king.  No wonder Jack felt guilty. Still the more he slept the more sleep he required.  The more he ate more food he required.

And sometimes Jack didn’t move until noon.  Sometimes he didn’t get out of bed until noon.  Then around noon he would walk around outside and feel like it was a mistake. His gut told him it was a mistake to go outside around noon, more than his gut.  And Jack’s gut told him to watch out for Hetty. By noon he knew that the best part of his day was over, and he knew he’d find Hetty sitting in shade. “Dama,” and he misused “Dama,” when he asked, “Find any gold?”

“Only fool’s gold, fool!” was her standard reply because she knew the first rule of prospecting was lying. While at the same time she muttered, “Where the hell did he come from?”  “Fool, where did you come from?

Hetty had no plan yet; but resenting any intrusion, it would be only a matter of time before she had one.

Hetty gave Jack a tour of old streets, including narrower side streets, flanked by crumbling foundations and decomposed lumber. Hetty showed Jack the old stamp mill and explained how it worked. However friendly these tours seemed it wasn’t long before it became clear that Hetty wanted to concentrate on gloom, i.e., stop at an old cemetery where she placed plastic tulips on graves and fixed up fences around family plots. She showed Jack where so and so cut his throat during a fit of delirium. They walked streets of the ghost town and (as much as imaginations allowed) relived dreams of the past.

All was quiet except for a hot breeze. There was no sign of hustle and bustle that was once Paradise. Two stores, a restaurant, two saloons, an assay office, and a butcher’s shop but just where was the post office? Hetty researched and identified each home and building, when someone less determined would’ve given up. She found old maps, old records, and old newspapers, but her focus wasn’t history. She was more interested in gold. So the two toured the town, while the guide told blood-curdling and hair-raising tales and before sunset she pretty much showed Jack Paradise.

Jack dreamed that he stumbled upon a lawless gang of women, a lawless gang of women.  Perhaps he should’ve been alarmed. Perhaps Jack should’ve been armed. Clearly the lawless past stirred his imagination. Now there was no evidence that connected these ladies with the lawless past, or a crime. There was no crime on the books.  There were no records. And no reason for them to be hiding in Paradise. They didn’t look the part, and he found comfort in not seen them with guns. Then Hetty brandished a shotgun. Was it, as she said, for shooting rattlesnakes or was it for getting rid of another kind of nuisance?

Casually Hetty pointed the shotgun at Jack. She ordered him out of bed and told him not to say a word. But as they were going out the door, he caught a glimpse of Juanita with the saddest expression on her face. Then their truck wouldn’t start.

Then Hetty ordered Lenora to saddle two horses, while Christina packed grub and plenty of water. That left Juanita, who infuriated the others by nervously prancing around. Jack was again forced into submission, yet questioned what was coming down. Things moved in slow motion until Juanita passionately grabbed him and kissed him on the lips. Juanita’s kiss sped things up. And under different circumstances, he would’ve enjoyed it. He appeared dazed, having been startled out of a deep sleep.

What was Jack facing?  He soon found out that they wouldn’t harm him, but Hetty wanted to make sure he didn’t come back, come back to Paradise.  By then Jack looked pale; and Christina said to him, “Please, don’t judge us harshly. We all wish you could stay. No doubt Hetty has her reasons. And she’s angry with us and not at you. She’ll get over her pouting and this snit soon.”

Juanita stood by and waited for her cue. After Christina, she said “Because she doesn’t have an ounce of sympathy in her, Hetty has been bitchy and humiliated herself. She humiliated herself and hasn’t learned that friendship is reciprocal.”

Lenora flirted with Jack as she saddled horses. To this day Jack remembers what was said and how quickly his life changed. But no one overruled Hetty. Hetty wanted him gone, so he had to go.  Jack might’ve stood a better chance had he been more useful and pitched in as he had on the towboat. But could he satisfy four women? From the beginning Hetty sized him up. Now she was going to run him off or escort him away.

It was the hottest place on earth. Or it seemed like the hottest place on earth.  To Jack it seemed that way. Once more Jack entered a furnace, and without water they would’ve died. On a horse for the first time, he cursed the critter. Whenever he got off, his legs hurt. When he got off, his butt hurt.  When he got off his horse, he stumbled around. Without a horse and Hetty, he would’ve perished

And as the sun bore down, glare hurt, and as wind blew, they plodded through sand dunes and lava beds. They had to drink water sparingly, ration it. Jack wondered what was going on. Why he was being tortured? Tortured!  Torture.  Should’ve brought more water. Horses also needed water.

Hetty knew where she was going, and she maintained a steady pace, but how long could they keep it up? Jack, a greenhorn, in his borrowed hat? He asked, “Why am I going through this?” Hetty showed no sympathy.  She knew what she was doing.

She kept her guard up, or else she would have killed someone. She feared the most ridiculous things and covered it up, covered it up as best she could.  She didn’t show many of her feelings.  Hetty liked some men, particularly the way some men smelled; but it wasn’t something she publicized. She was cautious and often didn’t let her true feelings show.  Now you see she was hurt and didn’t want every stray tom to see her weaknesses.  She wanted to appear tough, raw and tough, the same as leather, tough as rawhide, and she didn’t have to work at it because of the damn sun.

As Hetty considered her next move, she felt she and Jack had chemistry.  To Hetty, Jack was reasonably handsome, reasonably enough, enough for her. Suppose they weren’t about to say adios, could she bring him to his knees? She wanted to bring Jack to his knees. She thought she could. She was pretty sure she could. While she imagined this, she prodded her mare up a wash that she discovered by luck, and so far thanks to her his mare kept up. Hot wind blew in his face, as if wind was conspiring to make him blush.

“Come on, Jack, hold on; you can make it.” And that from a woman who would giggle if he whispered the right words in her ear, help him if he fell off his horse.  She wanted to whisper the right words in his ear.  He tried to keep his mind off his pain. His thoughts went from ruining his family jewels to standing in front of St. Peter. At the end of the day, he forgot about eating.  At the end of the day, he forgot about everything except his raw butt.  As he lay on the ground, Jack worried about what now could happen, what now would happen. A chill alluded to how cold it would get. Morning wouldn’t come quick enough for him, yet Jack dreaded morning.

Meanwhile, Hetty thought about the young man lying next to her. All day she couldn’t clear her head. She couldn’t have been unattractive to Jack.  She couldn’t be.  He was a young man, and she was an experienced woman. A chill and his aches and pains opened an avenue for her. An opening, an opportunity, and an avenue.   An avenue, it was nice for him, nice in the sense that she helped him stay warm. He was clumsy.  She was experienced.  She was beautiful, beautiful in her own way. And she wished she resisted. Amateurs like Jack weren’t supposed to be good.

By the end of the next day, they arrived at Crossroads. Here they said goodbye, and with an onslaught of emotions, she admitted her mistake. She was forced to take stock of herself and felt really sorry. And she felt sad, felt sad and sorry. His age bothered her. She also surprised herself. And blamed herself. And she had been ready and willing and gave into romance and sentimentality and didn’t want the girls to know, know about it. Hetty reminded Jack of her address hoping that he would send her a post card. PARADISE was easy to remember.

Jack’s parents would’ve liked to hear from him, if for no other reason than to know that he was alive. They worried and wanted to know what happened, happened to their son.  They hadn’t heard from him, and it increased their concern.  And he went through so much, but Jack couldn’t write home about it. He traveled across the country, experienced many things, experienced good and bad, good and bad things but how much did he really see?  How much would he talk about?  How much could he talk about?  How much would he tell his parents?  How much could he tell his parents?   Did he question who he was? Did he lose his perspective? America, would he ridicule her?  America, would he praise her?  America, America, would he sing praises?

Jack stayed in the Crystal Palace until it closed and sat in the furthest corner from front door or swinging doors under a mounted buffalo head. It was very nice. It was why he stayed there so long … because it was very nice, loud and nice.  It was always a rule: if he liked a place he stayed for a while. A spot chose him. A table in the Crystal Palace chose him. He felt sorry for the buffalo. Having crossed plains where buffaloes once roamed, now a mounted buffalo head, once roamed plains then to end up in a crummy bar, “Christ!” he exclaimed. “Christ, what a pity and a shame.” It seemed a shame, shameful.  Imagine taking aim for the hell of it. Imagine immense herds, with hundreds of thousands buffalo galloping at once. Then you single out one, the last of a breed, and take a shot. It was a slow time and after midnight. “Christ! What am I doing here?” He wasn’t from there, you see.  What was he doing there?

While he sat in a Texas jail, it all changed for him. Sitting in a Texas jail changed him.  Sitting in a Texas jail can make you feel small.  In huge Texas, it can make you feel small.  Texas.  Texas.  Texas!  Jack never got over it. And never got over Tex’s death. He listened to Tex before he died talk about America the beautiful.  Jack listened to Tex talk about Texas.  Jack listened to Tex talk about his Texas.  Jack hadn’t reached a point of agreeing with him yet. Too much happened to him, happened to him in Texas, and he hadn’t settled in yet. There was too much to take in. There was too much to take in, and he was too much on the go to appreciate any one place. Did he miss a turn somewhere? Get wrong directions? Why was he alone in a strange place? Why was he alone sitting in a dark bar under a buffalo head? Why did it seem inconsequential? After Texas and Paradise, it seemed inconsequential.  He missed the Wabash, the Ohio, and the Mississippi as he soon missed San Diego, San Francisco, and LA.  But what about Texas?  From the beginning, he had a sense that he was missing something. It got where he anticipated missing places … or something … before he got somewhere.

He went through spells of drinking, drinking a lot. Sitting in crummy bars and drinking, drinking a lot.  He developed a familiar blind way of drinking. Once he got started he couldn’t stop. No stopping. No stopping him. No stopping Jack.  And as long as he drank he didn’t have to think. He could hear his mother say never take a first drink. You’re bound to end up an alcoholic, a drunk, and he kept asking himself what he had to do with Tex’s death. He drank alone. He never drank with anyone else. There were intervals when he didn’t drink. He soon learned that drinking didn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t think. It didn’t keep him from thinking about Tex’s death … how Tex died. Choose his poison … all of it was poison. He knew the bull was a cop, and a cop murdered Tex, and a judge sanctioned it. It then seemed fitting that Tex died in a boxcar. Was he buried in a box?

Jack spent his first days in LA walking around. He didn’t think about what to do. He wandered aimlessly. This allowed him to think. He wasn’t drunk and could think. He had no plan. He didn’t like to plan. Unable to sleep day or night, his situation worried him. Fear was inevitable. Fear was useful, except Jack couldn’t get beyond it. He felt nervous every time someone approached him, but he wasn’t going to give up, especially after successfully panhandling.  Fear, goodness.  Fear, for goodness sake.

Wow, Hollywood! Follow arc lights to Hollywood. Tinsel Town. Hollywood and Vine! Walk of Fame roped off for stars … gold rope! Wouldn’t stop a steer! Wouldn’t stop a buffalo! You see people who have followed those lights all the way from their hometowns, though not cognizant of it. Cognizant of who they were.  Cognizant of how weak the gold rope was.  Not sure of price of admission, Jack wondered whether he would be turned away. He stood outside Madame Tussaud’s Hollywood Wax Museum and wondered if he could get in, wondered if he would be turned away, rejected.  Inside he saw a cast of characters, including Errol Flynn. “See Errol half-dressed, wearing only boots, tights, and a belt.” Jack was glad he wasn’t wearing lace and ruffles and didn’t want to hear how drinking affected Errol Flynn’s career.

Strolling west on Hollywood Boulevard, he walked over stars, and came to Grauman’s Chinese Theater, with its Heaven Dogs. He wanted to take it all in, everything. He didn’t want to miss a thing and asked directions to RKO. He wanted to run into a star. Would he recognize a star if he saw one? Who would recognize Ned Johnson, an eminent screenwriter, or Steinbeck, a novelist? What would he do if he saw Claire Trevor, who won that year’s nomination for Best Supporting Actress in “Key Largo”? As he slowly plodded along, he imagined people he could possibly see. That was how he spent three days.

Someone sang “Mean To Me,” which was Jack’s favorite song, Jack’s favorite song. From behind him, he heard someone call, “Hey, you, yes you, that’s right, you!” Was it a casting call? No! A cop! A cop with a club. A cop with a club cornered him. Jack saw irony in this, irony and reminded him of Tex and railroad bulls … beatings and Tex. The cop never changed his tone, only intensified it until he screamed like a lunatic.

“Slime ball, what does this sign say? No Loitering! NO LOITERING! Look at me! NO LOITERING!  Ain’t I making myself clear? No loitering! Soap and water are cheap; hear me? Cheap!” And intimidated, Jack moved on.

Shaking, Jack tried to get on a bus. Driver took one look at him and yell, “Now, sir, please step back and watch it!” Jack did the opposite, and when he stepped forward, the driver dropped the please. “Off the bus, you stinking mother fucker!” Jack obeyed him and, as the bus sped off, felt stabbed in his back.

Jack talked to everyone, yet felt alienated. He dreaded tomorrow, felt shackled, and lost sight of his future. As if he could see in the future. Wandering the same streets alone, he ate and slept where he could. This became routine, routine.  Jack cleaned up at the Salvation Army, after he learned he had to stay clean.  He learned the hard way.

He finally wrote home, sent an unsigned postcard. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t sign it. He said nothing about himself. Jack said nothing about where he was.  Jack wrote about nothing that made sense to them.  No more specific than a few sentences about a buffalo head. All alone. Unable to write anymore, he could’ve written about how quickly he developed street sense, which meant he never took his eyes off his stuff.  And he always wore a backpack.  He didn’t feel himself without a backpack.  A heavy backpack become part of him.

Around the Greyhound station and Whelan’s drug store, Jack asked for spare change.  “Mister can you spare a dime?”  By the end of the day he usually had enough money for a meal and a ticket for a show. On Main Street, old men in tattered clothing lined up for a burlesque show. Jack could be seen there too. Afterward, afterward he walked streets, walking and thinking of women, of women, women of Paradise, of Hetty and Juanita, and of beauty and love. The thought of sleeping in the arms of Hetty drove him crazy. Time and time again, Jack went back to Main Street, but he didn’t expect much from it.  Time and time he thought about sleeping in the arms of Hetty.  He would never forget Paradise.  How could he ever forget Paradise?

Jacks listened to Girrls exchange dirty quips with a comic. Then standing in line for love, yes, there was love on Main Street. Catching Jack’s attention with a gesture from a second-story window, communicating with a forefinger, a lady offered herself, offered herself to him, offered herself for a price. Jack hurried across the street, hastened through a door and up a flight of stairs. There was no need to knock. A lady eagerly took his money. Five in the afternoon imagine it. For both of them, it was serious business. So hurried, Jack didn’t notice that there weren’t sheets to mess up and immediately afterwards asked, “Was that it?” The lady immediately answered, “More will cost you more.” He just got out of there then.  He ran out of there.

What happened next was to Jack too good to be true. For one-day love seemed possible, possible again. With a breath of spring and smell of sea, eternal hope once again gave him a reason to live, once again gave him hope for love.   Almost instantly they connected. They were on a city bus; restrained their meeting seemed auspicious. For him a cosmic force was at work; and she should’ve known better. Next came a few awkward words from him about being new in town, which left him groping for something else to say. She took the opening, which led to a long silence. Both of them had to catch their breath. Then Jack found out that she road this bus often, road this bus most weekdays.

On way to school, she began naming districts: “Vermont and Hoover and Franklin and Sunset.” Then with exuberance, she told him that she had only one class that day….”Beverly Hills, Bel Air, La Cienega, Venice,” and by this time, she became his tour guide. Pointing out where movie stars lived, she smiled and gave him her name. Elaine. By then Jack could talk with strangers. By then he could talk to anyone.  He often felt closer to strangers than people he knew. If he didn’t talk to strangers he wouldn’t talk to anyone, so conversations with strangers tended to be longer than conversations with friends.

Like a pair of cats exploring each other’s scent, they shared the essence of their lives. But Elaine, foreseeing where this could lead, tried to divert his attention. “Everybody,” she said, “likes to go to Hollywood and Vine,” and he pretended he hadn’t been there and kept looking at her thoughtfully. This made Elaine uncomfortable, so she told him about her boyfriend. But what did Jack care?  Jack didn’t care that she had a boyfriend.

To think they had a deep conversation, a surprisingly deep one, and he could lose her at the next bus stop. The bus stopped, turned there; and it was apparent that he didn’t know when it would come to the last stop and then turn around. She found him pleasant and the attention flattering. Impressed by his clean clothes and neat haircut, she didn’t think he had evil in mind. She sensed Jack’s determination but never guessed how much his appearance cost him.

On and off Arroyo Seco, bumper to bumper, there was more time to talk because the bus went all the way to Pasadena. Optimistic, Jack hoped he could follow Elaine home. “Hello,” he said for the fifteenth time, and Elaine repeated the word too. “Hello.”  Neither one of them noticed any longer streets or other people on bus.

On verge of taking her hand, Jack’s mind jumped to other things.  His mind jumped to the tow barge lady and Hetty.  Fuck.  Fuck. Having such thoughts bothered him, especially when Elaine seemed like a nice girl, a nice girl.

Pity, a nice girl. Shucks, fuck! But so had the barge lady.  So had Hetty.  This encouraged him.  He couldn’t help but think about how he scored before and felt screwed up. He slid the widow open and benefited from air.

“Such a nice girl.” It seemed for a minute like she was like the girl next door. It was as if he were back in Richmond. He noticed Elaine had tiny breast, as he looked at her from head to toe. Her manner put him at ease and kept him from becoming tongue-tied.  Jack’s attention to Elaine’s figure flattered her.

Pasadena wasn’t far from LA; and before they knew it, they had to pay for return trips. Elaine would have to reconcile missing her class and madness of spending a day with a stranger. She tried to rationalize her behavior but couldn’t come up with an excuse. A crazy idea, it remained inexcusable. If he found out, her boyfriend would be livid.  If he found out, her boyfriend would yell at Elaine.  She knew her boyfriend would yell at her.  She planned to write in her diary about how cute Jack was.  She planned this day in her diary.  There was even a slight resemblance to Errol Flynn.  Certainly Elaine had reservations; but their conversation seemed natural, natural enough to her. Everyone knew Errol Flynn or thought they knew Errol Flynn.  Jack appeared lonely and seemed like he needed her. He wondered if she felt his manliness.  Elaine liked feeling needed.

Before too long they were back downtown. The bus then turned onto Main Street and filled up again, requiring people to stand. Suddenly Elaine said, “Let’s get off.” Whoo, they felt pushed and crushed until pushing became like everything else.  They pushed like everyone else.  They felt rushed. They felt trapped, though it didn’t matter to Jack.

“You look great.”

“So do you.”

“Swell. Peachy swell.”

But he doubted that she would later remember him.  Jack doubted it, doubted it when she said he looked great.  Doubted it.  Jack knew she had a boyfriend.

Elaine’s thoughts jumped around. It seemed strange that she skipped class.  It seemed strange she talked to a stranger, strange, strange that she spent almost a day with a stranger. It seemed strange that she skipped school. Could she make up the work? Yes.  Was it in character?  No.

He took her hand, continuing a drama of possibilities, and guided her through a maze of people. Maneuvering down Main Street, they passed the theater where he spent so much time. Having enjoyed a ghost town never came up.            They could’ve explored a Monastery, where within fifteen minutes you can say you’ve seen everything or spend all day. But Jack wouldn’t confess to a priest. He wouldn’t talk to anyone about his confusion and disillusionment or illusions, or how death of Tex changed everything … how death of Tex, a Texan, changed him forever. Somehow, until Elaine came along, it seemed like he had been robbed of life’s music.

After passing up a movie or eating burgers and fries (he didn’t have nerve to ask for a kiss), she got so excited about going into a dress shop that she forgot him. He didn’t have money left and she wanted to spend. With money from her purse, she bought blouses and a skirt, and drove him crazy trying on the whole store. Jack wanted to buy her something.  Shopping, Elaine ran out of time.  Shopping, Elaine forgot Jack.  Jack felt ignored.  To Jack, it seemed as if she was intentionally ignoring him.  Yes, they were running out of time.  Jack knew they were running out of time, as he Elaine shop. Jack was running out of time.

Elaine almost broke her neck hopping off a bus.  Jack hurried after her.  Jack hurried to keep up.  If he lost her he wouldn’t know where she lived.  If he lost her, Jack knew he wouldn’t know where Elaine lived.  If he lost her, Jack knew he would lose Elaine, lose Elaine forever.  Elaine ran. Unhappily then, they ran into her boyfriend. He was waiting for her at her house, waiting on her porch.

Just being with Elaine was great, great, keen. Even considering she let him down, it was great, great, keen. The experience lifted him. Jack could now leave Main-street LA and take his chances someplace else.  Elaine’s boyfriend was waiting for him on her doorstep.

Except Jack now needed a passport and knew nothing about visas. “One world or none,” Wendell Wilkie’s phrase stuck in his head. For good reasons he needed papers. At that moment in history, unknown to him, Jack was in good company: Bertrand Russell, Albert Schweitzer, Gandhi, Einstein, and Errol Flynn. They shared similar sentiments, similar spirit. On spur of the moment, Jack decided that his best chance for landing a job on a ship were better in San Francisco. On spur of the moment, he found himself hitchhiking again; and on spur of the moment, he started preparing to leave a country he decided he loved.

From San Francisco Jack worked his way over to Manila.  From San Francisco, Jack followed Errol Flynn to Manila.  Jack followed Errol Flynn to Manila by serving as kitchen help. He did his job well, but was never respected. The purser ran the ship and never respected Jack and never stopped his extortion. Jack found himself a frequent target. Most of the rest of the crew accepted him. The captain appreciated him, because Jack reminded him of when he first went to sea.

Randy Ford

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