In the woods

            There are people nobody should go into the woods with. Drunks, druggies and psychopaths are very high on that list. Especially when those guys are carrying all the weapons they can lift. And they have enough ammunition to stock a small third world warlord. So a trip to a cabin with about ten or twelve of the assorted drunks, druggies and psychos sounded like a can’t miss idea. Big Earl packed up all of his implements of destruction, bought two years worth of ammo and headed east. He was driving one of three hearses.

 

Now at this point it might just do to say that if your company vehicle is a hearse, working there just ain’t a good idea. Especially when the company isn’t a funeral home. It is a bar with a seriously bad reputation. That is bad by Texas standards. Where bars with chicken wire in front of the bandstands are considered family joints. None the less there was Big Earl in a hearse loaded with booze, a five gallon jug filled with Black Mollies and assorted hallucinogens and three gun crazy strippers. The other two hearses with all the assorted ne’er do wells followed along behind him. It was going to be a fun weekend.

 

            Big Earl was driving because he had been to the bar owner’s cabin a few times in the past. The cabin was located in the Big Piney area of East Texas. Earl used to drive the bar owner’s dad, Pop Kirk, out there for a monthly high stakes poker game. He’d then serve drinks, if they didn’t bring along some girls for that. Pop Kirk usually brought along a few ladies with somewhat flexible morals just to keep the party lubricated and to amuse the losers. Blowjobs have a tendency to make you forget that Pop won with far more regularity than the laws of chance allowed. Earl never said that Pop Kirk cheated. Others may not be quite as diplomatic as he was.

 

            Anyhow, Earl was driving, and eventually everyone got to the cabin. Pat, the bar owner, had won the cabin in a big time poker game in Shreveport one year. There was a bit of a dispute about the hand Pat won with. The argument was settled in typical Texas style and Pat, being the gentleman he was, paid for the funeral out of his own pocket. Smith and Wesson beat a pair of Queens every time. Not to mention the former owner should have brought more money to the game and he brought a knife to a gun fight. It just showed bad judgment all the way around.

 

The cabin was a small, three room place that only had electricity because the local utility owner played in Pop’s high stakes games. The place had been built in the late 1800’s. It was an old clapboard cabin with a covered porch on the front and both sides. The back wall was made of local stone and had a big fireplace in the center of it. Before Pat got it, somebody had added on a kitchen and a bedroom just past the stone wall. The bedroom door was punched through the stone on the left side of the fireplace and the kitchen door was likewise punched through on the right. The toilet was a two seat out house down the hill a bit. Water came from a well the county said was safe. But, since the county water commissioner occasionally played out there and he didn’t drink the water, Big Earl drinking the water was not gonna happen.

 

Pat had arrived early and put his stuff in the bedroom. Pat had brought three big old bar-b-que grills, a mess of steaks, ice chests full of mixers and ice and all the fixing’s for a great cookout. Pat was one hell of a good cook on the grill. When the hearses full of chemicals, more alcohol and assorted assholes pulled in front of the cabin, Pat already had steaks going and one grill full of baking potatoes getting happy. Pat knew in his heart that these guys did not need to add hungry to their normally surly dispositions to make them just a bit testy.

 

The usual suspects piled out of the hearses, unloaded all their shit and proceeded to start on the evenings festivities. All the bad guys knew that tomorrow they were going to have a shoot off for the prize of “Best Pistolero”. This was an annual contest that did not necessarily mean the most accurate shooter got it. Last years winner had put thirteen out of fifteen rounds in the chest of a man sized target; at twenty five feet; in four and a half seconds. Throwing enough lead in a short amount of time while not disabling too many innocent bystanders is always considered good form. First prize was a gallon of good booze of choice and one hundred dollars. Everybody wanted to win. The rules, however, did not state that the contestants had to be sober when the contest started. The rules also did not state what kind of guns the contestants had to use. Crazy Dave was probably the biggest psycho of the bunch and he claimed the weapon of choice he had brought was a hand howitzer. Nobody doubted him in the least.

 

So after the food, for some unknown reason, the general consensus was it would be a good idea to have a drinking contest. Go figure. Since Pat refused to enter and had retired with two of the strippers to the bedroom, first prize was going to be the remaining stripper for the night. Cross-eyed Kate had no problem with that. Drinking, drugs and folks whose grasp of reality was tenuous at best was not a good combination. They never did get around to the shoot off.

 

In retrospect, this was probably not the most well thought out idea anybody ever had. But, considering the mental capabilities of the co-workers, a drink-off couldn’t hurt. Oh how wrong could one group of people be? Three hours later Big Earl ended up winning the hand, and assorted other parts, of the delectable darling. He promised to burn an offering to God later and headed off to the kitchen for a long night of guess the disease.

 

He got the kitchen because it was the only other room with a door in the cabin. The rest of the guys were opening and mixing whatever chemistry experiments they would be imbibing that night as the happy couple closed the door. That young lady and Earl tried everything their perverse little minds could come up with and finally fell asleep in the middle of the night.

 

While Big Earl and the young lady were in the kitchen playing slap and tickle the bouncers figured out who was going to sleep where in truly modern fashion. Big Tiny, all six foot seven, four hundred and twenty pounds of him, said, “I got the couch. Everybody else sleeps in the floor.” Since Big Tiny had the brain of a peach pit and the disposition of a wolverine with a migraine, nobody wanted to dispute his position. It was a fine example of democracy in action. Also, it turned out, a very bad idea. The couch was due to be thrown out. Rats had made a home in it. Rats that knew better than to come out while all those people were moving around. Once everything got quiet though, that was another story.

 

Big Tiny, even drunk, was a very light sleeper. So when a rat bit Big Tiny’s toe Big Tiny woke up. He felt something on his leg, so he did the only logical thing he could think of. Big Tiny grabbed the 45 caliber pistol by his head and shot at what he thought was the intruder. He missed the rat and blew off his own big toe. It was at this point that the feces hit the rotating air dispenser. And, when that happens, dispersal is never even.

 

The pistol shot woke everyone. Big Tiny was screaming, “I’m hit.” Thinking that somebody was shooting at us, several of the less than sober heroes grabbed their weapons and started laying down suppressing fire through the cabin walls. These were the bouncers that had been in Vietnam. They were yelling at the rest of the drunks, ne’er do wells, criminals and such to shoot through the walls and keep whoever was outside down. Before long everybody in the cabin was shooting out in a different direction. Glass was breaking, wood was splintering, the poker table was knocked over and chips were dancing across the floor. At some point one of the idiots shot a lighter fluid can and caught one corner of the cabin on fire. Things were getting exciting. After what felt like hours, the gunfire slowed up enough for the heroes to hear Pat yelling for everyone to stop shooting. By this time the fire was going at a pretty good clip.

 

An ex-special services sergeant listened at the door for a few minutes and heard nothing outside. A couple of the other vets ran outside to look around. When they yelled that everything was clear everybody piled out the door. Nobody was there. Pat started yelling at everyone. The over armed, drunk, stoned and never particularly stable crowd started yelling back at him. Somebody finally noticed my stripper standing in the remains of the cabin door screaming, “Big Tiny has been shot!” Theyy left a few guards, just in case the phantom bad guys came back, and went back in to the burning cabin to drag the alleged victim out and see how bad it was. Eventually, the situation got sorted out.

 

Two of the hearses had been shot up too bad to use. The one closest to the cabin had a hole in one fender, through the engine block and out the other fender. Crazy Dave claimed that one for his hand howitzer. The third hearse had only lost some glass, a nicked radiator hose and a few minor bullet holes in the body.

 

The ex-sergeant had been a medic on one of his tours in ‘Nam so he patched up Big Tiny. About five or six of the stronger bouncers loaded the shot up dumb shit into the working hearse. Along with the three strippers. Pat figured out that Earl was the only other guy that had not been in the main room. So he probably was the closest to an innocent bystander available. Innocence in this case meant he was not provably guilty. That made Earl Pat’s designated driver. Earl drove into through Little Hope and Rhonesboro to Gilmer, the closest town with an emergency room. Pat sent a flatbed truck back to get everything that was left in the woods. That ended up being ten bouncers, twenty four pistols, a couple of shotguns, five long guns and seventeen thousand rounds of assorted ammunition.

 

The final score that night was bouncers nothing, rats a great big ONE. The rats got one big toe, a hundred year old cabin burned to the ground and two and a half hearses. Big Tiny never did walk right after that. The hearse Earl drove to town didn’t run right after that night either.

 

 

Pat never forgave his team for killing his “Big Thicket” hideout.

Baseball, learning how to catch the hard way

 

            Once again we are off into that happy place called Big Earl’s childhood. Laughing children playing together, picnics in the local parks, puppies and kittens wrestling around while the little tykes napped, Mommies reading fairy tales, sleep time with stuffed animals and fluffy blankets. Cotton candy clouds, gingerbread houses, sweet treats growing on bushes and rivers of chocolate. None of that shit was in Big Earl’s childhood.

 

Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, the French Marquis would have been pleased with Pop’s teaching methods. Pop, Earl’s father, had a bit of a short fuse. Especially when it came to trying to help raise his first born child, Earl. Pop seemed to think that the best way to make Earl learn anything was to beat him if he got anything wrong. That appeared to be the way to teach his son how to catch a ball, too.

 

Pop wanted his oldest son on a kid’s baseball team. So, he signed the boy up without checking to see if the lad was even the slightest bit interested. Earl didn’t know how to catch, throw or field. Not a chance he was interested in his loving father teaching him. Pop went to the first practice and saw that, barring the demise of every other kid on the team; Earl was destined for a career of riding the pine. It was time for any red blooded American man to teach his lad the manly art of catching and pitching.

 

Pop played on a men’s team, but the men didn’t normally bring their kids to a game. Those players were almost all war vets and used baseball as a way to have some time with the guys away from the stress of families. Pop was a pretty good pitcher and thought if he could throw and catch, his son should be able to also. He grabbed his bucket of practice balls and the glove he had used when he was a kid and headed out to teach Earl the game of spring.

 

At first Pop underhanded a few balls to Earl. Earl didn’t have any luck trying to catch them. That first practice was the only time Earl had ever even held a glove, let alone wear one. And he had not seen much baseball. Pop told Earl to throw the balls back to him. After walking all over his yard, his neighbor’s yard and the alley behind those yards finding balls, it was decided to concentrate on catching. The fact that Earl had hands of stone didn’t figure in too well. Long story short, Pop decided he would teach that boy to catch, one way or the other.

 

He stood Earl up in front of the wooden fence in the back yard. Pop showed Earl where to hold his hands and told him when he had caught all the balls in the bucket practice was over. Pop paced out the distance to a pitchers mound and tossed a few to his son. Said son didn’t catch any of them. Not one. Not even the ones that accidentally hit his glove. This just ticked Pop off. He figured even an idiot could catch one by accident. Therefore, the boy wasn’t even trying. He threw the rest of the balls in the bucket a bit harder, figuring if they stung a bit the boy would be motivated to stop some of them. Score after the first bucket, balls twenty something, crying assed baby boy nothing. Pop and the cry baby picked up all the balls and put them back in the bucket.

 

Earl wanted to go inside; Pop wanted his SON to learn to catch. “You want to go inside, catch the God Damned balls.” A few smacks to stop all the crying and they were off on the great American pastime once again. Pop and Earl had picked up all the balls and filled the bucket again. The family fun was just beginning. Pop went through the third bucket, starting out aiming at Earl’s chest with medium pitches and, by the end of the bucket, was throwing high hard ones right at the boys face. Earl ended up catching three. Those three went into a pitiful pile to one side. Not too many in that little pile but none of them were coming back for more. Pop told Earl, “You caught those; all you have to do now is catch the rest of them. I know you can catch, you just have to do it.” Pop made Earl grab all but the three he had caught and put them in the bucket. Back to the mound.

 

Earl was hurting and wanted to be anywhere on the planet other than here. Pop was getting tired and really angry that his kid wouldn’t make the tiny effort to be more like the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. Batter up. Pop pitched, Earl missed and the time wore on. Two more baseballs went into the caught pile. The bucket collected the rest and the lesson continued. Pop was hungry, the sun was getting lower in the west and there were still balls in that Damned bucket.

 

Pop decided he was taking it too easy on his son. So, Pop started throwing smoke. Pop had been the starting pitcher on his ships team in the Navy. He had even gotten a little interest from some minor league scouts. A couple of his pitches hit Earl hard enough to drop him. Pop told him to get his ass up, stop sniveling and catch the last few balls. Pop thought, all he has to do is catch a few more and I can go get dinner.

 

Earl never saw the one that stopped the practice. The sun was in his eyes, on top of being nearly swollen shut from crying. Pop threw, something blocked the sun for a split second and then it was nap time. Once again Earl made a trip to the emergency room. And it wouldn’t be his last one either. Pop told the nurses that the boy fell out of a tree. Good enough. Nobody asked Earl what happened. There wasn’t a shortage of Indian kids whose parents didn’t have insurance. Doctors and nurses asking questions cost time and money. None of which the hospital was likely to get back. So unless Pop killed one of the boys, it was just easier to write it up the way the parents told them.

 

Pop gave up on teaching Earl to catch. It was the start of a long tradition of giving up on Earl. Teach, beat, give up. Teach, beat, give up. There grew to be shorter and shorter periods of beating until Pop finally gave up entirely on Big Earl.

 

When, to the surprise of everyone in the family, Big Earl became the first person in his family to graduate from high school, Pop called him aside. Earl didn’t expect a graduation present. Pop looked at his oldest son and said, “You are a worthless son-of-a-bitch and you will never amount to anything as long as you live.” Happy graduation.

 

Some kids get cars when they graduate. Others get rings, watches, college money, any and all kinds of presents that last a short while and are then replaced. Pop actually beat all of the other parents with his present. He gave Big Earl motivation to prove that, no matter what else happened in his life, Pop would always know he was wrong.

 

There is actually a bit of justice in that.

Bad boy

Some kids have supportive parents. Parents, who help them learn, make sure they grow up to be good people and care for others. Parents like that were all over the television in the fifties and sixties. Ward and June Cleaver raised Wally and the Beaver to be great kids. Ozzie and Harriet Nelson were wonderful parents. Shows like “My Three Sons” and “Father Knows Best” showed how you were supposed to raise your children. Big Earl never had any idea what that was like. Not to say his mother was a bad person, she wasn’t. However, his father was the one who got credit for Earl.

 

One of Big Earl’s defining memories of his childhood was watching his Mom run from the house with her three other boys after yelling at Pop, “You may have him, but you are not getting these three!” Earl’s attention was on the beating he was getting at the time, but he did remember. Pain will focus your attention marvelously. This particular beating was in the section of Tulsa, Oklahoma, known to the local whites as “Turley”. It was the only area where mixed blood families were allowed to live at that time. Pop and Earl were in the current family home. The inside walls were a dingy white. The furniture was old way before Pop was born. A broken down brown couch sat in front of a dirty, streaked window. That couch wasn’t helped by four overactive boys. A couple of torn, stained chairs and two mismatched lamps sitting on milk crates finished the furniture. In Oklahoma it was just about average for poor Indians. In any other state Mom, Pop and the four boys would have been white trash rednecks. Trailer trash, as folks like that were called all across the Deep South.

 

It had to have been summer. The windows and front door were open. The screen door was closed and the screen was torn on it. Maybe Earl tore it; maybe one of the other boys tore it. But Earl was the one getting the beating for it. Mom had just taken off after yelling at Pop. Pop stepped to the door and screamed at her to keep running. Earl remembered thinking that he might just get off easy. Then he realized that Pop wasn’t going to go after them.

 

That is when Earl got really stupid. As Pop turned back towards him, Earl ran and head butted Pop right in the nuts. Bad idea. Pop’s first punch caught Earl on the forehead and made him see stars. He should have gone down then. Pop’s second punch was a stomach punch that felt like, and probably did, hit backbone. Earl went down then, by God. Pop stood over him for a couple of seconds catching his breath. Pop looked at Earl like the boy was already dead and said, “You think you are a bad boy. You worthless piece of shit, I will show you what bad is.” All in all, Earl didn’t want to find out what bad was.

 

Then Pop left the room. And Earl heard a very bad sound. The sound was a closet door opening. The hall closet door. That one door was where Pop kept all kinds of interesting stuff. Guns were on the top shelf, where the kids couldn’t reach them. Tools were in an old tool box on the floor of the closet. Hammers, pliers, shovels, trowels and saws were all in there, resting. All of them were waiting for their call to duty. A machete Pop had brought back from World War Two. All kinds of tools were resting in there that could potentially be made into implements of destruction. Lots of potential badness waiting to happen if this was the time. Earl kind of hoped Pop was getting his coat to leave. No such luck ensued.

 

It is odd what a person might notice at times like this. Lying on the floor crying, trying to breathe, Earl saw a bug on the floor, just in front of his face. It was a ladybug. It did not care about what was happening with Pop. It was just walking across the floor about to go under a wrinkle in the rug. An Indian rug from when the family had lived in Phoenix, where his first brother was born. Before everything started going to Hell. Earl was lying on the floor watching this bug trundle along toward the rug and all he could think was. “Run for your life bug. He’s coming back.”

 

Outside the sky was blue, the day wasn’t all that hot and life was pretty good. Pop and Mom’s place was away from other houses. It was one of those houses that didn’t get burned in the Tulsa Race Riot before the war. But everything around it was gone and grown over. Outside nobody could hear a boy crying and hollering for help, because they were too far away. Earl always liked to think that, because the other option was that people heard and did nothing. Inside with our hero, Pop and that little bug, things are about to get real interesting again.

 

Earl wanted to run. He just didn’t have the air to get up yet. He probably should have tried anyway. Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty. He just wasn’t smart enough yet. Earl was about to get smarter quick. Pop came back carrying a bat. That was one of the things in the hall closet Earl hadn’t thought of. A Louisville Slugger Pop used when he played ball with a bunch of other young war vets. “You want to find out about bad boy; you are going to find out about bad.” That was when Pop hit him with the bat for the first time. The first time. Then Pop drew back like he was going for the fences. Batter up. The bug didn’t make it to the rug. Pop stepped on it as he was coming into his swing. And then he hit Earl a few more times. And then Earl just didn’t remember anything else.

 

Big Earl woke up in a hospital. It wasn’t the first time that ever happened. It wasn’t the last. A doctor in a white coat asked him what happened. Earl tried to answer but couldn’t say anything yet. That is when he heard his father’s voice. “The boy is clumsy. He fell down the stairs into the basement.” It was just like if the voice of God commanded.

 

So it was said, so it was done.

 

You see, people had come to try and take the kids away from Pop before. Earl already knew how that worked. Social workers that didn’t care about their clients would ask questions nobody followed up on. The kids would spend a few days in the care of some overworked foster parents that never even learned their names. And the family would come together and swear the charges were unsubstantiated. Eventually everyone would be brought back to Pop. Things would end up just like they were before.

 

Earl got a drink of water from a nurse and told the doctor, “I tripped going into the basement.” There was nothing the doctor could do after that. It was the fifties in Oklahoma. Nobody much cared if a half breed Indian beat up one of his kids. Social care in the fifties was for lower middle to low class white kids. If there was time and money enough, they might help a few Negro kids. There was never enough time, money or doctors to care about Indians.

 

If Pop had killed Earl the police might have investigated. But then, it might not have mattered to them at all. It wasn’t like Oklahoma was going to run out of Indians any time soon. And a mean assed, half breed Indian that beat his kids was just not a high priority to the local police

 

You see, it didn’t matter that there wasn’t a basement. It didn’t matter that the doctor wanted to help. It didn’t even matter that Mom had run and left Earl with Pop. She had to save what she could. Earl was just the price she paid to save the others. Even Earl knew that she was doing the only thing she could do to save the other three boys. Nobody blamed her but herself. Sometimes the choices a person makes in life extract a price far beyond what they think they can pay. You make your choices and then you spend the rest of your life trying to decide whether or not you made the right one.

 

That may be why, later in life, Mom protected Big Earl. Even years later, after she grew to be afraid of him. Afraid of what she had allowed him to become. She really, really hoped she was wrong about what she thought he was. But she never stopped loving him. And sometimes, loving the Bad Boy is all you can ask of a Mother.

 

Just ask Mom.

Something Broken

Big Earl had broken a lot of things in his time. He broke toys when he was young, expectations when he was a teenager, hearts when he became an adult and all hope for the future as he moved into my senior years. And he had broken bones in all those times except his senior years. Sometimes he broke his bones and sometimes he broke other peoples. Let’s just tell about the time he got a double.

Earl’s Mom and Pop had a hard time living together over their lives. Of course, they had an even harder time living apart. As a result those two married and divorced each other about seven times before they died. Nobody is sure of the exact number. It could have been six. It could also have been eight. But seven was the number Big Earl heard most often, so seven it is. This little story happened while they were divorced and not living together.

Mom had always been interested in what Big Earl did at the bars he worked at. So one day, when he knew an up and coming band would be playing after opening for the Rolling Stones in Dallas, Earl took Mom to the bar. Earl was working but he had a couple of buddies that would help keep an eye on Mom. Between those two hulking masses of menace and several waitresses that knew Mom, he figured she would be safe and happy. The safe part was important because Big Earl worked in possibly the most infamous bar in North Texas. When you came in you were searched for a knife or a gun. If you didn’t have one, loaners were available. Earl went to work every day with a snub nosed 38 special in an ankle holster and a 45 automatic in a holster in the middle of his back, under his shirt. He carried a stainless steel six battery flashlight. He had a night stick in a holder on a Sam Brown belt. It also held a slap (eleven inches of spring steel and lead covered in leather), a sap (a foot of leather sock with three ounces of lead shot in the end of it), two pairs of handcuffs and a can of mace. Earl kept a switchblade in pockets on both side of his pants along with two pair of brass knucks. By the standards of that bar Big Earl was under armed.

The night Earl took Mom to Dallas a photographer took a picture of the bouncers, one bartender and one waitress. There were twenty nine bouncers, counting Earl, working that night. The club was less than three thousand square feet inside. That averages out to one bouncer every ten square feet. On a few nights, the only advantage the bouncers had was that they were well armed and vicious.

The happy part for Mom was from seeing DA, one of the bouncers watching over her. He had practically grown up in their house. Plus Earl got her a card that got her free drinks.

Mom started out liberally applying alcohol so she could get into the ambiance of the joint. Black painted walls with graffiti on them. Sayings like, “You must be weird or you wouldn’t be here.” Or, “Evil spelled backwards is live.” Disco balls hanging from the ceiling, strobe lights all over the place and multiple spots finished up the lighting. However, once the music started, everything else faded out. Big Earl didn’t want to say that this bar had the best band in Texas for a house band. They did, but he didn’t want to say it. They were called the “American Blues” and, after a name change, became a Texas legend and the three most famous beards in Texas. And they weren’t even the headliners. Plus, of course, the band that was coming in for a set after opening for the Stones. The music that night was out-fucking-standing.

It was even a pretty calm night for that particular bar. Bouncers were not working hard at all. There were only a couple of fights and nobody had to pull a gun or a knife or anything. Earl hadn’t even had to throw anyone out. The house band kicked off their set with “Jesus just left Chicago” and was headed for rock and roll heaven on a Stratocaster when the opening band for the Stones strolled in. Those guys weren’t quite a headliner yet, but they had just released the album that would define them as a band. Their manager told the announcer that they would play a set but that the bar couldn’t use their real band name. The manager got them drinks and girls and the band set back listening to the house band blow the doors off. Mom got to meet a couple of them. She was having the time of her life. The house band finished up with “La Grange” and the announcer called Earl to his stand.

He said, “I can’t call these guys by name. What do you think?” Now, Big Earl was a bit of a smartass and was known to be quick coming up with something to say. He grabbed the mike from the announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen I give you the one, the only: Nocturnal Canine Trio” As soon as he said that they kicked in with “Jeremiah was a bullfrog” and the festivities went up another notch. Mom was clapping and hollering and the possibility of trouble was almost to the “eyes in the back of your head” level. Something was going to blow. All of the guys who had worked in these types of bars knew it. And about an hour into what was supposed to be a thirty minute set, it did.

One of the drunks in Big Earl’s area threw a glass at the stage. Such behavior was considered a social faux pas in that establishment. So Earl went over for a short vigorous discussion of his behavior. The gentleman in question seemed to be of the opinion that Big Earl’s methods were somewhat harsher than absolutely necessary. Earl must have slipped up because, to the untrained eye, it looked like the miscreant hit Earl up side of his head. The second time the alleged miscreant tried it Earl was forced to come to the conclusion they were not going to be best buddies. He grabbed said miscreant’s right arm. In Earl’s enthusiasm to escort him safely from that fine, upstanding, low-life, dive of an establishment, it seems Earl broke the afore mentioned appendage. Just then one of the other bouncers showed up and told Earl he had seen the whole thing. And that the young man in question had thrown the glassware with his left hand. By this time Big Earl was getting a tad tired of the guest screaming into Earl’s ear that he was going to come back with his buddies and tear all of Earl’s friends and Earl to pieces. So, to make things easier for the boy to understand, Earl broke his left arm also. Then he told him if he brought his dumb ass came back Big Earl would be forced to shoot him. At this point the young man seemed to be sufficiently focused on what Earl was saying to understand what he meant. So, a couple of bouncers escorted the lad to the door and ejected him forthwith.

It wasn’t until years later that Earl found out Mom had witnessed the little altercation. She told his current wife about it and said that Earl was the only one of her sons she was afraid of. Mom said it was not just that Earl had broken the boy’s arms, but that he had been laughing and enjoying it while he did it. Earl didn’t mind that he broke the arms. That was a fun part of the evening. Earl didn’t even mind that Mom saw it, too much. He did mind that in addition to breaking bones that day, he also broke a little bit of Mom’s trust in him and replaced it with fear that Earl might hurt somebody, some day, just because he enjoyed seeing them in pain.

That is a break you can’t ever heal.

“Two Bubbas” Death by Chocolate Cookies

5 cups oatmeal
3 cups all purpose flour
1 cup unsweetened cocoa
1 tsp salt
2 tsp baking powder
2 tsp baking soda
2 cups butter, room temperature
4 eggs
2 tsp vanilla
2 cups granulated sugar
2 cups packed brown sugar
24 oz chocolate chips
8 oz bittersweet chocolate grated
3 cups chopped nuts
Topping:
120 perfect Hershey’s Kisses, more or less as needed
8 oz dark chocolate grated
8 oz white chocolate grated

Measure oatmeal and blend in a blender to a fine powder. Mix the oatmeal powder, flour, cocoa, salt, baking powder and baking soda together in a large bowl. Cream the butter and both sugars with mixer on medium. After the butter and sugars are creamy, add eggs and vanilla, and mix together. Add the dry ingredients. Add chocolate chips, bittersweet chocolate and nuts. Roll into balls and place two inches apart on a cookie sheet or drop by teaspoonful onto the cookie sheet.
Bake at 375 degrees for 8 to 10 minutes, or 10 to 12 minutes for a crispier cookie. Let the cookies cool slightly on the pan. Before the cookies are completely cool, press a thumbprint in the center of each cookie. Finish cooling on a rack.
For the topping:
After the cookies are cool, place a Hershey’s kiss in the thumbprint on each cookie. Melt both the dark chocolate and the white chocolate separately over double boilers. Drizzle the melted chocolates in an X pattern over the cookies and Hershey’s Kisses to hold the kisses in place.
Makes about 10 dozen cookies.

Big Earl could go on and on

What could Big Earl say about his ex-wives? That the best part of any of them was the ex? That the only reason any of them stayed married to him was because he made more money than they ought to pay the President? That they all deserved better than him? That each and every one of them was pregnant when he asked them for their hands? All of that is, of course, entirely true. But Earl wouldn’t say it, no, no, no, he wouldn’t. You can if you want to. Who was he to stop you?

So, what could he say about that fine upstanding branch of American femininity known as Big Earl’s exes? In one case, he should have known better. The little darlin’ in question was only fourteen. In his defense, they met while he was working the door at a bar in Ft. Worth, Texas. He carded two of the girls with her because they looked too young for said high class, low life titty bar. If they had been too young, the bar had some loaner fake identification, so Earl still would have let them in. But he did not card the girl he ended up marrying some months later. Earl figured anybody with hooties that big was old enough in his book. She was out standing. Those were outstanding. She ended up coming back and talking to him all through the evening. He got her a card good for free drinks. And eventually, Earl ended up with future ex-wife number one. The first of many exes that ended up being the practice spouse for the next one.

Several things were similar if not downright identical in the case of each of his wives. Despite the fact that Big Earl always thought he liked tall blondes, he had married four redheads. None of them were over five foot four or so. All of them ended up learning new skills after marrying him. One learned how to swim after she found out there were troop ships in the harbor. One learned not to admit to a lie when he threw all her stuff in her parent’s yard after she told him she wasn’t pregnant. One learned to cook correctly. One learned the fine art of money management and how to hide vast sums of cash from her loving hubby. And all of them learned that the one thing you know about a man who cheats on his current wife or girlfriend with you is this: “He is willing to cheat on his significant other. He will eventually cheat on you.” Kind of makes you wonder what they were thinking when they married him, right?

That is not to say the ladies in question were stupid. Far from it. You see the one area where Big Earl was absolutely correct in what he liked was intelligent women. Every wife he had ever married has been smart. Not just a little smarter than average, but really intelligent. They just had a blind spot where their taste in men was. Earl ended up burning an offering to whatever God gave them that blind spot. Smart women are not only more fun to talk with; they are surprisingly inventive when it comes to doing the horizontal Rumba. God bless America

Because, despite the fact that he was more than ready to dump them in the end, every one of those ladies was fun to be around at the start. And he always made the cute little dumplings happy. Sometimes when he was coming towards them and eventually when he was walking away. Running in some cases. Running and screaming in one case.

A buddy of Earl’s once predicted his death with some degree of certainty. The buddy said, “Big Earl is going to be running stark naked across a parking lot, with a nude teenaged girl, yelling back over his shoulder, ‘I love you, bitch’. As whatever wife he has at that time shoots at him from the motel balcony. The cops will just list it as a suicide.” The suicide part comes from Big Earl teaching all his wives how to shoot. You see, you can’t hear them cock an ice pick. Earl always wanted that last second warning.

His wives had always been a bit unpredictable. He came home after one trip where he had borrowed his wife’s car to find she had traded his car in on a sports car for her. Without bothering to mention it to him. Earl ended up driving a minivan he hated for two years. Her sports car was of no use to him in his work. This is the same wife that forged his name on umpteen thirty credit cards applications, life insurance policies, the above mentioned car financing and who knows what else. As Earl admitted they were a bit unpredictable. Other, less generous sorts have used the term psycho. To each his own.

Now, some of his wives turned out to be surprisingly narrow minded considering they married him. After all, every one of them knew Big Earl was a worthless, womanizing, low life son-of-a-bitch before the wedding. Why it was a surprise to two of them that he slept with their sisters was beyond him. In one case Earl had slept with one of his wife’s sisters before he started dating the one he married. The other one or two came later but that is another story. They all knew Earl had slept with one of his own brother’s significant others before they married. And if Big Earl would willingly fuck around on his own family, what made theirs off limits? Ray Charles could have seen that coming. So, like Earl said, he was surprised at how narrow minded the wives ended up being.

You would think that having a husband that was such a disgrace would be something they might keep to themselves. Au contraire, mon frer. The wives seemed to delight in letting everyone within earshot know what Big Earl was like. Each of the little ladies told all their friends about everything they knew about his outside women. Sometimes they were telling the stories to one of the participants without knowing it. On one trip to Mississippi to visit Bubba and family, Earl’s future ex-wife at the time detailed every outside woman she knew about to his Bubba’s wife. After three days she had hit the highlights of all the women she was sure of. Earl had to say that it was easier for his Bubba’s wife to believe her because Earl had brought three girlfriends down with him on two previous visits. Including bringing down his FE-W (future ex-wife) sister for a visit a few months before he actually took the wife down. So Earl’s credibility had a certain tarnish on it prior to his FE-W ever said a word.

One ex-wife was so pissed off that when she left she took all Earl’s clothes, all his records, all the furniture, all the kitchen utensils, even the curtains. She vacuumed the carpet. That woman was so ticked off she even took the dust. She burned his clothes. She destroyed his record collection. And then when they got divorced she told her side and got one third of his net salary until their son turned eighteen. She was really ticked off.

Earl could have gone on and on, but he found he was making himself sound bad. He quit.

Instructions to the child Big Earl once was.

1 You are going to take quite a few for the team. You are the oldest. As such you are going to be the practice child. Mom and Pop, particularly Pop, are going to try to make you into the perfect child. That ain’t gonna happen. The good news for you is that you will come out of this incredibly tough. You will have a high pain tolerance. It will also take a shit load to rattle you. Remember that if something doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger.

2 You will not believe this one. I am not sure of this even now. But I am going to tell you because Mom told me in the last year before she died. Pop loved you, possibly more than he did your brothers. I’m not sure if I believe it. However I am sure Mom believed it.

3 Just because Mom does not save you too when she runs out of the house with the others does not mean she doesn’t love you. When she screams at Pop, “You can have him, but you will never get these boys”, she is just saving the ones that she can. Mom knew that if she tried to take you she would end up getting all her boys hurt. Always treat Mom with love and respect, because not saving you will eat at her for years. Sometimes, my boy, nothing you can do can save somebody you love from pain.

4 When Pop tells you he is going to teach you to catch, it is going to hurt. He will have you stand in front of a fence and throw fast balls at you until you can catch them. You can stop some of the pain by putting the glove he puts on you in front of you. You are going to get knocked out and then stood back up to start again. Try hard boy. The faster you catch a few balls the faster it will be over. Pop will only throw balls at you for a few days. When he finally tells you that he wishes he had a better boy, it will all be over. You will never learn how to catch.

5 Not everything Pop does turns out quite like he envisions. His teaching method for reading is amazingly harsh. He will have you read out loud. If you miss a word he will beat you. He won’t tell you how to say the word you missed, but when you get it right you won’t get hit. Now I know that by the time you start reading well you will be really used to being beaten. But what he is trying to do is make sure you don’t end up as just another dumb shit Indian in Oklahoma. What he will do is end up with a son that has a lifelong love of reading. Read everything. Books will let you escape from the world you are trapped in.

6 I don’t know how to warn you about the next little jewel in your childhood. I don’t even know if I should warn you. But I have to give you a chance. One day, on your way home from first or second grade, a bunch of older Indian kids will come up to you when you stop your bike. Run. Ride like your Father is chasing you with his favorite 2x4 paddle. Do your best to get away. It probably won’t work, but please try. If you stop or get caught things are going to get very bad, very quickly. I don’t know if these boys are after you or if you are just the lucky sumbitch they find. But they are going to take you into the woods between our house and Stebbin’s Field. Once they get you out there, they will beat and kick you until you are unconscious. They will wake you up by pissing in your face. When you wake up, these sterling examples of our Native American culture will bury you neck deep in a hole and proceed to ride you bike by your head, hitting you in the face as they go by. This is not nearly as much fun as it sounds here. After they get tired of this fun they will take your bike and leave you. Buried up to your neck in the woods. I have no clue how long it take the people looking for you to find you. I do know it will be well after dark. And I know that they will use dogs to find you. I also know that the dogs will get to you well ahead of the searchers. They will lick you and start barking and baying. This will scare you so much that it will take years before Mom and Pop will be able to get the rest of the boys a dog. All I can tell you is if you don’t get away at the start, the dogs are there to help. I can tell you that a whole lot of your life is going to be tied to this one day. May the various Gods have mercy on the souls of those fucking assholes.

7 Not everything I have to tell you is bad. When you are eleven, a babysitter watching your brothers is going to tell you she has to make sure you are clean in the shower. Trust me on this one, slick. You are going to enjoy this shower. And she has three or four friends that are going to become very good friends of yours. Life, as they say, is about to become very good for you.

8 You are going to fall in and out of love so many times in your teen years, you will lose count. One word of advice. When you decide to sell a girlfriend in high school, stand her on a table in the lunch room. The guy you sell her to ends up marrying her and, as of your twenty fifth class reunion, they stay together. This may be the only time in your life when you do something outrageous and it turns out wonderful for everyone concerned. I wish I could tell you that you will be a good husband. You won’t be. You will make up for it by being a fairly good father. Of the one wife, one child kind.

9 Keep trying to do the right thing. This is not going to be your strong suit. But try anyway. You are going to develop a very strong sadistic streak. As much as I hate to be the one to tell you, you will really enjoy causing pain. Mom will watch you break both a guys arms one night in a bar. It will end up making you the only child of hers she fears. I know folks would like me to tell you seek other outlets for these urges, but I will not. Being the baddest sumbitch in a fight will save your life on at least two occasions before you reach twenty years old. Go to the number one titty bar in Ft Worth and ask to become a bouncer. When they tell you to beat up the biggest guy you ever saw, don’t let him know what is coming. Sucker punch him and kick the crap out of him while he is down. He will beat the piss out of you later, but you will get the job. And taking a beating is not as hard as it seems. Over the next five or six years you will get laid by well over three to four hundred different girls. Waitresses and strippers because they are told to jump any bouncer with a hard on and the girls that go to the bar because that gets them free drinks and admission.

10 One more thing. When you are almost seventeen, Pop will ask you about all the implements of destruction you put on your bed before you go to the bar one night. Then he will kick you out. Stay in school. And don’t expect anything when you graduate from high school. What you do get, you won’t much like. Guys who want to have an in at the bar, girls who want to get introduced to musicians and friends will give you places to live and the bar will feed you twice a day. Not to mention the free booze, a pretty good Doctor who will sew you up when it is necessary and hot and cold running strippers. Life, as you know it, will be incredible for several years. Also knowing every really good dope dealer in North Texas will end up with you getting all your stash for free.

Your life will be filled with great highs and heartbreaking lows. Go for it.

Going Down the wrong street

Big Earl telling how he danced with the Devil by the dark of the moon for the very first time. In his own words.

I got lost. Plain, simple and the truth. But sometimes when you get on the wrong street it leads you down the wrong path. I was on my way home and was late. I had to stay after school because I had done or said something the teacher didn’t like. Just in the second grade and already well on my way to being a disappointment to my parents. So, I had to write something on the blackboard fifty times. I did that so many times when I was young I don’t even remember what I was being punished for. I just knew that I was late and that was going to get my ass whipped if I didn’t get home before Pop. I took a shortcut and got lost.

When I figured out I didn’t know where I was, I stopped. There were a bunch of Indian kids coming down the road toward me. I knew they would help me. After all, I was an Indian. Pop had told me and my brothers we were Indians. That is why we weren’t allowed to go to school with white kids. Indians weren’t good enough to go to school with white kids. Hell, Indians weren’t even good enough to go to school with black kids. That is why the Indian schools got their textbooks after the white schools were through with them. And Indians had to wait until after those same books were considered too old for the black schools. That was why Pop said Indians had to stick together. So these kids would help me find my way home. Fat chance. Sometimes you just start out with the wrong idea.

I had no clue anything was wrong. The boys came up and stood in a circle around my bike. I started to ask the oldest boy where my house was. I never got it out. The oldest kid said, “Shut up white boy, you are in the wrong place.” This surprised me so much, that the kid thought I was white, I started laughing. That is when one of the boys hit me from behind and knocked me off the bike. I know the answer to that one. I came up swinging, hitting one and then another trying to get out of the circle of Indians. I fought pretty well for a little kid, but some of those boys were several years older than me and they beat the living shit out of me. They took my bike and dragged me and the bike into the woods near the road. I don’t know how far into the woods we went, but it felt like a long way. I tried to tell them I was an Indian, just like them. I was told Indians don’t have blue eyes, so I was just another lying white kid. We got to a path in the woods and one of the kids found some rope. I got tied up. They went off a little way and talked for a few minutes. Nothing good will ever come out of a group of grade school boys in a conference. A couple of them took off. Every time I tried to talk or move somebody would kick or hit me. I thought the worst thing they could do was beat me up and my father beat me worse than they did. I was wrong.

The two kids that had left came back with a couple of shovels and a coup stick. I laid there watching them dig a hole. A deep hole, just a bit bigger around than me. I wasn’t sure what the hole was for but I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn’t going to like it. I started struggling trying to loosen the rope. It didn’t do any good. I was dragged over to the hole and lowered in until my feet touched. Then those kids did something I had not even thought of. They started shoveling the dirt back in around me. There is something liberating about thinking you are about to be buried alive. It removes all sense of shame and inhibitions. I peed myself and started screaming for my Mom and begging them to stop. The oldest kid laughed and told me they weren’t going to bury me, they were just going to play a game. He wasn’t lying. They stopped burying me at neck deep. This was just at ground level. Right next to the path. Then I saw one of them on my bike. And I suddenly knew what the coup stick was for.

A coup stick is a wood club an inch or so across with a round head carved into one end. In the old days Indians would ride up to their enemies and hit them with the coup stick. It wasn’t to hurt the enemies so much as to show your skill and courage at getting so close to them. The kid on the bike had a coup stick. He rode at me and went whizzing by. Just as he went by he popped me on the back of the head with the coup stick. I saw stars. The rest of the bunch took turns doing their best to hit me as they went by. If they missed the others would laugh and howl, making fun of the kid with the bad aim. Only one missed more than twice. The one that missed twice is the last one I remember. His third try, he went for my face. I saw it coming and couldn’t move enough to make him miss. That is the last thing I knew until something woke me up, still buried, in the dark.

I woke, thinking I had been dreaming. That’s when I found I couldn’t move. That is also when I heard something coming. Something that was making a lot of noise. Something growelingSomething that wasn’t afraid of the dark. Something that was worse than anything it might meet in the dark. I was afraid to say anything. It might have been one of those Indian kids. I thought I was really scared then. I was wrong. I was oh so wrong.

That is when I heard growling. You have no idea what pure fear feels like until you realize something is coming. Something very big. Something growling. Something hungry. Something that might just eat you alive from the face down. And there is nothing you can do about it. That will put some air in your lungs. I screamed at the top of my little leather lungs. I screamed and kept screaming as a pack of big dogs came up around me. Between screams, I heard a man yell, “He’s over here! The kid is over here!” The man came running up the path. His voice had made me stop screaming for a moment just as he came around a turn and saw me in the light of a lantern he was carrying. The man turned and threw up. I heard Pop tell somebody later that the guy thought he was a few seconds late when he saw my head sitting, covered in blood on the side of the path. I yelled for him to help me and damn near scared him to death. More men showed up and they dug me out and untied me. The bunch of men looking for me included my father. It was one of the few times I ever saw Pop really scared for me.

Eventually, I got to where I could be left alone for a few minutes without thinking I was hearing someone coming after me. I would go into a complete panic attack, yelling and hitting, biting and screaming until I realized I wasn’t in danger. I got over the fear of darkness pretty quick. The darkness was when I was rescued. Darkness became an old and trusted friend. I never did get over the fear and distrust of dogs though. I know intellectually that the dogs are how the searchers found me. And that the dogs were licking me because they were happy to see me. But somewhere, deep inside, I hear that growling and barking and my inner mind tells me that I am about to be eaten alive.

Experiences like that one are liable to leave a mark on a kid who is six or seven years old. They either toughen you up or you end up buying a Mercedes for a shrink. I did both.

I ended up seeing a shrink for a few months when after I was found. Apparently, I was a tad disturbed by being the guest of honor at this particular butt kicking. Go figure. Anyhow, I ended up seeing one of those state funded doctors. One of those guys that isn’t quite good enough for private practice. It didn’t take long to figure out what he wanted to hear. So that is what I told him. He would nod his head when I told him something he wanted to hear. He would stare, shake his head or purse his lips if I said something wrong. Pretty soon I was his star patient. I was his prize cure. After dealing with Pop, that shrink was easy to fool. Not to say El Shrinko didn’t help me. He might have. I just don’t know. After all, I was a little kid when I saw him. And I did learn a lot from the experience. I’m not sure how much of it I got from the good doctor and how much I figured out for myself.

I learned that taking a shortcut is not always the fastest way to get where you are going.

I learned that not everybody you think is your friend, is your friend. And that no matter how tough you are, you are going to lose some fights.

And that running away is sometimes the very best choice.

And that calling on family doesn’t always mean anyone is going to answer.

And that darkness is not always a bad thing.

I even learned that Pop cared about me. That last one is the hardest to believe out of this whole mess.

The biggest single thing I learned while telling that shrink what he wanted to hear was how to lie. I learned how to tell a lie in such a way as to cater to the preconceived notions he already had of me. I learned how to spin a tale that, while having absolutely no basis in reality, sounded more convincing than the actual facts. And I learned that, if you add in just enough verifiable facts, people will believe anything. Almost as important, I learned that you can tell the absolute “God’s Honest Truth” in such a way that nobody will believe a word of it. These, my friends, are handy skills to have even for an honest man. Not that I have ever really been guilty of that particular abomination.

That little side trip down the rough part of reality was one of the pivotal points in my life. It gave me something and it took something in return. I learned to be tough, to rely on myself and to never be the second best armed individual in a fight. All it cost me was a big chunk of trust and a large part of my soul. It seems that somewhere between stopping to ask for help and adulthood, I lost most of my sense of compassion, the capability to completely trust anyone and the ability to love anyone so much that I can’t walk away from them and never look back. All in all, I believe I came up on the short end of the stick.

As soon as the shrink released me as cured, Pop moved us to Texas and got a job. He had our names stricken from the tribal rolls so the Texans couldn’t discriminate against us because we were Indians. Then it turned out Texas doesn’t have enough Indians to make discriminating against them any fun anyway. Texas did, however, have more than it’s share of Mexicans. So Texans treated Mexicans like Oklahoma treated Indians. Seems when Texans played Cowboys and Indians, they played for keeps.

In the end I think the one thing those Indian kids took from me was my humanity. I don’t even have enough left to feel bad about that. You might want to keep that in mind if I ever offer to take you down a path you normally wouldn’t take.

Editors note. There is one more thing. If you ever find yourself down one of those dark paths in the middle of the night, dancing with the Devil; look around and check to see who is leading. It might not be the answer you are looking for.

On being unmasked

There were things that Big Earl had said and done in his time that, in retrospect, he should have thought through first. Things like telling a kid holding a switchblade in a bar, “You aren’t that dumb.” Or saying, “We don’t need to test the brakes, I know exactly what I am doing.” Perhaps his all time favorite, “I will go skydiving with you when you have a parachute that is guaranteed to hold my weight.” In each case, what he said ended up having totally different results than he expected.

Big Earl had agreed to meet his third wife, the future ex-Mrs. Earl, in Las Vegas for a three day weekend of gambling and general frivolity. Earl had been working in Los Angeles for a couple of years and the problems between the two of them had faded some with the time apart. As a result he wasn’t quite as sharp as normal when around her. He even thought they might be able to live together after the LA job ended. In other words, he went to Vegas in a state of mind that had no basis in reality. It wasn’t like he had not been warned. A buddy of his that knew the future ex-darlin’ told him, “If you are going into a cage with a hungry lion, do not wear a suit made of steaks.” Sometimes even Big Earl just can’t take a hint.

Off he drove to Sin City. He got there a few hours before his wife’s flight from Texas. The two had a great room at “Caesars” and Big Earl had made arrangements for dinner reservations and a couple of shows. When her flight got in Earl picked her up and the game was afoot. She was actually happy to be there. She was laughing and suitably impressed by the room and all the preparations he had made. She actually reminded him of the girl he had dated all those years before. Of course he had forgotten that what she really loved was gambling. She never met a casino that she didn’t like. That was why she was so happy. Earl had brought a couple of grand to play with. She wanted half and things going so well he gave it up. It never occurred to him that she might have had her own money. Not that Earl would ever see a dime of that.

Off the happy couple went on a quick trip down the Strip to see what was new and to decide where to start throwing money at the Gambling Gods. They hit several casinos and were doing pretty well. Earl was several hundred up and ready for the nights entertainment. The entertainment had just turned the corner into new territory for Las Vegas.

Vegas had begun their latest expansion at that time and Treasure Island had a new show from “Cirque du Soliel” that Big Earl just had to see. “Mystere” was expensive, but Earl knew from seeing some of the touring shows it would be good. It wasn’t good. Good doesn’t come near it. Great doesn’t describe it. Fantastic might just be skirting the bottom edge of that show. He was blown away. His sweetie was completely blown away. So much so that she went completely out of character and took him back to their room and jumped his bones. Earl hadn’t had sex like that with any of his wives in years. She lost it so completely that just at the climax of the evening, so to speak, she called him by another guy’s name. Things being in the short rows, it seemed to be the wrong time to question her. And the next thing Earl knew he woke up in the middle of the night and she was gone.

Turned out she wasn’t ready to stop gambling so she had gone out while Earl was asleep. What woke him was her unlocking the door and coming back into the room. She didn’t realize he was awake. He watched her put a roll of money in her makeup bag. Then she got undressed and slid into bed. Earl acted like she had just waked him up getting under the covers. He asked her where she had gone and she told me she said she went gambling down in “Caesar’s” casino. She claimed she had lost everything he had given her and could she have the money Earl had won over his grand. All the while reaching down and waking up the only part of him that was still asleep. A little later in the midst of a good blow job he promised her the winnings.

Now he knew that he sounded like a real sucker. She called him by someone else’s name during sex. She hid winnings from him and then asked for more money. Money that Earl had won. You would be right thinking that he was being stupid. Earl was a sucker. In retrospect, he should have dropped her on the spot, filed for a Vegas divorce and gone on with his life. It didn’t happen. He was incredibly stupid.

She, on the other hand, thought the trip was going great. She had him fooled about her boyfriend, she was getting money and Earl was paying all the bills. Life, for her, could hardly get better. Different perspectives produce two entirely different viewpoints.

Big Earl gave her the winnings, not because she needed them or earned them, but because he had promised. Big Earl never broke promises. Not then, not now, not ever. She got the winnings and off they went on another day of spending his money like drunken sailors. They ended up back at the hotel an hour or so before they were supposed to be at the “Follies” show. One of the best all time topless revues in a town that used to run on topless showgirls. Earl was thinking he only had to finish that night, dump the lying bitch off at the airport and be on his merry way the next morning. He had won enough to make a hooker stop in Pahrump, Nevada, on the way back to LA. Things were going pretty good, considering.

Earl had showered, dressed and was ready to go. She just had to get her purse, check the mirror and they were out for the evening. Visions of dancing mammaries were front and center in Big Earl’s mind. He had put his hand on the door handle and let his guard down for a second. He wasn’t thinking. She had been talking all through the time they were getting ready. About how great this trip was. About how they seemed to be getting along like when they were first married. Just yammering like words were about to be limited. Earl was only half listening. That was when she said the magic words, “Why don’t we come back next year on our twentieth anniversary and renew our vows?”

Big Earl’s brain caught the words. Unfortunately it was not quick enough. The dancing mammaries were running interference for rational thought. When a man’s brain is in neutral, like with the dancing mammaries, he may accidentally speak the truth. Any man’s mouth, if not filtered through a defense mechanism like the brain, could unfortunately actually answer the question a woman asked. No matter what the ensuing results may be. So while Big Earl’s brain was trying to pick the correct answer out of all the old standards that every married man keeps for emergencies, (I am amazed that we think so much alike), (Great, just remind me in time to make the reservations), (Baby, you are the best), his mouth spoke the truth,
“Not if you put a fucking gun to my head!!!”

There is nothing anyone can do for a man after that. The words are out there. You are unmasked. Your true feelings have leaped over any sense of self preservation and escaped. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

The relationship lasted several more long, miserable years before just winding down to nothing. The marriage was over then and there.

An unwelcome surprise

(How a Junior Senator entered “Two Bubbas” Hall of Fame)

Most of you have had an unwelcome surprise or two in your life. I know I have had more than a few. Usually, said surprise results from expecting one thing and getting a totally different result. Sometimes the surprise is bigger than you had any reason to expect. In this case, a Junior Senator from the Gulf Coast’s surprise started out with waking up.

Waking up is not a surprise. The Junior Senator, hell let’s just call him JS, did it almost every day. This particular day was not going to be good. JS knew it before he opened his eyes. His head hurt and his eyes felt gummy. The inside of his mouth felt like the entire Russian Army had marched through it and took a dump while they went. JS’s nose was stopped up, but not enough to keep out a very ripe aroma. Something that smelled like a distillery located next to a cheap whorehouse. That and JS knew he wasn’t alone. Not unless he had learned the art of snoring in two part harmony before he woke up. JS lay there, head pounding, waiting to see if he was going to die. After a few minutes, he decided he wasn’t that lucky.

JS opened one eye just enough to see that he was not at his place. So far, so good. He decided to risk the other eye. It didn’t help. From what he could see, he had to be in a motel room. It was time to make the ultimate sacrifice. Up he sat. This was not the best idea he had ever had. His stomach reacted to the change in position by trying very hard to teach him the fine art of projectile vomiting. This was not JS’s first trip to the rodeo and he got everything under control. All it cost him was what felt like an aneurism. Sometime during this shindig JS realized he was naked.

Let’s tally up so far. JS had a hangover. JS was in a motel room he didn’t recognize. JS is naked. And he’s not alone. Oh yeah, he’s not alone. Time to investigate.

There were hints on the floor right in front of him. Clothes were everywhere. JS saw men’s shoes. Unfortunately they were not his shoes. This did not give him a warm snuggly. Fortunately he also saw a bra and two pairs of women’s panties in the piles of clothes. This, like it or not, was the time to look at the rest of the room.

JS turned around, and sure enough, he woke up in the same bed with two naked girls and a naked guy. The two girls were spooned up in the middle and the guy was face down with his head hanging over the far side of the bed. Considering how the room smelled JS had to assume it had been a long hard night for everyone involved. Sometimes words are so inadequate for the way things are.

JS headed in and drained the lizard. From lipstick on the love reptile he figured he must have had a pretty good time. Looking in the mirror he realized that he had some hickeys and bruises he didn’t recognize. After washing up, JS knew that he was going to live. He was not so sure about being re-elected. It was time to find out where he was and whether or not anyone knew him. JS found his clothes out of the mess in the floor. As he got dressed he seriously considered waking everyone up to find out what happened. The girl closest to him was a redhead. Since she was naked he knew she was a redhead from birth. The blond spooning up to her was incredibly cute even in sleep. The guy he could not tell much about. Other than the fact that, unless he had fallen asleep on an anaconda, he was waking up a happy camper. The Junior Senator passed on waking them up.

JS stepped out of the room onto one really hot parking lot. And almost ran right into Big Earl’s stubby little Cadillac convertible. Big Earl had the back seat of his 1959 Cadillac convertible cut out and grafted onto another 1959 Cadillac convertible. Big Earl gave that one to Bubba so he could carry most of his grandkids in one car. A car that was slightly longer than Earl’s marriage to his last ex-wife. After checking his pockets, JS found the car keys and a wad of cash. It was time to find a convenience store, get a drink and find out where the hell he was. He arbitrarily took a left out of the parking lot. Several turns later he was hopelessly lost. He finally found a gas station/convenience store.

JS walked into the store and headed straight for the cold drink section. He got a bottle of cold beer and headed back to pay. There were a stack of newspapers on the counter by the cash register. The most surprising thing was they were for McAlester, Oklahoma. The second most surprising thing was that they were Wednesday papers. Why, you might ask yourself, was JS surprised at McAlester papers? And why indeed was he surprised at the Wednesday paper? This all leads up to the unpleasant portion of our little surprise.

He had gone to Big Earl’s birthday party at “Two Bubbas’ Bar, Grill and Speed Shop”. That is on the beautiful Gulf Coast. “Two Bubbas” was close to eight hundred miles south and east of McAlester. And he had gone to the party early on a Friday night. When he got up that morning it was Wednesday. Somewhere along the line the Junior Senator had lost all, or part, of not one, not two, but five days. He tried to find the motel again to get some answers. He had no luck. He hadn’t looked at the sign when he left. He didn’t know the name of the place. He couldn’t even tell you what color it was. JS might have passed it three or four times trying to remember which one it was. There are times when you just aren’t going to get the information you want, no matter how hard you try.

He knew one person in McAlester. Big Earl’s Great-Grandfather, Poppa Park., worked as the night manager for a combination hotel and whorehouse known as the Co-Mar Hotel. JS headed to Poppa Park’s place. Poppa Park told him he had come by there a few nights before and tried to get a room. The Co-Mar Hotel was full but Poppa Park had told the Junior Senator to go down to the area by the new interstate and check out their availability. Since JS would have noticed the interstate, he guessed that another solution had popped up. Quite possibly one involving a couple of Poppa Park’s working girls.

JS remembered getting to the party on Friday night. He had brought a couple of gallons of home brew a constituent named Cooter had made. Cooter had asked JS to give it to Big Earl for his birthday. JS don’t remember anyone that looked like the redhead or blond at the party. He also didn’t remember leaving the party. He definitely didn’t remember a road trip to McAlester. Or picking up three people. He didn’t remember anything much about the days between Friday and his head pounding wake call up on Wednesday. What JS did remember was a bit like running porno clips through a shredder and watching the results through a fun house mirror.

The biggest fear JS had was somebody tapping him on the shoulder and threatening to expose the whole escapade to the public. But JS was a good Southern politician. If JS ended up being bought by the threat of being exposed, he would stay bought. Not like those Damn Yankee politicians who changed sides at the drop of a dollar.

So, JS decided to give that time up as a lost weekend, at least until the day somebody found it. He never did find out who those people were and how everyone ended up where they were. This was the start of a big cut down in alcohol consumption for a Southern Senator. As JS told Big Earl when he returned the Caddy, “When you can’t remember what you did or who you did it with, it is time to reassess your drinking.”

Big Earl told him it might just be that time since JS had left in Big Earl’s ride to pick up a couple of cases of tequila for the party. Nobody had known where JS had gone until Poppa Park called and told Big Earl that JS was on the way home. Big Earl got the whole story out of the Junior Senator. Earl never told anyone. If you have a Senator in your pocket, even a Junior Senator, you don’t take him out unless you have to.