TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: WALTZ LESSONS FROM THE OLD HORNDOG

Driving toward the extreme SW corner of New Mexico and SE corner of Arizona.  The mountains are in Arizona.

By Grant McGee

“Waltz across Texas with you in my arms.  Waltz across Texas with yooooooooo…”

The crooner with the country band was giving his best to cover the old country standard Ernest Tubb recorded years ago.

“Like a storybook ending I’m lost in your charms, and I could waltz across Texas with you…”

“That’s a waltz,” I told The Lady of the House pointing matter-of-factly to the crowd on the dance floor.

The Lady of the House and I were out on the town.  We stopped by the local senior center.  She had read in the paper that a bluegrass band would be jammin’ at the center.

“You know,” I said as we walked through the parking lot, “We’re probably going to be the youngest ones in here.”

We walked in the door and surveyed the situation.

It was all dark except for the two glittering mirror balls on the ceiling and the stage where the band was playing.

“We’re the youngest ones in here,” said The Lady of the House.

We moseyed over to a corner of the room and had a seat.

“That ain’t no bluegrass band,” I said.  “But they’re pretty good.”

The band went through a bunch of classic country tunes by Hank Thompson, George Morgan and others from that classic country era about the time she and I were born.

I sang along with a few of the tunes.

“How do you know these?” she asked.

“My first radio job back in the mountains, lots of requests for stuff like this.”

And then they were playing a waltz by Ernest Tubb.

“Ernest Tubb once pulled up beside me at a gas station in Buchanan, Virginia back when I was in high school,” I said.

“Did you get his autograph?” asked The Lady of the House.

“Naww,” I said.  “I really wasn’t into country music then.  But I knew who he was from being over at Catfish’s house and his dad would watch ‘That Good Ol’ Nashville Music’ TV show in the evenings after work.

I pointed to the people on the dance floor.

“Waltzing,” I said.  I spoke the dance steps out loud.  “1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3…”

“No,” said The Lady of the House, “it’s 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4…”

“No,” I said.  “The ‘4’ doesn’t fit in there.  It’s 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3…”

“No,” she said, “it’s 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4…”

I then invoked the name of an old friend who has since gone ‘on to Glory.’

“He taught me about waltzing, he was the authority on it,” I said.  “And he had a lot of respect for you.”

“He was an old horndog,” said The Lady of the House.

I gasped.

“My buddy?  My bro?  A horndog?” I said.  “What’s your definition of a horndog?”

“Someone who’s always flirting with women,” she said.

My old pal, a horndog?

I thought about my old buddy who caught “The Cansuh” and died.

When I came to the West I didn’t know much but over time he taught me a lot, things like when you pointing a direction you don’t point with your index finger, you point with your thumb kinda tucked in your palm so that your four fingers are pointing off to the side but the thumb is pointing in the right direction.

He taught me history, like there used to be a few brothels on the south side of the railroad tracks in Clovis, New Mexico and that’s where he experienced his…ahem…’first time.’

When he saw I couldn’t dance for shit out on the dance floor of the bar on the south side of Roswell he told me the steps for the key dances of the west:  The Two Step, The Waltz, The Cotton Eye Joe followed by The Schottische.

I never got the hang of the Cotton Eye Joe and the Schottische but I remembered two-stepping.  The two step wore me out after about three turns on the dance floor because I had to keep reciting the dance steps to myself:  “Step-touch-step-touch-walk-walk.”  Those were the instructions on how to move your feet. 

I couldn’t even carry on a decent conversation because the words kept going on over and over in my head:  “Step-touch-step-touch-walk-walk.” 

And waltzing was “1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3…”

Then I thought about my buddy, thought about some of the things I saw, some of the things he did.  I kinda thought it was sad he never wrote down all his stories.  And I thought about what a charmer he was with the ladies and…

“Well dang,” I said to The Lady of the House.  “I reckon he WAS an old horndog.”

“I didn’t say it like a bad thing,” she said.  “I was just stating fact.  Your old pal was a horndog.  And waltzing is 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4…”

“Why yes,” I said.  “Yes it is.”

“Now,” said The Lady of the House, “Why won’t they play any Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys?”

“Probably because we’re in Florida,” I said.

-30-

APPALACHIAN TALES: THAT TIME I HELPED ORGANIZE A COLLEGE PROTEST

Actual factual pic of the "Choice Rally" at Virginia Tech about 40 years ago.  I was there, man.  

By Grant McGee

                Some folks were protesting in front of the county courthouse a few days ago. 

                I like seeing folks protest.  It means that something has generally pissed them off so much they have gotten off their ass from in front of the TV, made some signs and taken their complaint out where everyone can see.

                Once upon a time, long ago and far away I helped organize a protest. 

It was something I actually stumbled upon.

It was back when I was in college at Virginia Tech.  I was hauling my laundry back to my dorm room when I passed notice stuck on the wall:  “ISN’T IT TIME WE HAD CO-ED DORMS?  HELP PLAN A PROTEST EVENT!  CALL LINDA.”

I don’t know how things are now on college campuses across this great land but back in the ‘70’s there were dorms for boys and dorms for girls. 

When queried by student reporters, college administrators basically said, “What’s the problem here?  We have a co-ed dorm.”

A co-ed dorm to Virginia Tech administrators was a building called Ambler-Johnston Hall.  I don’t have the exact numbers but it was something like there was an east wing and a west wing.  Dudes were in one wing, dudettes in another.  There!  A co-ed dorm.

Now, you were allowed to have members of the opposite sex visit your room but they had to be gone by 9pm.  If the girl got caught staying past that time you got “written up.”

I had a girl come visit me in my dorm room in my freshman year.

Really.  Just visit.

Her name was  Katrina.  I don’t even know how I came to know her.  She was from the DC area but I found her interesting because she had been born back in the mountains.

So there she was in my dorm room.

And she had to use the bathroom.

And there was one bathroom for, like, 20 rooms in an all-guy dorm.

So I walked down the hall and made sure the bathroom was clear of guys then I motioned for Katrina to come on in.  She went in and I stood outside the door.

Now I never asked Katrina WHY she needed to use the bathroom but within moments it became very apparent.

There were noises.

Then more noises.

Then a bit later there was the noise of a toilet flushing and then she emerged from the bathroom.

“Let’s go for a drive,” she said.

“Sounds good,” I said.  So we left the dorm, went out to the parking lot, hopped in my car and took off for a Saturday afternoon ramble.

Later that evening back at the dorm room I had a deep discussion with my roommate Dick.

“I didn’t know girls pooped,” I said.

“WHAT?” he put down his book and looked at me.  Sidebar comment here:  Dick did an awful lot of studying in college, I did not.  This may be key as to why he graduated and I did not.

“Of course they poop, dumbass,” he said.  “Whaddya think, they save it up for a once-a-year special occasion?”

“No,” I said, holding a hand in the air as if to say ‘wait a minute,’ “I mean I KNOW they poop I’ve just never been around when they did.”

“You should think about what you say before you say it,” he said.

I then proceeded to tell Dick about Katrina’s visit.

He laughed and laughed then went back to studying.  I put on my headphones and went back to listening to music.

Anyway, I digress.

About that college protest over co-ed dorms……

                So I called Linda.  Hell yeah I wanted to help out, I told her.  Hell yeah we should have co-ed dorms!   Hell yeah!  A protest would be a blow against authority!  Most folks know I have problems with authority, but that’s another story.

Besides, I was a college student…I had lots of time on my hands.  Plus I didn’t have a girlfriend and I thought it might be a cool way to find one.

             I was the Mass Communications major on the team so it fell upon me to design snazzy notices of the upcoming protest which I then posted all over campus.

When the day came over 2,000 people showed up in the middle of the university at an open place called “The Drillfield” for what became known as "The Choice Rally."  

It was actually quite a sight.

A young reporter showed up from the TV station in Roanoke, about 50 miles away.

“Man,” he said, “If you can get 2,000 Virginia Tech students to show up on a Saturday to protest, that’s something!”

Emphatic speeches were given.

“We demand co-ed dorms!” shouted one young woman who raised her fist in the air.  There was mild applause, a few fists held high in the air in response.  I didn’t applaud, I was transfixed by the copious amount of bushy hair in her armpits.

More speeches were given.

I took notes for an article in the student newspaper.

Students with guitars strummed protest songs off key…

“Tin soldiers and Nixon coming.  We’re finally on our own…”  Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Ohio.”  I didn’t see how this song about the Kent State shootings related especially since we weren’t ringed by National Guardsmen or even the cops, but it was their moment to play and they had the guitars.

                A man with shades and a camera was strolling around taking pictures. 

                Being the Mass Communications major and wannabe ace reporter for the student newspaper I followed him.

                “Are you with the newspaper?” I asked when I caught up to him.

                “No, I’m with University Security.”

                And with that he pointed his camera at me and said, “Smile.”

                The following fall there were still no co-ed dorms.  I heard that Linda, fed up with being at what she thought was an unprogressive university, transferred to some college in California.

                I went back to classes and continued being a college student with lots of time on my hands, hanging out at the student radio station, the town music shop and taking lots of naps.

                And still no girlfriend.

-30-

APPALACHIAN TALES: HANGIN' WITH THE PREACHERMEN

The quintessential Southern preacherman:  Jerry Falwell.  You see I remember ol' Jerry as the pastor of the Thomas Road Baptist Church in Lynchburg, Virginia...about 50 miles from my hometown of Roanoke, Virginia.  Every Sunday Jerry came on th' teevee on his "Old Time Gospel Hour" and he seemed like such a friendly fellow.  Years later he would emerge spearheading the "Moral Majority" during the Reagan years.  I would turn to people and say, "What happened to ol' Jerry?  He didn't used to be so angry and pissed off...."

By Grant McGee

Long ago and far away I used to work 7 days a week.  This was way back in the coal mining country of western Virginia, where the mountains and valleys end and you get into a territory of convoluted hills and deep "hollers."  The saying there is "It's where the sun comes up about 10 in the morning and goes down about 3 in the afternoon."

Seven days a week working in radio meant I worked from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. Saturdays and Sundays.

I got to remembering those Sundays.

Starting about 7 a.m. the preachers came in to do their preachin' shows and I was the radio dude who ran the controls for them.

I've forgotten some and I've remembered some.

Therein lay the tales.

There was the good ol' boy preacher who came in and had a friendly ol' broadcast for a half hour.  The reason I remember him is because one Sunday he said, "Anytime you say, "Gee" or "Jeez" you are STILL taking The Lord's name in vain because that’s short for ‘Jesus.’"  So if anytime I say "Gee" or "Jeez" that memory comes rushing back.

There was the preacherman who preached in an "old school" method where he shouted and punctuated every phrase with "ah-HAH."  Kind of like, "FFFFFLOCK, ah-HAH, I WANT TO TELL YOU, ah-HAH, ABOUT THE SIN AND DEGRADATION OF OUR SOCIETY, ah-HAH!...."

I remember this guy not only for his style of preaching but because of an incident that happened which on one hand was kinda sad and on the other hand kinda funny:  This particular preacherman held a day job with the county.  It was a big enough position that he had a secretary.  Well, he and his secretary were known to take long "lunches."  Apparently enough people knew that word moved through the area grapevine and made its way to the ears of the preacherman's wife.

You see, one Sunday this particular preacherman's show was replaced by another.  The next Sunday I asked a guy who I knew knew the missing preacherman what happened to our MIA radio guy.

"Oh, you didn't hear?" he said with a smile.  "You didn't hear what happened up at the county seat?  Well, preacherman and his secretary pulled up in the county parking lot after one of their "lunches" and there was preacherman's wife waiting for them.  Right quick the two women start yellin' at each other and then it's a hair pullin', nail scratchin' CAT FIGHT.  Wooo-eee."

The man started laughing more.

"And here's preacherman, he's done fell to his knees he's got his hands clasped together in prayer and callin' on The Lord to reach down with his mighty hand and bring peace to these two women."

Preacherman's secretary quit her job and preacherman gave up his Sunday preaching on the radio.

And then there were the folks who came down from the church in southern West Virginia to be on the radio.

They would file in for their Sunday morning show, sit around peaceably until their showtime.  Then the minister of their church, a man who was affected by the coal miner's condition "Black Lung" and had been in a mining accident moved up to the mic and began his steady drone of preaching.  If you weren't paying attention you'd think it was Tuvan throat singing from southern Siberia.

Once the minister got into his preaching one of the women in the group threw her head back and started speaking in tongues.  Then she fell to the floor and writhed around for the rest of the show.  Then the other people standing around the droning preacherman would hoot and holler, throwing their arms in the air.

This happened every Sunday.

I made a tape of this particular show.  I tossed it away somewhere along life's path.

Wish I'd kept it.

APPALACHIAN TALES: MRS. STIMPSON'S FLING

By Grant McGee

  It was that summer I was 18. It was between my freshman and sophomore year in college. I was too immature to be in college, but I didn’t know that at the time.
  I had an internship in the news department at the local TV station that summer. I was too immature to have an internship, but I didn’t know that at the time either.
  I had a day off so I decided to go for a country ramble in my old 1965 Ford Falcon. I was going alone, no girl by my side because I really didn’t know much about girls at that time either. For instance, I certainly wouldn’t be hanging around with that laid back hippie-type chick who was interning at the TV station with me. She and I were talking in the newsroom, the conversation was going well when I passed gas. I thought she wouldn’t notice but all of a sudden she crossed her eyes, scrunched up her face and said, “Oh my GOD.” The conversation abruptly ended, she got up and left the room. We didn’t have any more real good conversations after that.
  So there I found myself on the far west side of town on a lazy summer day when I looked up at the nearby mountaintop and remembered the tower for the TV station was way up there. From my Boy Scoutin’ days I remembered how to get to the road that wound its way to the top.
  So I followed the asphalt until it ran out, I followed the dirt road until it became a two-track fire trail through the Jefferson National Forest.
  I never gave fire trails a second thought when it came to rambling in my old Ford “Falcoon.” The Boy Scout in me would’ve rather’ve had an old Jeep or a Rambler American or an old Checker cab but I was blessed with the Falcoon and the two of us were okay in the mountains.
  Up, up, up the trail went. I was taking it slow, easing up the mountain. Around this bend, past that switchback, up, up, up.
  I rounded another bend and was surprised to see a parked car up ahead on the fire trail, here, halfway up the mountain in the middle of the national forest.
  It was a newer car than mine, a Chevy two-door. There was a woman sitting on the hood. There was a man with his shirt off standing in front of the woman between her knees. She had her arms draped over his shoulders. Even from a few hundred feet away I could see they had been locked in a kiss as I came around the bend.
  As I trundled up the fire trail getting closer and closer the man and woman remained as they were, she on the hood, he standing between her knees, her arms draped over his shoulders. And they were talking.
  I got closer and closer and realized I knew the woman.
  It was Mrs. Stimpson* from back in my grandmother’s neighborhood. Mrs. Stimpson lived right across the street from my grandmother’s house.
  With Mr. Stimpson.
  And that wasn’t Mr. Stimpson standing shirtless in front of her between her knees.
  Mrs. Stimpson was Kevin Stimpson’s mom. At that moment in time Kevin was in the Navy. Six years in the future he would be dead, shot between the eyes by another Navy guy he shared an apartment with.
  Mr. Stimpson was retired Navy, a cook. He was a grumpy old man. One day years before while Kevin and I were running our toy trucks in the dirt in front of his house Mr. Stimpson, apropos of nothing, said, “Come on boys, let’s go for a ride.” He took us down to the city jail and gave us a tour. He had access to the jail because he was a city magistrate. Why he took the two of us on a sudden, impromptu tour of the bad-ass city jail was lost on Kevin and me.  We walked by the cells getting catcalls and whistles from the prisoners.   “What did you do?” I whispered to Kevin.
  “I don’t know,” said Kevin.
  At the end of the tour Mr. Stimpson said, “Now you boys see that you never want to be in this place.”
  Then he drove us home.
  We resumed playing with our toy trucks in the dirt in front of Kevin’s house.
  Another time Mr. Stimpson yanked us in from playing outside to watch a movie produced by The Navy that warned of the dangers of taking LSD. It was like one of those junior high school health class films.  The movie was full of bright colors.  Hapless druggies came to bad ends, like the poor ol’ gal who burned her hand because in her LSD-addled mind she thought the blue flame on the gas stove was a pretty blue flower.
  “Now you boys know never to mess with that stuff,” proclaimed Mr. Stimpson.
  “Yes sir,” Kevin and I nodded in agreement.
  Then we went back outside and went on playing with our tiny trucks in the dirt in front of Kevin’s house.
  But Mrs. Stimpson never said much. She seemed to always be in the kitchen. She was a rosy-cheeked roundish woman who smiled a lot. But Mrs. Stimpson never said much.
  And here she was on the side of the mountain kissing on a strange shirtless man who was standing between her knees.
  As I drove by with my window rolled down I lifted my hand, smiled and simply said, “Hello.”
  All I could say of the look on Mrs. Stimpson’s face was that she seemed unnaturally white and her eyes seemed to be opened as wide as those big, ol’ early 1900’s-type silver dollars.
  The man turned and gave me an upward head flick of acknowledgement.
  I kept driving and said nothing else.
  I made it to the top of the mountain, to the TV station’s transmitter site and shook hands with the lone TV engineer who manned the place, but the wonder of the trip was clouded by the mystery of seeing Mrs. Stimpson in an intimate moment in the middle of the woods with a man that was not Mr. Stimpson.
  I was old enough to understand people did such things but still too immature to fully understand why.
  I never told another soul what I saw on the mountainside that summer day long ago.
  I was mature enough to know that.

                                                                      -30-
*Names changed.

TALES FROM THE EDGE OF THE EARTH: SO I MARRIED A STRIPPER

By Grant McGee

  It was a slow day for the drivers. Me, Jason, Castro, Jack and Amy were standing in the morning sun in the parking lot of the local car distribution center.
  We were waiting to take deliveries to dealerships around the area. It was a simple job but sometimes it got boring, like this day when a big wreck was blocking the interstate. The bosses didn’t want us burning gas sitting in a traffic jam, they apparently decided workers standing around burning up the time clock was better.
  “Let’s grab one of the vans and go for lunch at Jimmy’s,” said Jack from behind his sunglasses.
Jason, Castro and Amy gave a knowing laugh.
  “Let me tell you something,” said Amy, one of the few women drivers, “It’s a good thing The Good Lord put a few extra pounds on me because I’d give those babes down there a run for their money.”
Jimmy’s was the city’s premier strip club.
  “So what goes on there?” I asked.
  The group fell silent and stared at me.
  “You’re kidding, right?” asked Amy.
  “You’ve never been there?” asked Jason.
  “Noooo,” I said. “I KNOW it’s a strip club but I mean is it like a topless joint or…”
  “Yeah,” said Jack, “It’s probably the classiest place in town. It’s just a topless joint. Those other places in town they’re kind of nasty. But I did get a lap dance there and ended up marrying the girl.”
The group turned and looked at Jack.
  “For reals?” asked Castro.
  “Yeah,” said Jack. “Even got a daughter out of the deal.”
  My mind flashed through my wonderment at the world of strippers. I used to wonder at such things, why a person would choose to be a nurse, another a lawyer, another a stripper. Then I ran across a short story by the writer Raymond Carver with a line that was my answer: “Who knows why we do what we do.”
  I got another angle on the question when I was living in Phoenix. At the time I was living with someone who had a job at the local mall at a place called “Body Talk.” 
  Body Talk was where someone could buy swimsuits at the front of the store and stripper wear in the back of the store.
  “My customers are Mormon wives and strippers,” she told me one time.
  Body Talk was very popular with the ladies who were looking for a snazzy swimsuit. It was also THE place for a number of Phoenix’s “exotic” dancers to come buy a new costume.
  She would come home and tell me tales of working at the shop. Of young women who were turning to stripping because their man had left them and left them with a kid to raise. Of how the only way they could figure to get cash, get lots of it and get it fast was to go to work at one of the many strip joints in The Valley of the Sun. Of how many of these young women were visibly upset at the prospect of having to report to their new job. Of how the hardened veteran dancers would drop in on the store.
  “Did you know a lot of the older ones I’ve encountered are lesbians?” she told me one day.
  “Nope,” I said as I raised my eyebrows.
  “And a lot of these dancers really hate the customers, the men in the audience, they think they’re pigs,” she added.
  Such were the thoughts that shot through my mind as I listened to Jack.
  “I gather you’re not married now,” I said. “Just something in the tone of your voice.”
  “Yeah,” said Jack. “It only lasted about a year.”
  “I mean, she would come home every night with these wads of cash,” Jack continued.
  “You guys got married and she continued stripping?” I asked.
  “Sure,” said Jack, “The money was GREAT. She made more money in one night than I did in a week. So I said, ‘Babe, why don’t I quit my job and stay at home with the kid.’ She had a boy from a previous relationship and we had one on the way.”
  “Every week when we went to WalMart it was like Christmas,” Jack went on. “Want another flat-screen TV? Sure! Put it in the cart. Want this? Want that? Get it! Put it in the cart. Hell, practically every shopping trip we’d have two shopping carts to carry out our stuff.”
  “But then I found out she was banging the guy across the hall from our apartment and it was over,” said Jack. “I said, ‘So why don’t we just stay roomies? You have him and I get another girlfriend and our kids don’t know the difference.’ She didn’t go for that.”
  “Now,” said Jack, “She has five kids from five different fathers.”
  “So is she still a stripper at Jimmy’s?” I asked.
  “No,” said Jack, “She’s a part-time nurse. But she spends most of her time with the kids.”
  We all stood in silence and looked at Jack.
  “But hey, I got a beautiful daughter out of the deal.”

                                                                    -30-

APPALACHIAN TALES: I WONDER WHY

By Grant McGee

Doc Taylor* had a little gun shop out on the main highway outside of town back in the hills of western Virginia.
Every day I was at work I’d make my rounds to “Doc’s Gun Shop” to stand around with other town notables to catch up on the freshest gossip. I was the newsman at the local radio station and Doc’s Gun Shop was where I got a lot of my news tips.
Doc got his name from being a medic in the Vietnam War. He spent a lot of time in government work after he got out of the Army. He’d been a policeman, he’d been a county deputy, he’d been a volunteer fireman and now he was the local volunteer fire chief.
Daily trips to Doc’s Gun Shop would mean time spent shooting the breeze with Doc and some of the other folks who dropped in. Maybe a working guy who had the day off, maybe the chief investigator of the town police force, maybe the owner of the local Chevy dealership.
They didn’t mind me sitting there and listening to the talk. If they were too worried they’d lean over and say, “Now you didn’t hear this from me…” 
I never broke their trust.
If there was a story to be had I’d start from scratch. And if anyone asked where I heard it I’d just say, “Folks are gossipin’.”
One time there was a fire at the radio station.
Grumpy Dave the general manager was a smoker. This particular morning he dumped his ashtray into his trash can. Next thing any of us knew, Grumpy Dave was yelling “Call the fire department!” He was standing at his office door, big flames dancing behind him.
I got on the phone and called Doc’s Gun Shop.
“Doc’s Gun Shop,” said Doc on the other end.
“DOC!” I yelled over the phone, “It’s the radio station, there’s a fire here!”
Doc laughed.
“Daggone it,” he said, “You call 911 first! Not me personally!”
Doc laughed some more.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll call dispatch for you.”
A few moments later the siren to call the volunteers to the firehouse sounded across the town.
By the time the fire truck got to the radio station Grumpy Dave had found the fire extinguisher. The blaze was out. Doc and his guys went into Grumpy Dave’s office to make sure the fire was dead.
There was Doc in his fireman’s outfit talking with me and Grumpy Dave and laughing at me calling the gun shop first.
It would be years in the future, it would be miles from western Virginia, gone were the days of land lines and faxes to be replaced by the time of cell phones and The Internet…it would be in this time and space that I would query the computer as to how things were getting along at Doc’s Gun Shop only to learn that Doc is dead.
Doc died in 1999.
Doc went into the woods near his gun shop, put a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. He left behind a family, left behind friends who no doubt tried to make sense of what he did.
I was stunned at the news.
I leaned back in my chair in front of my computer years and miles from where it happened.
If you’d had asked me such a thing I would’ve told you Doc was one of the last guys I’d ever suspect of taking his own life.
Doc was there in my memory, holding court at his shop, sharing the local gossip, talking about hunting season, chiding me about my news work, saying it’d get me in trouble with the wrong people someday and I’d end up in the county jail. “But don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll bring you smokes and gum.”
Doc killed himself.
And I wonder why.

-30-
*Name changed

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: THE LAST HITCHHIKER

My high school chum Dick gave this to me for my 17th birthday.  A tome from another time.

by Grant McGee

            I saw a hitchhiker the other day.

            I don’t pick up hitchhikers anymore.

            I used to pick up hitchhikers.

            I used to think, “Gee, what if that was me?”

            I like the catch-all term “karma.” 

Shoot, even Willie Nelson had a song about it, “Little Old Fashioned Karma.”

            Willie sings, “…it really ain’t hard to understand, if you’re gonna dance, you gotta pay the band.  Just a little old fashioned karma coming down.”

            And it was a hitchhiker who introduced me to the term “karma” back in the fall of 1973, but that’s another story.

Seeing a hitchhiker brings up another saying, “There but for fortune go you or I.”

There are plenty of stories to go around about the pitfalls of picking up hitchhikers.  Most of the hitchhikers I’ve picked up have just been everyday people.

I have been a hitchhiker.  Not the coast-to-coast-with-a-backpack kind, but out of necessity.

Once on my way to work the Volkswagen I had threw a rod (what an incredible noise that made, sounded like a chain was flying around the engine compartment).  I pulled over, turned off the engine and sat there for a bit.

I had to get to work.

So I locked up the bug, went to the side of the road and stuck out my thumb.

Car after car passed me by.  Finally a car that had been flying toward me came to a screeching halt, it left skid marks. 

The passenger door flew open. 

“Hurry up buddy,” yelled the driver.  “Get in, I’m gonna be late for work.”

It was an old car that made a loud thunking noise as we zipped down the highway at 60, 70, 80 miles per hour.

“Overslept,” said the driver.  “Me and the old lady were f#*~ing all night.  WOO!  She was in a MOOD!”

“Well how ‘bout that!” I said, smiling a polite nothing-I-can-do-about-this smile and nodding.

The thunking vibrated the car as we zipped past all those who had passed me by on the highway earlier.

THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK….

“What’s that noise?”

“My front axle’s bent, wheel could fly off at any time.”

“Oh,” and again I nodded and smiled my polite nothing-I-can-do-about-this smile.

Well the wheel didn’t fly off.  The guy dropped me off by the side of the road not far from work.  While waiting to cross the highway the cars that had passed me 20 miles back passed me again, a couple with apparent “how did he do that” expressions on their faces.

It isn’t as if hitchhiking is entirely a bad thing.

If you read “Made in America,” the Sam Walton story, you’ll find he even engaged in hitchhiking on an apparent regular basis.  Walton would fly into towns to visit one of his many Wal-Marts.  He would wait at the small airport for a local pilot to come through then ask if he could catch a ride into town.  When he was done with his visit he’d get the store manager to give him a lift back out to the local airport.

It may have been Sam Walton, he may have worn a suit and tie, he may have had a dog named “Ol’ Roy,” he may have had his own plane at the airport, but it still sounds like hitchhiking to me.

One time I picked up an old hitchhiker.  No sooner had we gone a mile than he asked me for twenty dollars.  When I told him I only had five dollars he proceeded to curse me and call me a liar.

I started laughing.

“What you laughin’ at you sumbitch?”

“I give you a ride, you hit me up for money then you cuss at me and insult my momma.  You’re obviously a dumbass.”

I pulled over and told him to get the hell out of my car.

But I’ve been digressing here, the name of this story is “The Last Hitchhiker,” let me tell you about him.

It’s spring 1998, I’m on my way to work in Sierra Vista, Arizona…about 20 some-odd miles from my groovy pad in Bisbee, Arizona.  There, standing at the overlook where drivers could pull over and admire the view of the town of Bisbee I spied a hitchhiker by the side of the road:  no shoes, no shirt.  The old phrase “there but for fortune” came to mind so I pulled over and let him in.

“Just got out of jail,” he said. 

“Oh shit,” I thought to myself.  I thought about all those folks who had given me a hard time over the years about picking up hitchhikers, that they were finally right.

“Where’s your shirt and shoes?” I asked, smiling my nothing-I-can-do-about-this-now-because-you’re-already-in-my-car smile.

“They arrested me while I was sleeping.  I was at home on the sofa and they busted in and hauled my ass away. This is what I went in with and this is what I came out with.  I called my girl but her phone’s disconnected.  I think she left me.”

In my rule book of picking up hitchhikers the guy owes the driver conversation.  If it’s good storytelling, that’s a plus.  This guy delivered.

“Yeah, I got in a bar fight up in Benson and bit off a hunk of this guy’s ear,” he said with pride.  “He ran out of the place cryin’ and hollerin.’  I went home.  I never thought he’d call the cops.”

“You bit off a hunk of his ear.”

“He insulted my girl, called her an old whore.”

“So you wandered around jail just wearing your pants.”

“Aw hell no,” he said.  “In jail they give you this orange jump suit and you get a pair of cheap flip-flops.  But when it was time to go home they took back their stuff and gave me my pants back.”

We came to an intersection, I pulled over.

“Well, my work’s that way,” I said pointing toward Sierra Vista.  “Someone will probably be along here shortly and you’ll get another ride.”

“Hey, I appreciate the ride this far.  You have any money you can give me?”

I thought about it.  Thought how I might feel if I was in his situation (I was about to say ‘in his shoes’ but he didn’t have any).  I gave him five dollars.

And I haven’t picked up a hitchhiker since.

                                    

                                                           -30-