A PHILOSOPHICAL DISCUSSION WITH A HERMIT CRAB REGARDING DEATH

Old Bob, my remaining hermit crab, pet of 13 years, peers out from his new shell which used to belong to Young Bob, now dead, who was Old Bob’s terrarium-mate for the past 10 years.  That’s Old Bob’s old shell pictured.  One way I could tell them apart because Young Bob spelled his name backwards.

  

  Bob the hermit crab died the other day.

  I don’t know what day he died.  The only way I knew anything was different in the hermitcrabatorium he shared with Old Bob is that Old Bob seemed very frantic to get into the sand where Young Bob was.  Young Bob had gone underground to molt.

  Another thing I noticed was there was a strong shrimpy smell in the terrarium.  I lifted up the rock where Young Bob had gone to see his shell and his old skin.  Well, I thought it was his old skin.

  It wasn’t.

  It was big, bulky, not like a shed skin.

  Young Bob was dead.  Probably for a few days, mold was growing on him.

  “You think I should leave him for Old Bob to eat?” I asked The Lady of the House as I held Young Bob up by one leg for her to see.

  “I don’t think we should encourage cannibalism,” she said.

  “I’ll take him outside somewhere for a ‘sky burial,’” I said.  I learned the term from a book by Chinese author Xinran.  It’s a way of disposing of remains in Tibet.  Gravedigging is out of the question in the hardscrabble land of that region so bodies are left in the open to be taken care of by scavengers (like vultures) and the elements.

  “Don’t feel bad,” said The Lady of the House.  “10 years is a pretty good run.  Lots of animals that molt sometimes die when they do.”

  I went to sit in front of the hermitcrabatorium and looked at Bob.

  He was ambling around the aquarium.

  I imagined a conversation with my pet of 13 years.

  “You didn’t have to take his carcass away, dude,” said Bob.

  “We don’t believe in encouraging cannibalism,” I said.

  “It’s NOT cannibalism,” said Bob.  “It’s recycling.  That shell is full of good stuff, good nutrition.  Hell, you don’t object when we eat our own skin after we shed it.”

  “Well no, but it’s YOURS to eat,” I said.  “Besides, I’m pretty sure I saw where you’d already been eating on him.”

  “He’s dead, it’s of no use to him.”

  “How’d he die?” I asked Bob.

  “Dude, how the hell should I know,” said Bob.  “All I know is that this morning the smell of death was in the air.”

  “Smelled like shrimp to me,” I said.

  “You insult us,” said Bob.  “Shrimp smell like us.”

  “I see you wasted no time in getting into his old shell,” I said.

  “It’s a skosh bigger than my old one…wait,” said Bob, “Are you throwing shade on me for moving into Dead Bob’s unused shell?  Man, you’ve really got to get off this anthropomorphizing trip.  Don’t apply your moralistic, human stuff on us.”

  “Ah,” I said.  “You have a point.”

  “I would have liked to have eaten Dead Bob, lots of nutrition there.  And maybe I DO harbor some resentment about the time he ripped off my claw when I was molting a few years ago, so maybe there would’ve been a ‘Ha ha, I’m alive and you’re dead’ thing going on there.

  “Bob is dead.  Bob has gone on to The Next,” Old Bob continued.

  “The Next?” I asked.

  “The Next lifeform he will take.  Will he be an octopus next?  A fish?  A toad?  Lizard?  Elephant?  Only The Next knows.  But know that sometime in the distant future in one of your incarnations to come someone will be very kind to you.  That may be Young Bob, having finally attained humanity and extending Karmic kindness to you for the kindness and care you have shown to us over the years.”

  “I’d a-set y’all free if I coulda gone where y’all are from if I’d a-known where that was,” I said.

  “Somewhere where it’s warm and humid night and day all year,” said Bob.

  “Does it bother you that Bob is dead?”

  “No,” said Bob.  “We’re born, we die.  It’s the deal we get when we come here.  I mean I will miss our deep philosophical chats but I’m not gnashing my mandibles or rending my shell.  You humans are so strange with your drama and crying and funerals and stuff.”

  “How do you know about these things?” I asked.

  “There was that time you guys had us set up in the living room near the TV,” said Bob.

  “People get upset if you’re too straightforward about death,” I said.

  “Oh, I can imagine,” said Bob.  “In its simplest form it’s a transition.  Besides, you need to heed what your mother said to you when she showed up in your dreams after she died.”

  “How do you know about that?” I asked.

  “We see shit,” he said.  “We’re better in tune with The Next.”

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “Remember?  She said ‘Don’t take life so seriously,’” said Bob.  “You REALLY need to follow that advice.”

  “Having a conversation with Bob in your head?” asked The Lady of the House, she had come into the room behind me.

  I laughed a little.

  “You know they’re social creatures,” she said.  “You need to decide if you want to get another one so he won’t be alone or if you want to see if there’s someone out there who’s taking real good care of some and wants to add him to the ones they already have.”

  “Yeah,” I said.  “Something to think about.”

  The Lady of the House turned and left the room.

  “By the way,” said Bob “I’d really like more of that meat in gravy canned catfood.  That’s good shit.”

-30-

The CEO's Secret

  There she was, here in the future.

  A picture from the social media.

  There she was at a cocktail party, holding a highball glass.

  I guess she never got that memo, the one that says “Don’t have your picture taken holding a beer, glass of wine or a cocktail.”

  But then this CEO of a mid-sized company outside of DC wasn’t always a CEO. 

  Nope. 

  I remember The CEO from her hell-raising days.

  I remember when she was trying to make a buck selling ads on the radio.

  I had run into an old radio chum on the Internet.  We chatted up about radio days long ago in the countryside outside of Washington, D.C.

  I wondered whatever happened to Andrea*.

  “She’s CEO of some company,” wrote the pal.  A bit later he sent me a picture…and there she was, holding that highball glass.

  I mean I knew she was destined for higher things…she carried herself well, wore pearl necklaces, drove a Mercedes sports car to work, graduated from The University of Virginia, married an investments dude.  Years later when I was traveling from town to town selling advertising in bowling alleys she was a big cheese in an advertising agency…I had to go see her, try to sell her on a bowling alley ad for a car dealership.  She okayed the buy.  Whether it was because it was a good decision or she did it as a favor for an old co-worker who kept a secret I’ll never know.

  Like I said, I remember The CEO from her hell-raising days.

  The CEO and I were just part of the staff of a radio station that was still in a rural part of Maryland.  I say “still” because just a few years later that section of the state would be overrun by the megalopolis that is the Baltimore-Washington metro area.

  My job was to keep the station running smoothly…it was automated.  There was a newsman, Crazy Becky* the receptionist and a sales staff of 4 who ran around the countryside selling radio ads.

  Our overseer was a big ol’ fella I’ll call Manager Tom*.  Manager Tom was one big, round dude…I reckon he must’ve weighed about 400 pounds.  Manager Tom ran things for the owner….I’ll call him “Mr. TV,” because he was a well-known, long-time nightly news anchor in Baltimore.

  Mr. TV would visit his radio station from time to time but he never spoke to me, or the newsman or the salespeople.  I reckon Mr. TV just saw us as labor, a “necessary evil” in his eyes.

  Oh yeah, I forgot, Manager Tom’s wife Jeannie* was the station bookkeeper.  The two of them could be heard arguing through the whole radio station from time to time.

  I’ll just be real with you, Manager Tom was an asshole with no sense of humor.  Well, okay, I reckon he had a sense of humor, but only he and his wife appreciated it.

  Case in point:  One day I took a “Post-it” note and stuck it to the ceiling of the men’s room just about right over the toilet.  On the note I had written with a Sharpie:  “What are you looking up here for?”

  It had been a few days since I left the note there when Manager Tom practically exploded through the men’s room door yelling, “WHO STUCK THIS NOTE TO THE CEILING OF THE MEN’S ROOM????”

  “I did,” I said, sticking my head out from the radio studio, owning right up to the deed.  I mean who else could it be?  There were only four guys on staff…me, Manager Tom, the newsman and a salesman.  The newsman and the salesman weren’t the kind of guys to stick a Post-it note on the men’s room ceiling.

  Manager Tom came charging down the hall, holding the note in his fingertips, shaking it at me.

  “IF YOU DON’T HAVE ENOUGH WORK TO DO AROUND HERE I CAN FIND MORE FOR YOU IF YOU HAVE TIME TO DO NONSENSE LIKE THIS!!!!”

  By this time Manager Tom and I were face to face.

  “It was meant to be funny, chief,” I said.  “With all due respect…What are you really angry about?”

  Manager Tom glared at me, wheeled around, stormed down the hallway into his office and slammed the door behind him.

  I wondered why the note pissed him off so.

  Maybe he was constipated.

  Anyway, that’s the guy we worked for in the little radio station out in the Maryland countryside.  Manager Tom really didn’t bug me or Crazy Becky, there wasn’t much we did for him to get pissed about, but the vibe of resentment ran deep with the salespeople and the newsguy.  Manager Tom would ride the newsman’s ass about being on top of news crap from around the area and he was always ragging on the salespeople to sell more.  I was glad I wasn’t the newsman or a salesperson at that joint.

  So I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that night that three of the four salespeople showed up at my apartment door.

  I was one of four renters in a big ol’ ramblin’ Victorian house that had been made into an apartment building.  Wood floors, a walkup back porch, big ol’ windows, I mean this place had ATMOSPHERE.  It was pretty cool.

  I was sitting on the sofa watching TV when…

  *KNOCK*KNOCK*KNOCK*

  Last time someone unexpectedly banged on my door it was a town policeman who led me down the stairs to the street to show me what was left of my car after some drunk rammed it while it was parked.  Whoever it was left behind some chunks of headlight and stuff.  The perils of parking on the street.

  “Who is it?” I asked in a semi-loud voice.

  “Grant, open up, it’s Andrea, Jules* and Marky*.” It was Andrea’s voice.

  I stood there for a moment and wondered what was on the other side of the door.  Why the three saleswomen from the radio station were visiting me on a Thursday night.

  I opened the door.

  There the three of them stood.

  All three had big-assed shit eatin’ grins.

  “Y’all are drunk aren’t you,” I said.

  They all chuckled and looked at each other.

  They walked through my door.

  “Well, come right in ladies,” I said.

  “Thought you’d never ask,” said Jules as she plopped on my couch.  Marky sat down beside her.  Andrea kept standing.

  “What brings you three to my humble abode?”

  “We’re going to egg the station,” said Andrea.

  Jules laughed out loud and fell against Marky.

  “Where’s Todd?” I asked.  Todd was the fourth salesperson.

  “Todd’s head is stuck up Tom’s ass,” sneered Marky.

  “Didn’t know,” I said.

  “Todd wants to be like Tom,” said Jules.

  “You in or not?” asked Andrea.

  “I’m on the spot here, guys,” I said.  “I don’t do well on the spot.”

  “We’d like you to drive,” said Marky, “We’re drunk.”

  “Nooooooo, y’all drunk?” I said.  “Like I can’t tell.”

  “You’re not going to help us, are you,” said Andrea.  “If you were you’d already be on board.”

  “Nope,” I said.  “I’d like to but I gotta keep my nose clean.  I need this job.  Y’all don’t seem that drunk.”

  Andrea and I stared at each other.

  “I’m probably not all that much,” said Andrea, “I just don’t like to take chances.”

  “It’s not like I’m not rootin’ for y’all,” I said.  “Manager Tom’s an asshole.”

  “It’s that new sign,” said Andrea, standing there with her arms crossed, pearl necklace and all.  They hadn’t changed clothes since work.  Business suits.  “Son of a bitch bitches about costs and shit but they can go out and buy a f&#kin’ new brick and metal sign for the station driveway.”

  “I mean I WOULD like to go, that’s the kid in me,” I said.  “But the grownup says you guys go, I’m stayin’ home.”

  “We have a LOT of eggs,” said Jules laughing.  She fell into Marky’s lap giggling.

  “You’ll see it in the morning,” said Marky, nodding with a shit-eatin’ grin.

  “Nice place you have here, Grant,” said Andrea.  “When I saw where you lived I thought you lived in the basement or something.”

  I smiled at Andrea.

  “Nice to know you have a high opinion of me,” I said smiling.

  “It’s just, you know, I’m sure you don’t make THAT much money, I suppose you should be lucky you don’t live in your parents’ basement.”

  I liked Andrea, but the more she talked the more I came to understand we were really from different tribes.

  “Come on, ladies,” said Andrea, “We have work to do.”

  I stood, opened the door and held it for them as Jules and Marky, maintaining their shit-eatin’ grins filed past.  Andrea brought up the rear.

  Andrea turned and looked me in the eyes.

  “And I know I can count on your confidence in this matter,” she said.

  “But of course,” I said smiling.

  And she was gone down the stairwell, pearl necklace and all.

  I closed the door.

  “I know I can count on your confidence in this matter,” I thought to myself.  “Who talks like that?  Dad?  A lawyer?  People of her tribe I reckon.”

  Friday morning I walked to work like I always did.  It was just two miles.

  Besides, my car was totaled in that hit-and-run and I was saving up for another junker, but I was also kicking around the idea of a good bicycle.

  I walked toward the radio station drive.  I could see the new brick and metal sign up ahead.

  I don’t know how close I was before I saw the broken eggs all over the sign.

  I chuckled a bit.

  I turned and walked down the station drive where I saw all the usual cars…along with a new one…a county deputy’s cruiser.  Smashed eggs were all over the front door of the station, streams of yolk, snotty looking egg white…some still wet, eggshells.

  “They DID have a lot of eggs,” I muttered to myself.

  I opened the door to the radio station.  There was Crazy Becky at her desk.  She looked me in the eyes then made her eyes twitch to the right a few times.

  Standing to her right in Manager Tom’s doorway was the big man himself talking with a county deputy.

  “Well, Grant, I suppose you see we got egged last night,” said Manager Tom.

  “Can’t miss all the eggs,” I said.

  “Would you know anything about this?” asked the deputy.

  I stopped and looked the man right in the eyes.

  “Really, sir?” I said.  “I’d egg where I work?”

  We stared at each other.

  “It’s not so strange if you think about it.  Have to ask,” said the deputy.

  “I understand,” I said, “Please tell Sheriff Gebhardt* that Grant McGee says hello.”

  I walked down the hall.

  I walked past the open door to the sales office.  Andrea was sitting at her desk.  She looked up, gave a slight smile and a nod.

  I went down the hall to my desk and started my work day.

-30-

*Names fictionalized.

A Girl, A Car, A Full Moon, A Cemetery and a Bottle of Jack...

  A pic of the actual factual church and graveyard 

in Botetourt County, Virginia....

  Tyler’s car was gone.

  It was a weird feeling to look out the window from his room and…no car.

  He stood there looking out the window.

  “Oh,” he thought and snapped his finger.  “Bet Diane has my car.”

  Tyler turned around, grabbed his phone and punched in Diane’s number.

  Diane answered.

  “Hey,” said Tyler, “How are you?”

  “Probably better than you,” said Diane.

  “You have my car, right?”

  There was laughing on the line.

  “You don’t remember,” said Diane.  “You told me to drop you off at your house and you’d come get your car.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I’m about two miles from you,” said Diane.  She gave him the address.

  “I’m on my way over,” said Tyler.  “I think I’ll jog over, I feel great.”

  “You’re probably still drunk,” she said.

  Tyler laughed.

  “I’ll be right over,” he said.

  Tyler threw on some clothes, splashed some water on his face and dashed out the door.

  He broke into a run.

  It was a sunny day with a hint of spring coolness in the air. 

  He thought about the night before.

  It was his birthday and no one was around to help him celebrate.  He decided to head on over to the radio station and hang out.  He grabbed his prized plastic drink cup, the one from Burger King with The Fonz from “Happy Days” on it, filled it with ice, grabbed a can of Coke, put it in his pocket and grabbed his bottle of Jack Daniels.

  Tyler set himself up in the sales office, propping his feet up on J.R.’s desk.  It was a passive aggressive move on Tyler’s part….he didn’t like J.R., J.R. didn’t like him so it was righteous that Tyler prop his feet on the asshole’s desk.

  From his vantage point he could look right through the open door of the production room where Diane was working on commercials.

  All he knew about Diane was that she was easy to talk to, and that’s why he came to the radio station in the first place, he thought she would probably be working.
  Tyler'd take a swig of Jack, chase it with a swig of Co-Cola and say, "AAAAY" just like The Fonz on the TV show.

  Now it was the next day and he was standing at her door, panting from the run and knocking.

  The door opened and there was Diane wearing an oversized red and black checkered flannel shirt and it sure looked like she wasn’t wearing anything else.  Her long brown hair falling on her shoulders.

  “Well HELLO,” said Tyler with a smile.

  “Don’t get any ideas mister,” said Diane.  “That’s not where you and I are at.  Come on in.”

  Tyler stood at the door.

  “I have made a big mistake,” he said.

  “You ran all the way here didn’t you,” said Diane.  “You don’t regularly run, do you.”

  “Nope.”

  “Dumbass.  You’re still drunk.”

  Tyler came in and plopped himself down on the sofa.

  “You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” said Diane.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude,” said Tyler.

  “Oh you weren’t rude,” she said.  Then she started laughing.

  “All I remember is taking swigs of Jack Daniels then chasing ‘em with Coke from my Fonzie cup,” said Tyler.  “Where IS my Fonzie cup?”

It was a Burger King "Fonzie" cup just like this one....

  “I’m sure it’s still in your car,” said Diane.  “You didn’t have it in the graveyard.”

  “The graveyard?” Tyler sat up and looked Diane in the eyes.

  “Oh damn,” she laughed.  “You don’t…you really shouldn’t drink, buddy.”

  “Well,” said Tyler, “it was a special occasion, my 21^st birthday you know.”

  “Yeah, that was one of those things you kept saying over and over last night, ‘I’m 21, where’s the magic?’”

  Tyler put his hand to his mouth and raised his eyebrows.

  “So anyway,” said Diane, “you wanted to go on a mountain ramble and YOU WANTED TO DRIVE and I said ‘Aw hell no.  I’ll drive where you want to go but you ain’t drivin’.’”

  “So I finished up my work and we took off, we headed up the interstate and before I knew it we were in Botetourt County.  And you kept saying, ‘Drive, drive!  We’ll find the magic.’”

  “And you drove,” said Tyler.

  “Yeah,” said Diane.  “I’m bored shitless, it’s a Friday night, I ain’t doin’ anything.  Might as well.”

  “So you know, Tyler, I was born and raised here and I ain’t never been beyond Fincastle, ain’t got no reason.  So here it is 10 at night and we’re up at Eagle Rock and driving and driving and then you tell me to turn off the highway on to this li’l ol’ road.  ‘We’re going to Glen Wilton!’ you announce.”

  It was about that time that Tyler saw that the flannel shirt really was ALL that Diane was wearing.  This messed with his head for a moment but then he re-focused.

  “’This is my ancestral home,’ you said two or three times.  Okay, so here I am somewhere, oh I don’t know, 40, 60 miles from home at night and you direct me to an open field where there’s this ANCIENT, and I mean ANCIENT church with…”

  “I mean this is FREAKY, it’s a full moon night, an ancient church in the middle of nowhere.  We stop, you stumble around to my side, open my door, take me by the hand and lead me into THIS GRAVEYARD.”

  “It’s a nice place,” said Tyler.

  “I’m sure it’s real pretty in the daylight, Tyler.  BUT THIS IS NIGHT, THIS IS A FREAKIN’ FULL MOON NIGHT.”

  Tyler chuckled a little.

  “So we sit down in the middle of this f#*kin’ graveyard and you proceed to tell me about all your dead relatives buried there.”

  “The one I remember most was ‘poor Uncle Jim,’ you called him.  Your grandmother’s little brother…”

  “Cooked through and through like…” Tyler started but Diane interrupted.

  “’COOKED THROUGH AND THROUGH LIKE A POT ROAST,’ you said.  Yeah, that was 1918.  Poor sumbitch was working at the pig iron furnace, it was the end of the day and the new guy working the slag basket at the top of the furnace let it down too fast and Uncle Jim and the guy standing beside him got covered in molten pig iron…”

  “Yeah, and…”

  “Don’t interrupt me,” said Diane holding up a hand to Tyler’s face.  “I want to show you I was listening…..so there’s your great-granddaddy, superintendant of the pig iron mines coming home after work and there’s Uncle Jim’s dog howling in the back yard.  Your great-granddaddy walks in the house and and your great grandma says ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with that dog.’  And your great granddaddy stops, looks at the missus and says, ‘Momma, I believe our boy is dead.’ And about that time the klaxon horn from the furnace goes off, signal of a big emergency.’”

  “And then, and then, and then…you fell backwards and passed out or went to sleep or whatever right in the middle of your story about Uncle Jim,” said Diane.  “So there I was, in the middle of the mountains of Botetourt County, I didn’t have a f#*kin’ clue really where I was.  I’m in the middle of a graveyard on a full moon night and I have no idea how long you’ll be out.”

  “I sat there, looked around.  There was a big ol’ hoot owl somewhere off in the distance.  No cars.  No people.”

  “Then, all of a sudden, like 10 or 15 minutes after you passed out, WHOOP!  There you sit bolt upright again and pick up right where you left off.  I MEAN RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT OFF!  And you say, ‘They loaded Uncle Jim and the other guy on a train bound for Lynchburg and they were moaning, screaming and crying in pain.  And they died along the way.’”

  “You told me about a few more of your dead relatives,” said Diane, “then you got up, took me by the hand, helped me up and we walked to the car.  I got in, you got in and I drove  us back home.”

  Tyler sat there with a smile on his face.

  Diane smiled back.

  “I feel like shit,” said Tyler.

  “And so the hangover begins,” said Diane.  She pulled the car keys out of her shirt pocket and handed them to Tyler.

  “Reckon I’ll head on home,” said Tyler, taking his keys.  I gotta be at the station at 3.”

  “Drink a lot of water, take a nap,” said Diane.

  Tyler stopped at the door, turned, and looked into Diane’s eyes.

  She smiled and looked away.

  “Not today, Tyler,” said Diane.  “I appreciate you being a perfect gentleman while you visited.  Let’s you and I go out sometime, hunh?”

  Tyler smiled, turned and walked out into the sunny day.

-30-

45 RPM Records, Country Singers and One Front Desk Receptionist

Just in case don't know, this is a 45 rpm record.  

  When I started in radio it was still a time when singers would drop in on local radio stations hawking their first ever recorded song, hoping their visit would get it played, hoping they’d have a hit.

  If you ever saw the movie “Coal Miner’s Daughter,” the story of Country singer Loretta Lynn, you may recall the scene where she and her husband Mooney went to stations with her first record.

  For all the people who came by radio stations where I worked, fresh 45 rpm records in their hands, nary a one ever made “The Big Time.”

  Now I do remember a few who dropped by.

  There was Stu Palmer*, hard workin’ honky-tonk singer.  The dude had a big barrel chest and a beer gut to match packed tight into a pearl snap Western shirt.  He’d walk into the radio station with his freshest new country song on 45 and you’d just wonder if his shirt was going to burst open and his freed gut would send someone flying across the room.  Lots of trailer park women in the West Virginia mountains thought Stu was a hunka-hunka burnin’ love. 

  One of the things that got me about a number of these folks who strolled into the radio station with their new single is a day or two after they’d drop by people would start calling in requesting the song.  No doubt the singer had set his fans in motion to make the calls.

 Of all the country singers who came by stations I worked at over the years that happened most often with Stu’s songs.

  Stu dropped dead on the county fair stage one hot August night while he was doing his Elvis imitation.

  Stu’s wife and girlfriend met each other for the first time that night as they both rushed to his side.  The rescue squad people said it looked like Stu had one of those massive heart attacks, that he was dead before he hit the stage.  He wasn’t much past 35 years old.

  Then there was Viv Stansfield*.  Viv sounded awful.  I mean you had to give the guy credit because he kept trying to be a country star and threw his heart into it.  His untrained vocals were all over the place in a song.  About every 6 months or so Viv managed to scrounge up enough money to cut another song, have some 45s pressed then he’d make his way around the regional radio stations asking for airplay.  Viv never lacked for enthusiasm.  Each time he came to the station he was like a wide-eyed kid in a candy store.  He was full of hope that maybe THIS TIME, he’d hit the big time.

  One time, just for the helluvit, the boss dropped a line to the late Biff Collie asking a favor.  Biff was a big time Country personality who had his own, short, weekday Nashville Country gossip radio show called “Inside Nashville.”  The boss asked Biff if he could just mention Viv on his show one time.  And Biff did.

  “Keep your eye on Viv Stansfield,” said Biff on his radio show.  “He’s a real up and comer.”

  Viv called the radio station within minutes.

  “Didja hear that?!?!” Viv practically screamed in the phone.  “Biff Collie said my name on his radio show.”

  Country music fame never found Viv.  I think he ended up being an insurance salesman.

  There were guys I thought should’ve made it and probably would’ve if they had just…

  Tom Brumby* was a guy like that. 

    Tom came by the radio station with his song, a pretty good one, called “You Left and I Ain’t Right.”  He stood in the station lobby, shoulders slumped forward, holding out his 45.  I wanted to tell the dude to stand up straight, it’d give him an air of confidence, probably be good for his back too.  But Tom and I had just met so I didn’t feel it was my place to say.

  I invited him back into the studio and put his record on the turntable.  It was a tight country song.  And those vocals?  Strong, good.  I mean if I hadn’t seen Tom I’d never guess the guy on the record was the tall, mousy guy sitting across from me.

Next thing we knew Tom had made it to that Country music talent show “You Can Be a Star,” a show arguably a precursor to “American Idol.”

  I just wished someone’d been there to coach Tom to stand up straight and have some confidence.

 There was Tom on national TV with his shoulders slumped looking like his sport coat was going to swallow him whole.  Yet there was that wonderful voice of his singing that great song of his.

  Tom didn’t make it on “You Can Be a Star” but his song was requested by our listeners years after that TV show went off the air.

  The guy I remember most of all was Bobby Lee Johnson.* I remember Bobby Lee not for his song, but because he ran off with our radio station receptionist.

  It was a summer day in 1978 that Bobby Lee dropped by that li’l ol’ radio station I was working at back in the hills and hollers of Appalachian coal country.

  The Paul Harvey 15 minute news show was on so I got up from my “air chair” and went out in the lobby to shake the hand of this fellow who just walked in, Bobby Lee Johnson.

  Bobby Lee had come over from the mountains right up against the Virginia/Kentucky line.

  Bobby Lee had recorded a cover of a Conway Twitty hit from 9 years earlier, “I Love You More Today.”

  “I figger I can breathe new life into a great song,” said Bobby Lee as he handed me the record, a “45.”

  Bobby Lee was a young man in his prime:  Full head of brown wavy hair, muscled, held himself well.  I probably wouldn’t’ve mentioned this if it hadn’t been for all the ladies in the radio station having made their way into the station lobby to ogle Bobby Lee.

  There was Katy* the station’s lone salesperson, well aside from Doug* the owner.  There was Linda* the front office receptionist.  Even Lindsey*, the former hippie commune resident who was our traffic director, had left her back office and come up front to have a gander at Bobby Lee.

  I was talking to Bobby Lee about his music while the office ladies lined up on the front desk counter, leaning over and staring, running their fingers through their hair and moving this way and that.

  I may have been naïve about some stuff in life but I recognized tacit primate pre-copulatory things going on twixt the ladies and Bobby Lee.  It made me wonder if it was his looks or if he was one of those guys who seemed to give off more than a heapin’ helpin’ of pheromones.

  So I took Bobby Lee’s 45, thanked him for dropping by and I turned and went back into the studio.  I went back to spinning the records.

  As I sat there I looked through the big plate glass window into the lobby and watched as Bobby Lee stood, leaning on the counter with the ladies, and talking.

  Every now and then Linda would reach up and touch Bobby Lee’s hair like she was brushing it from his face.

  Soon Katy wandered off.  Not long after that Lindsey went back to her office leaving Linda and Bobby Lee leaning on the counter talking to each other.

  Then Katy came into the studio from a side door.

  “I think Linda’s gonna get her some Bobby Lee,” said Katy, standing with her arms crossed, looking out the big window.

  “I reckon,” I said, leaning back in my swivel chair.

  “I don’t understand,” said Katy.  “I’m better’n her.  Hell, ain’t he looking at her nasty teeth?”

  Linda’s teeth were pretty messed up and stained to boot.  But I don’t think Bobby Lee was looking at her teeth.

  “C’mon, Katy, you KNOW what Bobby Lee is looking at,” I said.

  Katy stared at me, I stared at her.

  “Okay,” said Katy, “It’s her BOOBS.  HER GIANT BOOBS.”

  “Shhhhhhh,” I said furrowing my brow, “They might hear you.”

  “I don’t care,” and with that Katy turned and walked out of the studio.  Katy and Linda were roommates, they shared a mobile home in a trailer park on the outskirts of town.  I wondered about their conversation, how it would go when they got home from work after this.

  I kept on playing the records while I lost interest in what was going on with Linda and Bobby Lee.

  Sometime later I saw movement through the window and watched as Bobby Lee was walking out the door.  He turned and gave me a wave and I waved back.  Then he was gone.

  I looked over at Linda.  She was watching Bobby Lee drive away.

  Then she turned and looked at me and winked.

  The next day 8am came and went and there was no Linda at the front desk.

  Katy came in around 815, walked in the front door and just stood there.  She looked at the front desk, she looked at me.  She walked into the studio.

  “That’s not like Linda to not come to work,” said Katy.

  “You live with her,” I said.  “Did she stay out all night.”

  “I don’t know,” said Katy.  “She has her own room.  I thought she’d gone on to work.”

  Just then the boss, Doug, walked in. 

  Doug stopped in the lobby, looked at the front desk then looked into the air studio at me and Katy.

  Doug walked in the studio.

  “Anyone heard from Linda?” he said.

  “No sir,” I said.

  “Nope,” said Katy.

  “You live with her,” Doug said to Katy.  “Where is she?”

  “We live together Doug but we have our own rooms,” said Katy.  “I don’t know.”

  Doug turned and left the studio.  He didn’t look happy.

  Well Linda didn’t show up that day.  No one heard from her that day.

  Or the next.

  On the third day there was a sensation in town as a woman’s body was found in a burning car up a holler.  We thought it was Linda, but by the afternoon the dead woman had been identified…it wasn’t Linda.  Four young men were arrested in the death.

  On the fourth day Linda came sashaying into the radio station right on time at 8.

  The top of the hour news was on so I went into the lobby.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Me and Bobby Lee drove down to Boone,” said Linda with a smile.  Boone was down in North Carolina.  “We’re going to get married.”

  “Really!” I said, trying to keep from laughing.  I don’t know why I thought it was funny, maybe because it was just….just….it just was weird.  “Well, congratulations.”

  I turned and went back into the air studio.  I sat in my chair just as Doug came in the front door.  He stood there, looked at Linda, spoke to her and as he did he sharply pointed at his office door.  Linda got up and went with Doug into his office.  I heard a door slam.

  Probably no more than 5 minutes later Linda was walking out the front door.  She turned and waved at me.

  She was still smiling.

E P I L O G U E

  Bobby Lee and Linda did not get married.

  I learned this from Katy.

  Katy said Linda never heard from Bobby Lee ever again.

  Not long after Doug fired her, Linda got a job as a secretary with a coal company.  Not long after that she had an abortion.  All this I learned from Katy.

  I lost track of Linda not long after that.

  Katy packed up and moved to Norfolk.  I looked her up on The Great and Powerful Internet and saw that she died of The Cancer a few years ago just like Doug did a few years before that.

  And Bobby Lee?  His song never charted as is the fate of many an aspiring singer.  I looked him up on The Internet and found that after a 35 year career with the Tennessee Valley Authority he retired to Florida where he sings in a Key West bar on Saturday nights.

  Bobby Lee gets good reviews on the bar’s website…all written by women…almost every one mentioning how handsome he is.

  Only a few mention his singin’ and playin’.

-30-

*These names are fictitious.

Not Everyone Wants Willie for President

  I suck at writing about politics.

  It’s just that simple.

  How I wish I had the talent of Matt Taibbi who writes a lot of stuff for “Rolling Stone” and other big magazines.  His line about Rick Perry in a story back in 2011 made me laugh out loud:  “…[Perry] cracks a smug grin, looking like he's just sewn up the blue ribbon in a frat-house dong-measuring contest.”*

  I miss Molly Ivins who went “on to Glory” 11 years ago.  She could WRITE, and write with humor.  Like her view of politics in far west Texas:  “At a meeting last year of the Texas Civil Liberties Union board, vicious hate crimes against gays in both Dallas and Houston were discussed. I asked the board member from Midland if they’d been having any trouble with gay-bashing out there. “Hell, honey,” she said, with that disastrous frankness one can grow so fond of, “there’s not a gay in Midland would come out of the closet for fear people would think they’re a Democrat.”**

  Without Molly there appears to be no one to have some tongue-in-cheek fun with politics and issues, like that billboard that popped up west of Amarillo recently.  You know, the one that read:  “Liberals…Please continue on I-40 until you have left our GREAT STATE OF TEXAS.”

  I can just imagine Molly Ivins would’ve had grand fun with that.

  Naw, you really won’t see me writing too much about politics.  For one thing things have gotten WAY too serious regarding politics and for another I just can’t see that’s there’s anything I’m gonna write that’ll amuse hyper-partisans or persuade anyone to see politics the way I do.

  One of the nicest compliments I ever received was from the editor of the local newspaper who simply said:  “You know, I can’t tell what your politics are.”

  But (pssst) I’ll tell you, dear Reader:  I believe we should work to compromise and get along with each other.  You know, “United we stand, divided we fall” and all that.

  I generally keep my mouth shut about politics and religion for three reasons.  Reason 1 is once upon a time in America there was a social rule:  Don’t talk about religion or politics with friends. 

  Reason 2:  My radio boss told me to not get involved in “Hot topics and burning issues” like politics.

  Reason 3:  I like to follow the advice of Saint Elvis about being an entertainer.  Back during the Vietnam War years Elvis was approached by a reporter who asked for his thoughts about The War to which he replied:  “Honey, I’d just as soon keep my own personal views about that to myself.  I’m just an entertainer and I’d rather not say.”

   I’m a storyteller and bullshitter…a member of the entertainer tribe…so I TRY to follow St. Elvis’ advice.

  I especially lay low about politics after a lesson I got a number of years ago in New Mexico’s Pecos Valley.

Actual factual picture of the radio station 
where I used to work in Roswell, New Mexico.  
It ain't a country station any more.

  I was working at the country station in Roswell in 1990, just having a grand time but I didn’t make a helluva lot of money.

  Rhonda the Remarkable Roswell Radio Receptionist told me once upon a time:  “I saw y’all’s paychecks.  I never knew how y’all made it on so little money.

 So me and my buddy Wayne, who also worked at the station, had a “side gig” being disc jockeys at big parties and dances.

  I have to give credit and a tip of the hat to The Boss back then who turned a blind eye to us using the station equipment and music for those gigs.

  We’d disc jockey high school dances in Carrizozo, play the music for an oil company barbecue south of Roswell in Loco Hills, trek up to Ruidoso to blast out the tunes for a reunion, stuff like that.

  Then there was this one gig…

  Wayne and I were called on to disc jockey a big party for a bunch of Roswell area ranchers.

  We loaded up my Thunder Wagon, an old 1970’s station wagon I had, and rolled on in to a fancy place just outside Roswell.

  Everybody arriving on the scene was dressed way better’n we were.  Starched and pressed shirts, starched and pressed and creased jeans, high-dollar Stetsons.  I’m just sayin’ this was a big coin, high-dollar crowd.

  And so the partyin’ began.  We played George Strait and new country stuff and more George Strait and me and Wayne made sure folks were having a good time with the good tunes.

  Then I believed it was time to play some Willie.

  Anyone who knows anything about Country music knows who I’m talking about:  Texas pickin’, pot smokin’, free-wheelin’, outlawin’ Willie Nelson.

  Since I don’t know when, folks have kidded around about electing Willie president.  Easy goin’, friend to everyone Willie Nelson in the White House.

  So I’m getting ready to spin some Willie for these dapperly dressed southeast New Mexico ranchers.  I grab the microphone.

  “Let’s two-step to some Willie now,” I said, then I yelled.  “HEY, HOW ABOUT WILLIE NELSON FOR PRESIDENT?!?!”

  I expected a reaction like I’d seen at Willie’s 4^th of July picnics, expected the roar of the crowd in approval.

  But this was NOT just outside Austin, Texas.

  Nope, I was in cattle and oil country, the part of New Mexico some historical types call “Little Texas.”

  There was stone cold silence in the room.

  Immediately I knew I had breached some unspoken etiquette, done did a faux-pas, not gotten a much needed memo.

  For one reason or another this group wasn’t fond of the idea of Willie Nelson for President.

  “Alrighty then,” I said.  “Sorry about that, politics and dancing don’t mix.”

  I stalled for a little bit of time so I could switch out songs.

  “So,” I yelled, “How about Hank Williams Junior for Secretary of Defense???”

  Hoots and hollers came from the crowd as I fired up a Hank Jr. two-steppin’ tune.

  Wayne sidled over to me.

  “Bro,” said Wayne, “This ain’t a Willie crowd.  Thought you mighta had a feel for that.”

  “Yeah,” I said leaning over toward him so he could hear me above the music, “One of those things you learn by doing.  But hey, I really thought EVERYONE likes Willie.”

  After that night never again would I mention politics at dances I was disc jockeying.

  My learning days weren’t over though.

  Not long after that I learned not to bring Rap or Hip-Hop CDs to country dances.

  But that’s another story.

-30-

*“Rick Perry:  Best Little Whore in Texas,” “Rolling Stone,” 26 Oct 2011

**“Is Texas America?,” “The Nation,” 30 Oct 2003

Jailbreaks I Have Known

  I’ve had some thoughts about jailbreaks since three inmates skedaddled away from the jail here in the county seat a few days ago.  They spent 4 days running around town before the cops captured them in a big SWAT-type operation about a mile from the county lockup.

  Jailbreaks can be a hot topic.

  Lots of folks have lots to say about ‘em:  About the escapees, about the folks who run the jail, about this, about that, and then before you know it we’re arguing amongst ourselves over national politics and stuff.

  All because some folks made a bad choice.

  When we talk about people locked up in the county detention center there are all kinds of opinions.

  A number of people in county jails haven’t had their day in court.  Then again a number of them are in there for doing stupid shit.

  There’s a number of people on the outside who look at the residents of county jails as a lifeform somewhat no better than cattle.

  When you ask some outside jail what they’d think if they were tossed in the can they might be the type who’d say, “That’ll never happen to me!”

  And yet there are those who find themselves in jail over such things as accidentally underpaid fines or situations that blew up in their face…fighting over a parking spot at Wal-Mart for instance.

  Thing is I’ve always believed there’s a lot of folks in jail who’ve done dumb shit but didn’t have the money to bond themselves out or pay for a decent attorney.

  One time I was with a co-worker at the county fairground when we passed by some county jail inmates in orange jumpsuits working on a project.

  The co-worker rolled up her window and locked the car door.

  “What’s that about?” I asked.

  “Protecting myself against the inmates,” she said.

  I laughed.

  “Seriously?” I said.  “What are they going to do?”

  “You never know,” she said.  “You never know.  THOSE ARE CONVICTS.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said.  “There’s a lot of folks in jail awaiting trial, not convicted of anything.  They just don’t have the money to bond themselves out.  They’re everyday folks who want the whole problem to be over with.”

  “There are people in jail who’ve killed people,” she said.

  “And I daresay they’re not out on work details,” I said.

  “Inmates have killed people,” she went on.

  “Free people have killed people,” I said.  “You really ought to consider walking in other people’s shoes before you’re so quick to judge.”

  My co-worker didn’t say much to me for the next few days until she got over herself.

  I was exposed to jailbreaks close-up when I lived on the east side of Amarillo back in the early 90’s. 

  I lived in the subdivision that, once upon a time, was base housing for Amarillo Air Force Base.  The base closed in 1968.  Someone had the foresight to invest in the duplexes and…poof…cheap housing.

  Across the field, just a rifle shot from the housing, was the Potter County Jail.

  Folks in the housing area had dogs.  I did too, but I had mine because they were longtime companions.  While I’m sure lots of other folks had dogs for the same reason, more than one neighbor at one time or another told me they had a dog specifically to have some barking in case inmates escaped from the county jail.

  And escape they did.

  A number of them got out by basically using their bare hands to pull apart the jail’s cinderblock walls, climbing through the hole and getting the hell out of the area.

  There must’ve been four jailbreaks from that place in the time I lived there and every time the escapees had no intention of heading for the nearby houses.

  There’d be a small story in the local newspaper some time later saying the escapee had been picked up in a distant Texas town, Alabama or some other distant place.

  Now here at the county seat there was an inmate whose escape I found quite memorable. 

  The story begins with an everyday citizen of the county seat sitting in his house, in his living room, in his easy chair on a Wednesday morning watching “Gunsmoke” on his TV.

  His front door flies open and a guy in an orange jump suit runs through his living room, on through the kitchen then out the back door.

  Everyday citizen gets up from his easy chair to go stand at the doorway to the kitchen and look out the back door just in time to see the orange jumpsuit dude clamber over the backyard fence.

  Then everyday citizen is startled by another big noise from the front door.

  Two uniformed guys are charging through the house.

  “Sorry for barging in, sir,” said one uniform in motion, “In pursuit of an escaped inmate.”

  No sooner had uniform finished talking than he and his compadre were out the back door and over the back fence.

  I understand the inmate was caught a couple of hours later.

  I don’t know exactly how he got away.  I think he just made a mad dash from his handlers.

  Now there was quite a stir when eight inmates broke out of the county lockup back in the summer of 2008. 

  As the news guy for a local radio station I had seen the press release from the county sheriff when I started working on my news before the morning show.  I wondered if I should ride my bicycle to work that morning like I always did.

  I decided I would and I did.  Like my momma told me one time, “If your number’s up, it’s up.”

  As I rode through the mostly empty streets of town I saw a friend taking a morning walk.

  “Hey Red*,” I called out as I rode up to him in the pre-dawn light.

  “Hey Grant,” he said.

  “Hey, I know you’re an ex-Marine and all,” I said, “But still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that 8 guys broke out of the county jail last night.”

  Red stood there for a few moments and looked this way and that.

  “Well,” he said smiling, “I think I’ll head on home.”

  Seven of the escapees were caught within 2 months of the jailbreak.  The eighth would be on the lam for about 4 years before he was caught in Mexico.

  There used to be trees outside the county lockup.

  That’s the thing I remember the most about that incident.  Afterwards county crews cut down the trees growing next to the building…the escapees had used them to shimmy down from the roof.

  The lack of trees just added to the sterile look of the place.  But who cares about the aesthetics of a jail?

  I think about folks who break out of jail.

  Living in the moment.

  Not thinking of the consequences.

  Not thinking that when they get picked up, and they eventually are, there’ll be even more trouble.

  I reckon they're possessed of an inability to see the big picture.

  But that’s probably what got a lot of folks in jail in trouble in the first place.

-30-

*Not his real name.