That means it’s time to dance on a martini glass. Care to join me?
Further up on the right is another house. It looks kinda like an old Wayne Dennis house, falling down on one side. Car parts litter the front yard.
“Who lives there?” I say.
“Oh, some damn white man,” says Ike.
“Still like that Cherokee part ’a ye, huh Ike?”
We get to the bar and meet Andres, Ike’s friend. “This here’s my grandson, Cono,” Ike says.
“Pleasure,” I say, shaking his hand.
The three of us sit down at a table for four and a short little old lady in a Pink uniform comes over to take our order.
“Bring us three Pearl beers,” says Ike.
“No beer fer me,” I say.
“Still not a drinker, Cono?”
“Still not,” I say.
“Sody Pop then?”
I turn to the waitress and say, “Ye got Nehi Grape?”
She nods and says, “Be right back.”
For eleven o’clock in the morning the place is busy. The early lunch crowd has come in. Andres starts to talk while Ike listens. And I’ll be damned, Ike’s twirling his index finger around his thumb. They say an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. This is one habit Dad’s pulled down from his father, but as far as I can see, and unfortunately, the only one.
Ike starts to talk but Andres keeps saying, “What are you saying? I can’t hear.”
Finally, after gulping down his beer, Andres says, “Hell, let’s go someplace quiet where we can talk.” I pull out my wallet to pay but Ike says, “Put that away, Cono. You need ta save yer money.” I do as I’m told, grateful of the man beside me who appreciates my hard work.
Ike and me gulp down our drinks and head down the street to a little dive of a bar, a place that doesn’t sell food.
“This is better,” says Andres. We all sit down at a table and order another round from the bartender, the only person working here.
In the middle of cow talk, a man with a black mustache that matches the color of his eyes opens the door, pulls out a pistol, and shoots a bullet right past Ike’s ears and into the mirror behind the bar. The bartender pulls out his shotgun, aims it at the shooter and says, “Jose, you drop that gun right now. This ain’t no way to settle a bar tab.” The man backs down and yells something I don’t understand, and then he leaves.
As cool as a cucumber, Ike clicks the left side of his cheek, turns to Andres and says, “Ye got another quiet place ye wanna go?”
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper
Yesterday, I finally went to Graffiti Park. Castle Hill (the Castle itself once was once a Military Institute) was supposed to be a building development. It failed but the concrete walls remained. So, guess what sneaky graffiti artists did? They painted. And painted. Now, with permission, you can create your own graffiti art. This means that every time you go, you’ll find it different. Cool, huh?
My friend, David Stalker, captured this image last night in his backyard! A male Eastern Screech Owl. Click play to hear him!
Wow! A friend sent me this link about a painter, Felice House, who changed the “sexy cowgirl” image into the powerful.
Click here to see the entire collection and to read the article.
You don’t really know much when you’re born, but that’s where it starts, alright, whether you like it or not. When you’re just a little suckling pig on your mamma’s teat, all you really want to know is that the teat will keep filling up so you can start suckling all over again. Once you reckon the food’s always gonna be there, you move on to wondering whether you’re gonna be kept safe from harm and warm when it’s cold. As you get a little older, you find out that maybe there isn’t always going to be enough to eat after all, and you won’t always be warm either. This is especially true if you grew up during the Great Depression in Texas, in the western part, where any stranger is sized up from boot to hat, if, that is, they’re lucky enough to own both.
Texans trust themselves first and foremost, and then maybe one or two of their kinfolk, as long as they’ve found that trust to be right as rain, if the sun can set on their words. I grew up trying to figure out who was in which category, who I could trust and who to never turn my back on. There was a lot of line crossing. I learned what I know from watching those who crossed over and the others who stayed on their own side.
I did both.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper, my father’s story
I love looking at the past. I took this photo yesterday when I was downtown. These old railroad tracks have existed for over one-hundred years. I wonder if the new buildings will as well.