Rock Me, Mama, Like a Southbound Train

First published in July 1998.           

I came to Texas kicking and screaming. Stepped off that 727 at Houston Intercontinental Airport on July 19th, 1973 after having spent two weeks in Sarasota, Florida, with my grandparents, their grapefruit trees, and swims in crystal blue water twice a day at their beachfront cabaña. I’m not sure I ever knew exactly why I was spared the cross-country move from Knoxville, Tennessee to Humble, Texas, when my mother and brother were forced to pile in the Blue Oiler— packed window-to-window and its tailgate bulging with shit that should have been thrown out in the back yard and set on fire —and endure two and a half days of ever-flattening Tennessee, through Memphis, and then the Arkansas state highways, eternally reduced to a single lane for the entire length of the state . . . but they did. Listening to my old man swear at the “sorry sombitches” at Ford who designed the Torino, at the truckers clogging the left lane, and cursing his overactive bladder. Ah, the cool, cool Gulf-side waters of sunny Florida— and then a smooth, air-conditioned flight o’er the land of the free.

Only to land in the sweaty ass of Texas.

I took one look out the sweating window at the tarmac— it was positively shimmering in the heat —and the pine woods on the far side of the runway, and I thought, This can’t be it. Dad moved us from New Jersey to east Tennessee— beautiful, verdant, friendly . . . temperate east Tennessee.

But sweet ole’ Houston was the final destination. Brutal humidity. Overcrowded, cracked freeways populated with vicious, flaming drivers hell-bent on killing something. Blinding blue skies; blinding sandy ground; blinding white clouds. Ear-splitting, thunder booming, tree-bending, road-flooding, Second Coming summer storms. Thick breezes greased with the smells of petrochemical plants. Glass and steel monuments to pure tastelessness in every direction. Cowboys and cross dressers, corporate executives and illegal immigrant workers; construction cones and concrete barriers, cloverleaf roadways tied in knots five bridges high. Horses and dragsters, missionaries and gangs, disco and country. Brown bayous and opera, Gilly’s and Galveston. NASA and honky tonks. Oh, mama, mama— what have I got myself into?

Went to work almost right away— at Mobile Home Brokers, just down U.S. 59 between Kingwood and Humble —mucking out repossessed mobile homes, hauling 80-foot trailers with a 13-speed “toter” truck at the ripe old age of 18 with no commercial license and no experience with a clutch and manual shift. My boss, Ned Theall, grew pot out behind his office trailer and had a weakness for mid-day dalliances with hookers. He’d give me the keys to his Cadillac some days and tell me to drive to the company's other two locations for no real reason. Or he’d send me out on “errands” in the lot pick-up truck-- to go to the hardware store to pick up things we already had in the tool shed, usually. You get the idea Ned favored me? I had shoulder-length hair at the time, and I guess maybe he saw a fellow  . . .  um  . . . rebel maybe? A fellow . . . Geez, I have no idea what he saw in me. Doesn’t matter.

One of his hands, six-foot-four, 280-pound, cigar-chomping “shit kicker” LB, knew what he saw in me, though: a threat to his happy little situation. He hassled me every day, as if he owned the place. I was his preoccupation, his special project, I think. Of course, I resisted his Neanderthal tactics (and hid behind Ned when necessary), but one day ol’ LB snuck up on me and trapped me in the back bathroom of a recently repossessed trailer. I was on my hands and knees cleaning out the charming little cupcakes the prior owners had left as a thank-you to Mobile Home Brokers and the bank for yanking their home out from under them, when all of a sudden I sensed a storm cloud had descended over the lot and was about to unload its fury. A quick look over my shoulder, however, revealed that the only storm cloud on my horizon was LB. He was looming in the narrow doorway, chewing his wet, black cigar, his wide brimmed hat pushed back, and his sunglasses hiding his narrow, beady, stupid eyes. He pulled out his rather large jackknife and teased me spectacularly with notions of the biological and homicidal things he wanted to do to me. Unfortunately for him, though, Ned came out into the lot right about that time, calling for me, and, well, you can imagine how disappointed LB was. He put away his knife, backed out of the doorway to let me pass (but not by much), and promised me we weren't through. Not by a long shot. Meanwhile, Ned gave me the keys to his Cadillac, which I didn’t bring back until closing at 6:00. By which time LB was behind the wheel of his rumbling, smoking dually Ram pick-up, sucking on a Lone Star long neck, glaring at me and twirling his jackknife from finger to finger and back again.

I did not return to work the next day.

Instead, I found employment as a bricklayer’s helper. I learned my craft from a huge, powerful young black man named Lonnie who came from the shantytown part of Humble. Where most of the shacks still didn’t have indoor plumbing, and who was one of the nicest people I have ever known. It was Lonnie who taught me how to mix “mud” by hand in a trough (because the two redneck bricklayers we worked for were too cheap to get their motorized mixer fixed) and how to carry 400 bricks at a time in a wheelbarrow without tipping over my load or herniating myself. In the late summer heat on through the cold winter days of December, Lonnie and I would mix mud and set up stacks of bricks at 7:30 in the morning while our two artisans sat in the cab of their brittle and torn up white pickup drinking their breakfast. On each Friday— payday —they’d fork over our wages. And every Friday— payday —they’d cheat us, claiming we’d taken too much time for lunch on the previous four days. Well, they had a point: we were allotted 30 minutes, and sometimes we took 31 or 32. minutes. Hey, a guy’s gotta eat.

I don’t know what happened to Lonnie, but after several months of breaking my back and building my arms, as well as being shortchanged on Fridays, I finally didn’t show up one Monday morning. A terrible thing to do to Lonnie, I know, but I rationalized that he had been working alone when I came on board and could handle the load without my help. At least, I hoped so.

By early spring I was working at CK’s, the revolving restaurant at the top of the airport hotel, as a busboy/waiter. Picture LB in a suit, surrounded by a group of slick-haired pinstriped yes men— all of them with cigars now —and you have an idea of what working the lunch shift at CK’s was like. Got cheated there, too, and nearly lost my left index finger. But I got an education. I learned what goes on in the kitchen of even the best restaurants, and that you never ever, under any circumstances, send your plate back to the kitchen if the head chef is a deranged Cajun who’s only been out of prison for six months. Not good.

Well, dear hearts, that was my introduction to Texas. Is it any wonder that for the next twenty-five years I clawed, begged, scrambled, lied, cheated, raced, screamed, and hustled trying to make good my escape from Houston and from Texas, but to no avail? Oh, yes, I did manage to get paroled for four years while I was in college, but even then I had to return for long stretches at Christmas and in the summer “to wear that ball and chain.”

And so it was. Purgatory on earth. Until I met someone from north Texas, near Fort Worth, and she said, “Let’s get out of here,” and we did. That was nineteen years ago. And here’s what I’ve learned in those nineteen years:

Texas is still a looney bin. It’s got more nuts than Planters. The only state whose politicians are more crooked and more incompetent is, ironically, Tennessee. And I could point out all the faults and eyesores— God knows there are plenty, starting with Dallas —but I’ll save that for another time when I’m feeling feisty.

No, today I’m feeling kinda  . . . Texan. Forget Blue Bell ice cream and Shiner beer— trust me, you can do better —but where else are you gonna live where even the worst Tex-Mex is better than what you’ll find in the other 49 states? Where you’ve got every kind of topography known to man, every kind of music, more cultural diversity than anyplace except maybe New York, and where stop signs, red lights, and speed limits are only suggestions? Where we don’t measure distance in miles, but in hours: How far is it to Austin? Oh, about 3 - 4 hours, depending on traffic. How far is it to the airport? ‘Bout 25 minutes. Where, if someone in another country asks where you’re from and you say Texas, they know exactly what and where you’re talking about. They’ll have a completely screwy idea of how we live here— thanks to television —but that’s okay. I’ll take reputation over anonymity anytime.

And the main thing I’ve learned in the last 19 years? Living in Texas is like living in a museum. You’ve got a wing for every interest, and it’ll take you a lifetime to cover it all. If you ever do.

So, my advice for you folks who are new to Texas, and hell, for those of you who’ve lived here all your lives: don’t put your house up for sale and move, but do pack up the family and all that shit you can’t live without when you leave home, and go see some of the great state of Texas. Rock me, mama, like a southbound train— I’m headin’ out to see what this crazy place is all about!