Sunday, 6-12-2016
My friend the Psycho Fiend
I met John on the job in the early 80's. He was a consumate salesman, slightly older, with a sly smile, squinty eyes,
a pencil thin moustache, a shoe-string tie, nicely pressed slacks and pointy toe boots. Flying by our britches to learn a new business, we could ask each other questions too simple to ask anyone else. I worked with him once, then not for months.
The companies we worked for were quietly hired by Corporations to acquire leases for a possible
play in an oil field. Petroleum landmen (and women) would commonly work for a company - for days, weeks, or maybe months,
mostly in tiny li'l towns,
miles from nowhere, looking up records and leasing from owners, until there was no land to lease anymore. Then, the company we worked for might not have any work right then, so we'd wait for word where help was wanted, then rush right over to whoever was hiring...
'til that job was done, and do it again... I found the profession through a family friend; earning $125/day; plus my motel room, $30/day for eating meals, and 30 cents a mile - to drive my Vista Cruiser
on a crazy adventure... Which was a Damn good deal for a dimwit like me - decades ago in the early eighties!
Believe or not, I got a garden spot (compared to bummers like Bowman and Beach), when I landed
a city in North Dakota! There was a university, some suburbia, and most importantly - more than one restaurant! I was especially pleased that my room was reserved at the, hip as heck, Holidome - with all the amenities, and the swankiest night club in cowboy country!
Coincidentally, John clocked in - for the same company, and on the same crew.
Our crew was also comprised of our world weary crew chief, Rob, who supervised our progress from his room. Then there was Julie: I'd been in Bowman with Julie before; and she loved to laugh and we got along well. Butt, respecting the fact that we were both committed, we clambored to bed
by ourselves. Least but last, Drew was the boss's son; just out of school, without a clue.
Monday morning, the crew, except Rob, convened in the courthouse - at the County Clerk's, to research the records for the mineral ownership in each of our lists of leasable acreage. Then, we returned to our rooms to type reports and phone the owners, who usually lived and labored on the land we were leasing. It was quite the perk to type the papers, and a thirty day draft - for thousands of dollars,
to possibly drill on their domicile. I can still see their faces - some wonderful people out on the prairie, predisposed to warmly greet me - not like a salesman, but their new best friend. Sometimes they'd sign, sometimes not, but I remember 'em smiling when we said farewell.
We'd been kickin' in Dickenson for a couple of days, when John and I discovered a dude whose vast estate spread into both of our designated areas. The signing bonus for this lease alone would have been worth, maybe, half a million dollars! So, we made an appointment to talk to the owner; driving my car for more than an hour - ten or twelve miles off the highway, up and down some dusty, dirt roads, rolling over a rolling grass prairie - like where Custer and his soldiers stood their last stand, turning again through a grated gate, then over a ridge onto a gravel driveway - beside a stream - rippling beneathe a grand row of shade trees, then between the barn and a bunch of olde buildings, to an obscure oasis nestling his residence.
Looking like a rough and ready Colonel Sanders, wearing a white Sunday shirt with jeans and suspenders, the patriarch stood on his porch when we pulled up, and pointed to a spot for my Vista Cruiser. We dodged his dogs as he invited us into a vast expanse of bare wood timbers. His home was the olde hotel at a stage coach depot - totally remodelled, rustically opulent, with a thirty foot ceiling way up above. Up on the balcony, a big brown bear peered predatorily over the railing (surrounding the room), at an amazing managerie of taxidermy, mounted all over the walls and floors, amidst a melange of antique couches, hutches, tables, chairs, western artwork, ancient
Indian arrowheads, hatchets, blankets and paraphanalia displayed under glass - like a west of Montana history museum.
Within five minutes, four big men crowded into the country kitchen - back in the back of his hotel home. Having built their nests on the massive estate, the
boys and their brood bred nearby; and their wives regularly gathered to fix a family feast for the famished farmers. "We can talk at the table.", The Colonel insisted. So, we washed our hands in the kitchen sink, and 'dinner' was served at the kitchen table: Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, peas, corn, beets, home-made white bread, canned peaches, and lots of lemonade for a warm summer day.
The old man described being brought up in a nearby box, and after the war, working to acquire the ranch around us - before he adapted the abandoned depot. Comprised of many original buildings, the depot itself was next to the stable, accross the corral from my Vista Cruiser. The dwelling where we dined was the old hotel; and indeed he hinted the hotel was haunted... And he also mentioned his open-heart surgery - and opened his shirt to show us the scar.
The Colonel didn't sign because he didn't need the cash, nor a Corporation to crash his pad, adding: "The oil'll still be there." The family agreed, and were cordially excused, single file, back to the field; and I remember the wives - waving bye-bye, as they ever so quickly whipped out the dishes.
John and I were quite impressed with the concordant family's agrarian lifestyle, and really respected the old guy's logic... And we also agreed to leave 'em alone: Not try to lease their land anymore. No lease, but nevertheless, we shared an experience that built a bit of bond between us.
Back the resort, we all worked for the rest of the week; researching records at the county court house, calling around, reading and writing reports in our rooms, then - when done for the day, we might meet for meals, and maybe a drink...
That first Friday night, I joined John and Drew, playing pool - with a cool li'l lady, in the hotel lounge. Drew retired early, then I was tired, leaving John and the babe down in the bar.
Saturday morning, Drew drove to Denver. I drank some coffee and cruised to the carwash accross the street while the rest of the crew was still asleep. Just as I was rinsing, John showed up to wash his truck. So, we sat outside, shooting the breeze - in the wind. I remember John joking, Drew's "a quart low, and needs a change" - before he laid bare how the babe in the bar was so-o unhappy - because she had to drive home to her
hapless husband.
Shit man! I sorta liked her - kinda like a mini-crush - but felt it was wrong to fool around. Did he sire any offspring for the unsuspecting spouse? Feeling disappointed, I couldn't reconcile how a married woman could simply mate with a smarmy lothario she'd only just met at a motel lounge! Suddenly wondering whose wife was wandering, maybe he mangled my image of
her.
Anyway, the wind was about to blow us away, so we blew back to our rooms for the rest of the day.
Landmen on the road are paid for 7 days a week, and technically, should be working all weekend to earn their pay. But, we didn't always work that way. The next Saturday, for instance, absent Rob of course, we drove to a park - where it was too fuggin windy to fling the frisbee.
That night, the entire crew - including Rob, stepped down the stairs - to the happenest holidome in North Dakota... Yeehaw!
Instead of country rockin' with raunchy women, I sipped some suds, then slipped upstairs to smoke some reefer with Rob in his room, then back the bar (by myself) to imbibe in a beer with John and Julie. I wonder now, if John snuck off to snort some snow or pop a pill.
It was midnight or so, when one of us mentioned a(nother)"ghost town" we'd seen on a map in the county courthouse. "I'll drive.", John declared, talking us into his tiny truck; and with Julie's short legs on my side of the stick shift, he drove us down a desolate stretch of lonesome state highway, finally finding the dicey, dirt road in the dark. Steering us two thousand feet to a two-story storefront, hardly visible in the hay, he stopped the truck and shut off the engine beside an abandoned, cinder block building: This was the ghost town marked on the map. John, I suspected, had parked there before.
Our eyes adjusted to the waning moonlight, faint on our faces through the pitted front glass. We rolled down the windows and strained our ears, intently listening to... barely a breeze - wafting through the windows of the beleagured building... Then, John broke the silence with a somber expression; subtly, swiftly, almost sneakily,
pulling a pistol from beneathe the seat, and calmly caressing it between his knees. Julie glimpsed the gun and grabbed my leg; her eyes wide open - staring in mine... Suddenly, John was expressing some dissatisatication... complaining that we were working for a corrupt Corporation?? I was fully aware, but not afraid, and not about gripe 'bout the gun in his grip.
Fact is, I flashed back to broad daylight - when I was a lad in Dallas, trying to score - maybe a matchbox, from three of the dishwashers from where we worked - near the northwest highway, up on a hill. I was sitting in the back seat, beside the big guy and behind the driver, in an old 98 on the Central Expressway, cruising too slow toward the south side of town, crossing that long ass bridge over the railroad tracks; when the fuzzy front passenger suddenly spun, and I was staring at the bullets in a loaded gun!
I instantly reacted, (basically) barking: Get that barrel outta my grill!!"; bumping it aside with the back of my hand.
The big guy leaned back and threw up his paws, "Don't point it at me!!", he exclaimed to his pal.
So, somewhat surprised and sniggering a little, Fuzzy Wuzzy pulled the pistol away, then waves it again in my direction... "What are you doin'? Grabbin' the gun?? I could've shot you... Shit!!"
"You won't shoot me...", I shot right back, "... because you would get caught, then put in prison to rot! Take me back to my car (please)."
We all sat silent - for a - long, long second... as The Temptations sang on an eight track stereo... ("
... where he lay his hat was his home..." Then, those three thugs looked at each other, laughed out loud, and turned the car around - back toward the restaurant where we worked.
"All he left us was alone..."
Those boys were smilin'. John seemed upset; fingering that trigger and fussing about the fact that our Corporate employer dealt death and destruction to indigenous species all over the planet... I guess he was wondering why in the hell we whore for these 'holes? And if we were really selling our souls? The thought occurred to me, that if it ever came up, I might have a chance to grab the gun...
Yeah, I can still see me as I saw myself: A six year old kid - clamboring through the lucarne to the second story shingles, expecting to soar in my (Sears catalogue) Superman suit - that Santa Claus brought me for Christmas that year...Staring up high at the bright, blue sky, trying to decide if I should try to fly -
o'er our 6' fence far below... I slipped back inside through the sill instead - getting in trouble for forgetting to shut it.
Suddenly, Johnny shut up... And Julie shut down.
So I spoke,
just to say something to distract from the silence: "You're right.", I began - figuring we were friends, and nothing bad was about to happen, " The world is rough... I (essentially) said, "It's always been tough... People have been suffering since people existed, but compared to the past, this is the probably most propitious period in human history! ... All we can do is try to be better...
We should shape the world anyway we want... Besides, those bigwigs will, probably, never drill - because oil's too cheap, and the cost is too steep to be drilling so deep... We're offering these families a windfall here... You've seen the foreclosures... Most of these lessors have lived on this land for all their lives... They barely get by! This is their chance to fly to Hawaii..."
"Okay!", John stopped me in the middle of my sentence; and just as suddenly as the somber began, he said something silly and seemed to be pleased?? Discreetly slipping the pistol back in its holster, flat on the floor between his feet, shoving it back beneathe his seat - out of sight and out of mind; then depressing the clutch and turning the key, he switched the subject for the half-hour haul to the Holidome. I don't even know if he knew, we knew he had the gun? (If you now what I mean?) Julie even spoke,
just to say something... Pretty soon, we pulled in the parking lot of our pseudo resort and sauntered on back to our separate rooms - so safe and sound I probably snored.
Sunday, Julie anxiously asked me (with her big brown eyes), "Wow, how weird... Did that really happen? What with the gun? " And we both agreed - indeed - it did; definitely glad John didn't get mad.
For the rest of my "tour" in North Dakota, we still hung out, helped at work, ate meals together, sipped at the bar, and talked at the table. Then, I never again saw Drew, Rob, Julie or John.
But, John phoned and woke me a few weeks later - when I
happened to be
home - my babe beside me snoring in bed. He was back in Bowman, calling from his room; and I listened long distance for damn near a minute: He'd been fighting on the phone with his girlfriend again.
She had just been arrested in a hassle at his house, and he wanted to tell
someone he was headed home(?)... We spoke for a second, and said so long.
My wife woke up wondering, "What's goin' on?"
Hell if I knew, I was half asleep.
I leased in several states for about two years, before the boom turned to bust and the business died, when I transitioned my profession to construction trades - mostly local, with lotsa yokels, but also constructing from coast to coast, for and with all kinds of creeds, colors and economic classes accross a wide scope of our societal spectrum.
In the early 90's, I spotted John's picture in a Denver paper, laying on the counter of a delicatessen in Colorado Springs: He'd just been convicted of the twenty year old shooting of sixteen year old student - for not a lot of cash at a concession stand... A murder committed before we met.
Then, many years later, seated at the counter of a diner in Denver, a friend spoke to another friend, sitting in the seat on his other side, "This is that guy who murdered Marie!", and he points to John's picture with a story in the Post:
John had just hung himself in his cell - and it turns out that my friends had attended the same freakin' class as the high school student he was convicted of killing!
I can imagine Marie was making some money that summer for her senior year; probably just passed her driver's test, looking forward to prom, graduation, maybe a career, marriage and having children, travelling the world... I might have met Marie - if she'd lived a little longer. But, John apparently shot that short. I wonder why... If he did it... If he was sorry... Or if Marie - or her family - could ever forgive him... John never mentioned a murder to me; but I can guess the gun went off, or Marie recognised him, or
maybe he had a mean personna... I remember John as more a friend than a murdering fiend, but can still his face when I glimpsed his shadow... The shadow who shot a high school girl? We all have our demons (so they say)... Perhaps he spoiled them, and let them play...
It's the damned idea that's dangerous to me! The mometum of the meme, like a virus amongst us, through our veins,
the symptoms are similiar, but not the same... The fever flares for an unfortunate few...
Then again, I can guess God gave me a glimpse of the gab for the guy with the gun; but sometimes I wonder, when crises have passed, if what I'm experiencing is the residual electricity in my buried brain - like a blooming bud on a broken branch, falling fast from a vivid dream - my face in the pillow, sweating perhaps; wide awakening from sound asleep, fixing my position in space and time - living my life for as long as it lasts...
Now of course, being a (not so sexy) sexuagenarian with several close calls in the course of my existence, I will say - to more explicitly explain what I wanted to say, that in my extensive experience with extreme personnas and high strung psychotics, defusing or inflating potentially explosive situations, still really vivid in my mind - when
maybe our lives were on the line, we shared a sense of universal self, not always experienced with everyone else.
Perhaps, we projected our respective perspective, respecting each other, expecting the same, a "do onto others" kinda thaing, looking right through us, through our eyes, in order to know what we needed to do... I'll never know why my supposed pal pulled that pistol out on the prairie - decades ago in cold North Dakota. I could've panicked, peaved him, or otherwise inspired some horrible violence; but perceiving it was important to employ composure, normally beyond my comprehension, I was happy
we had it - for
our protection.
Time stands still... The World swirls, and
wesomehow survive... Live and learn? The opposite of evil=live, afterall...
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I'm just enraptured to write this right now.
(to be continued, or not)