Long and Nasty Stories

[RVM45]

.....The "Long and Nasty Stories" are a collection of more-or-less true tales from my days working on the L&N Railroad- sometimes jokingly reffered to as "The Long and Nasty".

.....This first short story is titled: "Survival Without Style".

......................................................................................................


This happened to me back in 1980. You know, I never really took a lesson from it back then. It hasn't been 'till I started reading this forum; that the absurdity of it struck me; and to this day; I cannot see how I could have been so stupid- although I did do a lot of speed back then; every day. I welcome y'all's comments. First, the bare story.

We were working near Beattyville, Kentucky. We'd been living right in Beattyville; but then they moved us just a bit to the East; close to Talega; and within a stone's throw of Palmer's Pay Lake. I had been staying in camp on the wekends; to save on gas money. I never could handle money very well. I called my folks and asked them to send me a letter with a Postal money order in it; delivered "in care of general delivery." the local post office.

My money didn't get there Friday. The PO was closed on Saturday; and Monday was a holiday- and I only had a couple bucks.

I went and bought me two big danish bear claws; and two 16 Oz Cokes. While I was driving; I dropped one of my bear claws on the floor. I'd only taken one bite out of it. The floor was coated with fine "kitty-litter" sized gravel; so eating it wasn't much of an option. I had enough change for a couple machine Cokes later on; and that was it.

Now remember, I thought of myself as a Survivalist. I read Mel Tappan's column every month. Read everything I could by Jeff Cooper; Elmer Keith; Skeeter Skelton; Ragnar Benson; Chuck Taylor; etc. I knew JB Wood; and Earl Keller. I went to the range every weekend that I was home; and fired 300-500 rounds of .45ACP; and varying ammounts of .38S&W; .38 Special; .357; .44 Magum, 12 Gauge and .22LR. I spent an hour every night drawing and dry-firing my .45Autos. Then I practiced cutting and slashing the air with my Bowie Knife.

I had four Guns that I generally carried with me on the road. .45 Colt 70s series Government Model- heavily customized by JB; I had a Colt Combat Commander in .45; I had a 2inch Charter Undercover in .38 Special- go ahead, laugh at me; I was young; And a nickel plated, Pearl-Handled H&R Breaktop in .38S&W. The breaktop was for pretty. I had my 9 inch Western Bowie; a 5 inch Western Skinner;a Buck Esquire; and a pocket knife.

I had a Boy Scout backpack with 300 rounds of .45ACP; 150 rounds of .38; and 75 or eighty rounds of .38S&W. I had a big wad of nylon braided string; a couple Bic Lighters; my Boy Scout Compass; a cleaning kit; and I had a change of clothes. That was my bug-out bag- such as it was.

I could fill my tank up with Railroad Gas; though I wasn't supposed to. So I could drive; or stay in the van; run the air conditioning; and listen to the Radio as much as I wanted. I could get all the water that I wanted from the camp cars; but the electricity wasn't hooked up yet.

Well people, there was a fairly big snake lying in the middle of the dirt road. He started to look good to me; so I decided to eliminate temptation.(Knowing what I do now; I'd probably eat him.) I poured a pop bottle full of gasoline on him; and set it afire. Got a whiff of roasted flesh; and my empty stomach turned over. Boy, he smelled good.

I caught a half dozen crawdeads from the stream. I kept thinking each one might very well be the last; so I'd eat it raw. If I'd have saved them; they'd have made a nice serving. Walked around in the woods; armed with .45 Auto and .38Shotshell. I was determined to shoot anything edible that I came across. Didn't see a frazzlin' thing.

Heard chickens crowing. Thought about the pros and cons of chicken thievery. It works for Snuffy Smith after all; but I would have been too ashamed to get caught.

Finally late Monday afternoon, Big Steve pulled into camp. I quickly borrowed some money; and went to the store for victuals. While I was sitting chowing down; a big ; Big black cat came strutting through the camp; as if he owned it. You nasty little gob of good protein; and bad manners- where were you; when you could have fed me?

Now how I expected to bug home; if I had to abandon the van; eludes me. It never occurred to me; to stockpile food; sleeping bag; tent; poncho, If I'd Had enough food put back to march home fron the Virginia border; I'd certainly had enough food; and supplies to last me through a broke three day weekend. Yet I proceeded merrily on my way; both before; and after.

I never really saw it as a learning experience until I started coming here. Wonder why that is? Anyone?

Love to see y'all's comments.

.....RVM45

[RVM45]

A curious tribal custom



.................................................. .................................................. ....

.....This Was Back When I Was Still Alive; and Working For the Long and Nasty Railroad. We Were Laying Ribbon Rail Down By Ben-Hur, Virginia. One Weekend, When Staying With a Few of the Other Guys; I Decided to Go to The Little Country Bar in Jonesville. Now, Back Then at Least, Virginia Had Dry; Wet; and Half-Dry Counties. We Were in a Half Dry County- Meaning That Beer and Wine Were Okay; But No Hard Liquor.

.....Never Been Much of a Drinker; But I Was Absolutely Not a Beer Drinker. The Little Bar Didn't Have Wine. Didn't Have Coke or Pepsi Either. So Going Meant Sitting And Nursing Shasta Colas; at a Buck a Can- Back in 1980! But They Did Have a Pool Table; and Folks to Talk to.

.....I Didn't Know That They Had a Band and a $5 Cover Charge Friday and Saturday Night. So Unless You've Been to a Hillbilly Bar; When They're Having a Dance; I'll Describe It To You. There Was a Wide Range of Styles. Some of The Girls Wore Jeans; Some Were Halfway Dressed Up; And Some of Them Looked Like They Were Going to The Prom. Make Up Ranged From None; To Applied With a Mini Trowel.

.....Some of the Guys Looked Like They'd Just Climbed Out From Under a Truck; and Slopped the Hogs Before Coming. Some Were Wearing the Western Look Clothes; and a Few Looked Like Elvis.

.....I Was Sitting at a Table. I'd Taken Several Hits of Speed Earlier; and They Were Just Starting to Come Into Focus. I Was Sitting at a Table; Enjoying the Music Immensely. Had That Feeling That Drugs Sometimes Give You- Like You're Just on the Edge of Some Cosmic Revelation. That's When I'd go Nearly Catatonic; and People Would Insist on Interrupting My Profound Meditation With Dumb-Ass Questions Like: " Are You All Right ? "

.....Now This Big Ole Girl Came Up to The Table. She Was About My Height- Six Feet; But She Had on High Heels. She Weighed Maybe 230; Maybe 240. She Was Hefty But Not Bovine. She Was Dressed in a Long Black Evening Dress. Had a Low Bodice-You Could See Beaucoup Cleavage. The Dress Was Also Slit to The Hip on Each Side. She Was Smoking With a Long Black Cigarette Holder.

....." You Look All Alone " She Said to Me.
....." I Was " I Said Regretfully.
....." Would You Like to Dance? "
....." Don't Know How."
.....I'll Teach You. "

.....My Patience Was Wearing Thin About Then. I Thought Maybe Some Old Fashioned Rudeness Might Help.

....." I Have No Desire to Learn. Dancing is Worldly. Its a Tool of The Devil; and It Stirs Up Sexual Desire. Fallen Women Like Y'All Done Been Satan's Favorite Henchmen; and I Have No Doubt That He'll Appoint You One of Hell's Head Firemen... "

....." I Want To Dance With You; and I'm Not Going to Go Away 'Till You Dance With Me."

.....So As She Put Her Arms Around Me and Her Belly Touched Mine; She Felt My .45 Automatic; Tucked Right Up Front; Where My Belt Buckle Helped Break Up The Outline of the Handle. That Was One Reason that I Hadn't Wanted to Dance With Her. I Felt Her Pull Her Belly in Marginally; So as Not to Touch My Gun. I Remember Thinking: " Well, Now She Knows I'm Packed. Hope She'll Keep It to Herself; and Not Make an Issue Over It. "

.....Then She Let Her Belly Touch Mine Again. Then She Started Rubbing Her Belly All Over My Pistol. She Was Heavier Than Me; and She Had the Initiative. I Couldn't Help Being Shoved All Over the Dance Floor; With Out Being Violent.

....." My God, She's Turned On By a Concealed Weapon " I Thought.

.....Well, She Wanted to Dance Every Dance There For Awhile. During a Band Break; Old Bill (Who Ws a Hell of a Lot Younger Then; Than I am Now...) Came Over While Pammy was taking a Potty Break.

....." What Kinda Dance Was Y'All Doin' Out There? " He Said; While Holding an Imaginary Partner; and Doing Some Very Obscene Hunching. He Was Good at Vulgar. I Doubt That Pammy and I Looked Quite That Bad. ( This Was Before the Movie "Dirty Dancing" )

....." Bill, I Don't Know What to Tell You. She Gets Turned on by My .45. "
....." Are You Carrying It in its Usual Place? " I Nodded Affirmative. " Dude, I Got News For You...She Doesn't KNOW That's a .45. She Thinks You're Packin' Something Else! Ha-Ha; Hee- Hee; Ho-Ho!"RVM45




--------------------
RVM45

[RVM45]

..........................Real or Not?...................................................

................................................................................................

This section is titled " Tall Tales ". This is, more than likely, a Real Tall Tale. All I can say is that I was there; and it Felt Real at the Time.

I was working on the Long and Nasty RailRoad; installing Ribbon-Rail, that's Rail in Long Continuous Sections- Down around Beattyville, Kentucky. Everybody went home on the weekend; except me. I stayed in the Camp Cars; 'Cause it was a long drive home; and I preferred to rest.

Well I had two .45 Autos back then- both 70 series Colts. One was a Blued Government Model; the other a Satin Nickel Combat Commander. Both of them had their Grip Safeties pinned- something all Good Pistoleros do. I seldom went very far without one or the other of my Companions. Well, I got the urge to go exercise my Trigger Fingers- I have one on each Hand- and they used to get Real Cranky, if they didn't get to go shooting two or three times a week. So I took my Guns and a Ruck Sack containing two or three hundred rounds of Hardball; and went walking East; down the Tracks, looking for a likely place to Shoot. I went a mile- or two- or five- outside of town-don't remember.

I found an interesting small Stone Bridge- a natural formation, I'm talking about- About 30 foot up a stone Wall. I stood there and fired most of my appointed Practice Rounds at the little Stone Doo-Hicky; hoping that I could make it fall. I hadn't started Reloading yet; but I Fully intended to soon; yet I leff my Brass laying all on the Tracks- looking all Shiny, like a Bunch of lost Krugerands. Some ChuckleHead had told me that you couldn't Reload S&W Brass; and I believed him- how was I to Know? Left Beacoup good Brass lying around 'Cause of that Peckerwood.

I Reloaded. Now this is a Pivotal detail of my Story- or it matters not at all- you'll have to decide. Back then I still believed in the Hollow Point Placebo for Handguns; and I thought that Winchester Silvertip Hollow Points were the most Potent Placebo, by Far. I knew that they weren't really Silver- Nonetheless, the term "Silvertip" was prominent in my mind.

My Pistols Reloaded; I started back. Part way, a small trail caught my eye. It was wonderment to be sure. It was Steep. Strewn with Jagged Rocks; looked like a Dried up Stream Bed; but it'd have to be a Powerful Stream; to carry such Big Rocks down. I followed the Stream Bed some indeterminate distance into the woods. It seemed real hard to walk on; with all those Sharp Stone Surfaces lying slightly Catawampus to the Ground, that way. It felt like trying to walk in An Antigravity House. And of course it was Choked with a Charming assortment of Poison Ivy; Blackberry; Wild Rose; and Chigger Weeds on each side. At the end of the Trail was a Big Old Cave.

Time out for a Public Service Announcement. I'll try to put this as Delicately as I can; But your Friend and Humble Narrorator used to Alter his State of Consciousness by Chemical Means- oh yes! Now I've said it. I used to take Speed like M&Ms. I'd layer them for Effect. Two Yellow Phentermine Tablets in the Morning; Along with two or three Caffeine Tablets to Fly Fighter Support. Exactly two hours later; two White Crosses. Black RJS; Pink Ladies; Speckled Pups; Butterfly Speed that also contained Phenobarbital- and made my ears ring.

I once quoted Skeeter Skelton's remark about the Good old days, " Back when Gila Monsters were six-stories tall, " to a friend.

" Remember them well ", quoth he. " That was back when Blotter Acid was fifty cents a pop. Now that I think about it: I believe that’s why the Gila Monsters were six stories tall! "

Well the Cave's entrance was over twice as tall as me (six Foot). It was wide enough to drive at least four Cars into it abreast- assuming you had some way to get the Cars there in the first place. I went inside. It was relatively shallow- maybe thirty feet or so; and the Roof fell rapidly towards the back. It was one big room; and not particularly interesting. But it was nice and cool; on a Blazing Hot Summer day. There was a big rock in about the center- nice and dry- and just the right height to sit on. I sat down on the rock; and decided to rest awhile.

I was sitting on the rock; wishing that I'd thought to bring a Cooler. A Good Cold Coke; and a Nice Cool Ham Sandwich would have been good about then. Speaking of Coolers- there wasn't a single Beer Can or Cigarette Butt on the Floor of the Cave. No Trash at all. Odd. The Cave wasn't that far from town. I'd have thought the local teens would have used it for a Party Spot...

Just as I was thinking this; and Starting to get Drowsy; a Cold Chill went up and down my Spine; and all my hair; including body hair; tried to stand on end. I leaped to my Feet; and drew my Government Model. I distinctly remember thinking that whatever it was; my Silvertip Hollow Points could handle it. Whatever was Scaring me seemed to be in the Cave- so I backed slowly toward the entrance.

Now here’s where the story starts to get Weird. I've told you how tall the Entrance was. Well, I had to bend Way over to get out- and the Lip of the entrance seemed to be all Slime Coated- and believe you me; I wouldn't have been up for Limbo Dancing Under a Slimy Rock to get in. It simply wasn't that important to me. Walking back down that path was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I was all Drowsy. Kept thinking that Surely it wouldn't hurt to sit down on a Rock to rest a moment. And durned if it didn't seem like that trail was being drawn into the cave like a Chameleon’s Tongue-Albeit with almost Glacial Slowness. 'Course, with my new found sluggishness; and disorientation; I was only marginally faster- but it was enough.

When I got back to the RailRoad Tracks, my Strength seemed to come back- a little at first; then more Rapidly. When I got back to the Camp Cars I did some serious thinking. Everyone knows that Haints- as a general rule- don't like Silver. It seemed like when I drew my .45 that it hesitated- lost focus- loosened its grip enough- long enough- for me to get away- just Barely. 'course Silvertips aren't really Silver; but if it was reading my mind at that point; I wasn't real Focused on Metallurgy. Maybe it just picked up on the Word " Silver ".

'Course, maybe I just imagined the whole thing. All the locals swore that there weren't any Caves for miles around- but if you travel much; you know how locals are- pretty much the same, the World over. I was spooked enough that I was more than happy to stay away; and let whatever either was- or was not- in that Cave Well enough alone. Years later I read about something similar, in a story by Manly Wade Wellman- fiction, of course- but maybe based on some old-Timey Tales he might have heard- tales based on facts.

Couldn't tell you. I'd like to go back now, after all these years- just to see if there's even a Cave there or not. Over the years I've never had enough Gas Money to travel that far on a whim. And even if I had the Money now; my legs aren't in shape to take me that far into the woods. I do well to walk from my Car to the Grocery; and when I shop; I lean heavily on the Basket; but I have hopes of getting into shape again soon; but you know how it is. Even if I do get back into Shape; odds are that I won't get back to Beattyville. I'll probably never be sure- and now, neither will you.

Be cautious in the woods; and always try to have at least one Magazine Full of Silvertips- Real Silvertips. RVM45

[RVM45]

...............Front Porches........

.............................................................................


.....I was laying ribbon rail on the Long and Nasty RailRoad. We were working out of Pennington Gap, Virginia. Life on the Rail Gang was odd. We made real good money for that day and time; more than the regular Track Repairmen; and we got more generous travel allowances; and always plenty of overtime. On the other hand; we worked like convicts on a chain gang; and our CampCars looked like mobile sections of third world housing.

.....Well, if you worked for the RailRoad; and you got laid off; you didn't have to work off your own division. Most folks would rather be laid off; than travel with us. However, when we came to their home division; they had to come off unemployment and work with us 'till we left. So we'd always have a few locals on our gang.

.....The RailRoad had a Dozen or more big yellow Ford vans; and they'd drive us to the jobsite every morning. There were quite a few interesting homes along the route. Looked like a photo layout for Foxfire; or something.

.....Well there was one little log cabin. Had the half-stone(lower half); half stick chimney. Had Bloodhounds layin' in the front yard.The house was on uneven ground. On one side of the porch; it was only two steps up; but on the other side; it was a 12 to 15 foot drop. Every day there was an old man sitting on a rocking chair on the front porch. He had a straw hat and a long white beard; and he smoked a corncob pipe. And every day when we went by; he'd grag the pipe out of his mouth; give us a big toothless smile; and wave- just like seeing us just made his whole life complete.

.....One day I remarked to the dude sittlng next to me:" I really like that old man. He's very pictureque. I wish I had some reasonable excuse to go talk to him after work; but I'm afraid that I'd end up looking like a tourist."

....."No, no, he'd be more than glad to talk to you. He's always ready to talk to anyone; anytime. He's got lots of funny stories. But let me tell you a story about him.

....." Two or three of his great grandkids were hippies. They borrowed his pipe to smoke some hash . Didn't tell him; of course. They put it back before he missed it.; but they didn't clean it too well. Old boy sits down on the front porch to smoke his pipe. After a little while; he got to rockin'. More he rocked; the more he'd puff. The more he puffed; the more he felt like rockin'. Pretty soon he was standin' that old rockin' chair up on its rockers.

....."About then, he rocked off the high side of the porch; and broke his hip."

[RVM45]

...............Pony Mules and Elton John......................

.........................................................................................


.....Back when I was working on the Long and Nasty Railroad; we were laying ribbon-rail up close to Chicago. It was a miserable time for most of us. We'd worked in Virginia right before we came to illinois. Down in Virginia, it was a cool 80 degrees; lots of pretty things to see; friendly people. By contrast, northern illinois was a wasteland- nothing but endless cornfields as far as the eye could see; temps above 100 degrees every day; hot and dusty; and we were working from dawn 'till dusk. Oh yeah, and the people...

.....Well now, I ain't been everywhere; but its been my experience that east of the Mississipi; folks are noticably friendlier South of the Mason-Dixon line than they are North of it. Southerners, when they notice a stranger, seem to want to take the time to get to know him; chat with him; make him feel welcome. Northerners just try to avoid him- though they do make a point of trying to stare him down- just so he knows he ain't foolin' them into thinkin' he belongs there. I come from a small pocket in Southern Indiana with some hybridization. Mark Twain once described my hometown(Evansville) as a Northhern town with the heart and soul of a Southern town.

.....Compared to a typical illinoian; a regular Northerner seens a perfect Southern Gentleman by comparison. They look at everyone as if they were something stuck on the sole of their shoe. Best I could tell; after much careful observation; is that they don't even like each other. The only place I've ever been that even remotely compares; is Marion County, Indiana. Its like they cut off some of the most malignant parts of illinois; and plopped them down dead center; in the Sovereign Nation of Indiana.

.....We were doing our time in hell, hoping our next gig would be some place nicer. But we noticed some mules in the field next to us; small mules, about the size of a largeish Shetland Pony. They had maybe fourty or fifty of the small mules; divided up amongst several pastures. In one pasture was a couple dozen Shetland mares.Right up next to the barn were about a dozen smallish Jackasses. Each one was in his own generous bit of paddock- 'causse they'll fight if they get together; don't you know.

.....Couldn't figure any rhyme or reason to having that many diminuative mules- and not much else. Old Bill- who we rode all the time, as being too old for Railroad work; and who was a lot younger then; than I am now- took an extended break to go scope the whole thing out.

.....Donkey Basketball, did you ever hear of Donkey Basketball? Never seen a game; but I've seen brief clips from old films- hmmmm... when I get done here; think I'll Google Donkey Basketball... Anyway, they don't actually ride Donkeys- they use small Mules. Long time ago- before WWII; maybe before The Depression- Donkey Basketball was a real crowd pleaser. Used to be that they'd come with enough small mules for two teams; and they challenge some local group to saddle up; and play a game with them. It was a fund raising exhibition, with the mules trained to balk; and otherwise frustrate the ersatz team. Well, times have changed. They couldn't afford the liablilty if they still challenged locals to compete; so they travel with their own exhibition team to play against- similar in concept to the Harlem Globetrotters. They ain't real popular( As of the late 70s); but they still had two groups(total of four teams) that toured around. They had an exclusive contract with that farmer; to breed all their mules; and board the ones who'd been rotated out of the lineup- appparently the mules burned out quicker than the people. They kept two sets- one touring; and one resting and recuperating. At least that's the story the farmer; who claimed to be a fellow Berean; told Old Bill.

.....And what does all this have to do with Elton John? Well everyone on the Railroad had some sort of handle. There was a black guy that we all called "Elton John"; 'cause he had a fantastic selection of shades that he wore to work. Nowadays you have to wear safety glasses- so I hear. At any rate, Elton John could go at least two weeks; and not wear any of his shades twice. They all had big frilly decorative frames; and most of the lenses were mirror; cobalt blue; or an iridescent red.

.....Now somebody had been stealin' old Bill's Mountain Dews outa his cooler.We figure that's what Elton John was up to- and what made him rather nervous. Anyway, he was coming back from being behind the Burro Crane- where there was no real reason for him to have been. One of the Jackasses got as close up behind Elton as the fence would allow- only a little over two yards in this case- and he brayed at the top of his lungs. It sounded just as if he'd screamed, "ELLLTONNN JOOOOHNNNN!!!" Elton John leaped about a yard straight up in the air. But it wasn't 'till he took a quick look around; and mistook the Jackasse's big ears for horns; and figured that Old Scratch himself was inviting him to a private interview; that he turned deathly pale; and started to run. Took a half hour to convince him to come back and look at the Jackass. We went by that site on our way to others; for the next few days; and it was notable how Elton picked up the pace. I think he was afraid the Jack might greet him again.

.....RVM45

[RVM45]

..................

....."Uncle Jack" predates my railroad experience by several years, nonetheless, it has the same general tone.

.................................................. .................................................. ....

Uncle Jack

This contains one rather strong word; but it's very hard to convey the sense of it with a euphemism.

.................................................. .................................................. ...

Uncle Jack
.....My father used to love the old country expression: "If your Aunt had of had Balls; she'd have been your Uncle."

.....This really used to tick me off; because he'd use it to short circuit the "If-Then" formulations so necessary to logical thought. One day I remonstrated by saying that in fact; she would not have been an Uncle; with the singular addition of testicles; and a scrotum; but on the contrary; would have been a hermaphroditic freak. Whatever.

.....Although I hated the expression; I used it on my friend Bill one day; just to score a quick "gotcha". I didn't take into account Bill's unique; and sometimes slow thought processes. Bill went through these mental evolutions out loud.

....."If my Aunt had balls; she'd be a man. My Uncle Jack lives with my Aunt. My Uncle Jack has sex with my Aunt. If my Uncle Jack was having sex with a man; my Uncle Jack would be a queer!"

.....Now in real anger, "Are you calling my Uncle Jack a queer!?!"

.....Well to tell you the truth; I had been blissfully unaware that he even had an Uncle Jack until that instant. I told the story to my companeros at the gunstore. They got a huge kick out of it. From then on; if someone came up with a really off-the-wall comment; particularly if it involved taking offense; where none was meant; We'd shout angrily, "Are you calling my Uncle Jack a queer!?!"

.....So I just want to state for the record: "No! I'm not calling Anyone's Uncle Jack a queer!"

.....RVM45

[drboomboom]

RVM45,

You've got a good "ear" for stories. They have that sense of the "tall tale" that someone finds out was real after all.

[RVM45]

It Ain’t Loaded Is It?



I met D when I was working on the Northern Region Rail-Laying Gang, for the Long and Nasty Railroad. It was a traveling Gang; so we had folks from seven or eight states. We worked on over more than a dozen divisions.


Now my friend D plays a big part in this story; so you’ll have to know a bit about him. D was from a small town in Georgia. He’d become a Christian some years earlier; and it made a big difference in the way he lived. D was also a bit slow. I am a Christian myself- I’m not implying that his Christianity had any connection to his slowness; nonetheless it was there.
Once I mentioned to D’s cousin, how D would ask me the same question seven times, in a two-hour period. He told me that D had consumed lots of LSD and other mind-altering chemicals before he found Jesus.


Now being on the Rail Gang and being a Christian left D with a paucity of things to do on the road. He didn’t drink. He didn’t frequent bars. He didn’t gamble; and he didn’t like off-color stories. I’m not sure how well he could read; but I saw him read his Bible sometimes. Anyway, his one “Vice” if, you want to call it that, he liked to dress fairly well- Stetson hat; big silver and turquoise belt buckle; Fancy cowboy boots- always highly shined; lots of Indian turquoise jewelry; and denim clothes that would have looked right on a Country-Western singer. And he liked to eat in relatively upscale restaurants.


I’ve gone to a restaurant with D before, though usually the places he favored were a bit expensive for my taste. He sure did enjoy flirting with the waitresses; calling them “Mam”; and displaying his impeccable Southern manners. I mention this; because his one other enthusiasm caused some folks to wonder about him.


He loved to hang around Truck Stops by the hour. He’d play the pinball and arcade games- “Space Invaders” was the latest fad back then. He’d drink beaucoup cups of coffee; eat a few pieces of pie; and more or less just hang. Personally, I’m convinced that he just liked the ambience; but when telling the story aloud; someone loudly speculating about D’s Sexual orientation has often interrupted me at just this point. I’ll offer one piece of evidence in D’s favor, and let it go.


One day when we were talking, we got onto the subject of sex. D. had this to say:


“I don’t know why Jesus told us not to have sex outside of marriage”, He said, looking off into space, concentrating hard on the abstract idea. “ If he hadn’t told us it was a sin, I guarantee you I’d have me a different woman every night; and I’d be a lot less lonesome. But Jesus told me not to; so even though I don’t understand why- I obey him.”


He was about 6’1”; weighed about 205- not an ounce of flab; with the jet-black hair and the high cheekbones that come from quite a bit of Cherokee ancestry. I don’t think that he was bluffing. He probably could have landed a new woman almost every night. He liked girls. Besides that, he made real good money. Can’t see him prostituting himself out to truckers.


Anyway, I d just bought the .45Colt ’70 Series Government Model Semi Automatic Pistol that figures into so many of my Railroad stories. The dude at the Gun store had shown me how to field strip it twice- once when I brought it back in pieces- wasn’t lining up the hole in the barrel link pin with the hole in the frame…


Well I’d shot the Gun and cleaned it on a weekend and once again it wasn’t going together for me. I was turning the bushing in the wrong direction- not knowing that it mattered. I sat there trying various things and fuming. Finally I asked D. D had told me that he’d been in the National Guard. Back then I believed that everyone in the military had to be able to field strip and reassemble all sorts of military weapons blindfolded. I asked D for help. He stared vaguely at the pistol for a few moments and shook his head in bewilderment. Well I did get it together- with no help from D. And I never made that particular mistake again.


Well anyway, D and me ended up being the only two dudes in the campcars one weekend in Butler, Kentucky. I’d heard they were having a Bruce Lee film festival in Florence. I asked D if he wanted to go.


No sooner than we got into my car- this was before I got my Van- I fished my .45 out from it’s cleverly constructed secret hiding place under my seat; and set it on the seat between us. Kentucky had a “Plain Sight” law.


“Do you have to put that there? It makes me nervous.” D said.


“Well it’s borderline legal under the seat.” I said. A friendly (?) Law had explained to me: in plain sight; or where it requires more than one motion to draw it. I could draw it from under the seat in one motion- but not without beaucoup blind fishing around. There was no way I could draw it unobtrusively- No need to try to explain all this to D though- “But if it will make you happy…”


I had taken the Gun and reached up under the seat. I was fishing for my clever split in the carpeting; when D grabbed my right shoulder; and pulled so hard that my shoulder ached for some time afterward.


“Oh God No! Don’t break the law!” D said. He acted as if the idea of the pistol being in a “Verboten” spot, even for an instant- terrified him beyond words.


We got almost to Florence without incident. Then “Mr. It-makes-me-nervous” decided he wanted to play with the pistol. I didn’t much care for him handling it; but being much newer with Guns; I hadn’t yet acquired the thick skin to shout at someone to,” leave it the Ph*** alone!!!”


As we drove along, I was mainly watching the traffic, when I heard the cheerful little jingling noise a .45 Auto makes when you pull the trigger with the safety on- three distinct little jingles, in fact. My thoughts were:

“Bad craziness… surely he knows where the safety is; and how it functions…he was in the military after all…even so, he couldn’t tell me how to put it together again, two or three weeks ago…Anyway I don’t like him pulling the trigger…”


“You do know where the safety is on that weapon, don’t you D?” I said with exaggerated patience.


“Does it have a safety?” He asked in complete bewilderment.


My hand shot out with a will of it’s own, relying entirely on peripheral vision, and deftly snatched the .45 away from D. The .45 once again in my possession, I resumed my air of exaggerated patience.


“This is the safety D. As long as the safety is up, it shouldn’t fire. Nonetheless, folks who really ought to know, say that it’s a very poor practice to be pulling the trigger on a pistol that you don’t want to go off- safety or no.”


“ It ain’t loaded is it?”


“What on Earth good would it be, if it wasn’t loaded?”


Well we got to the Theater a bit late. D complained of carsickness. He went to the restroom; bought a Coke; played a couple games of pinball; and just generally milled aimlessly around- all the while the movie “Enter the Dragon”, had already begun. I grimly held onto my patience- and we got into the show; just as they were all getting onto the boat.


D didn’t want to tell me, for some reason; but he told everyone else on the Gang. Word eventually worked its way back to me. Those three clicks: the first two had been him carefully aiming at his cowboy booted foot. The third time he pulled the trigger was while looking straight down the barrel. When he found out the Gun was loaded, he’d become totally unhinged. He heaved his guts up in the bathroom- and was kinda wandering around in a state of fugue for some time- at least to hear him tell it.


Several points come from this. One thing, people do incredibly stupid things with firearms. I’m convinced that at least some apparent suicides are simply misadventures like D almost had.


“No Officer, I can’t say that he acted depressed. He never said anything. He just reached over and picked up my .45, and blew his brains out…”


Never hesitate to be rude; loud; shrill; or downright insulting- if that’s what it takes, to get someone to act right. And if they were doing something too stupid, leave. Come back to shoot sometime when they’re not around.


They say that your friends can kill you easier by accident, than your enemies can on purpose. This goes triple for “Richard-headed” acquaintances.


…..RVM45