The Meeting
A really thick manuscript fell into my lap while I was eating dinner--some hashed beef and corn on the cob. It seemed that my brother's wife, Miss Nicole Schwarts, worshipped the Texas Rangers, and she had gotten him to convert. He grew out a big ol' bushy bigoté(El Mustache, pa tus gringos), and she loved that too. She liked to tug on it as she wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug.
"What's so interesting about the rangers?" I asked him, lifting the heavy historical document off my legs. It hit the table with a wooden 'thump'. But, to please my dear old kin, and to get them out of my hair, I decided to flip open the book. Being an insomniac, it would have made for some good sleeping material.
Well, I was right about one thing and wrong about the other. The rangers, according to the high glory praise bestowed upon them by the author, were a bunch of fractious, indian killing, mes'kin hating, anglo texans with oversized egos. Fair enough, for I knew that already, but I didn't count on sitting at the edge of my bed, eagerly swallowing page after page after page. I smelt the wild buffalo and listened in on the murder of seventy Comanches by twleve rangers. My head didn't slap the pillow for a week.
I also cringed every time a Mexican was slapped around by one of them, but strangely enough, that happened mostly in the movie Lone Star. The author of the elephant-sized tome that now caused my top shelf to bend--he didn't want to be accused of being a racist. He wrote mostly about the early days of the Rangers, and how indian blood made a good cooking sauce for veal. Wonderful, but because of those damned men, I would never get to try it. Comanches were even better suited than a nice red-wine for seasoning meat, hot-blooded as they were.
I was torn apart. Texas history demanded I be loyal to legend of the Texas Rangers. Family ties pulled me in the other direction. How many minorites were spat upon by the Rangers? How can I not like them, and yet still glue my eyeballs to shows like Justified and Walker, Texas Ranger?
I put the book down and went for a drive. The valley stretches out in all directions south of Bexar, so I had time to think. And think I did, amongst the droning whir of the tires on my truck, and the occasional misfire of the brand new engine. The smooth paved roads became crackled and damaged tar-sucks; they bounced ol' betsy like a twenty-five cent hooker. I switched over to four-wheel and punched the gas. The world blurred out with the added speed, and then--a woop-siren and the flashing lights of a texas lawman.
My stomach was suddenly filled with heavy meat and potatoes. I pulled over to the road with arms of lead and ears sprinkled in worry sweat. In my rear-view mirror, black boots with a blazing sheen slowly meandered to the passenger side door. That door doesn't open from the outside, except for those who know how to handle it. The door snapped open like a servant standing at attention for the boss. I was staring the headlights in the face. I saw the monster. I saw it's face!
A bunch of fast-food garbage and empty Mcdonald's bags, along with whataburger and burger king napkins, slid out the gaping port-hole and piled up by his feet. Laughter.
"Hahaha! Which do you like better, son? Whataburger, Burger King, or Mcdonalds?" He asked. I replied that my favorite was Whataburger.
"Sure don't look it. You got a whole mess of Mcdonalds here." I conceded the point. Mcdonalds, however, was closer to my home and more convienient.
"Well sure. Guess that makes sense. Tell you what, boyo. The reason I done here stopped you, I didn't see your license plate at first. Now, it used to be you could put them up on the dash-board like this, see?" He tapped the metal plate wedged between my windshield and the dashboard, "But they passed a law saying you can't do that anymore. You heard?" I replied that I hadn't.
"All right then, tell you what. I'ma let you go, son. You fix that license plate at yer leisure. Gotta warn you out of fair honesty though, I'll be forced to write a ticket sooner or later. I'd prefer it be later, but you look like a nice kid." The lawman shoveled the trash on the ground upwards, and dumped it back onto the passenger side seat. "Oh, and eat a burger for me, son. Haha!"
By the end of the encounter, the skin on my knuckles was bleached white from gripping the steering wheel. A full minute later, I let out a deep breath. "Guess I'd better finish that book." I whispered, as I drove home.