An Easy Answer

By Zephyr Carlyle

I never cried as a kid. I don’t know why. I must have cried when I was very young; all babies do. I did not cry when my older brother stole my Halloween candy or when he tried to kill my pet gerbil. I got mad, of course. I cried out to Mom, naturally, for child justice. Unfortunately, that ambivalent Guardian of the Universe just told my older brother to “knock it off.” Nothing actually happened to the perp. 

The lack of tears fit me as I was also dry of emotions and as analytical as a kid could be. My presence used to make people nervous; or even upset. The other kids called me “Poindexter.” It did not help that I started reading college textbooks as I entered middle school. One day, I was sitting in the living room reading,  “Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization.” My father entered the room. He asked to see the book. After a minute, a frown broke across his face. He threw the book down and walked out, half-yelling, “My own damn thirteen year-old kid is reading books I don’t understand.”  I was fourteen.

I did not do too well with my peers either. My main school-ground shame started with my an unfortunate bicycle accident when I was eight years old. As a result, I lost my two front teeth. I did gain a whole new facial profile and personality kink. I endured dental surgeries to save my teeth and have them reconstructed; plus endless childhood nightmares about teeth and snakes. The worst part was the response from my classmates. I did not want to go to school. I was endlessly teased and Christmas made it worse. Whenever I walked into the room, my classmates burst out in song, “All I want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth”. As a result of my dental dilemma, I had to go see Uncle Herman quite a bit. Herman Bosboom was our dentist. He was not really our uncle. We were just told that story to ingratiate this kid torturer into our family; that was not a stretch. He fit right in. 

One day, Mother took me in to see Uncle Herman for one of our routine drill and kill sessions. We crossed Eighth Avenue following the Basic Safety Rules. First, Hold hands with a leaden crush. Second, run pell-mell into the street, dodging traffic and maneuvering through the avenue flow; like the adventurers paddling in “Deliverance.” We weaved in between Pakistani taxis resting on their beaded seat covers; beery mouth Irish truck drivers wearing gray flat caps; and beleaguered moms applying lip stick while driving to work. Somehow, my hand slipped from Mother’s iron grip and I got sucked into a sidestream of traffic.  Mother reached a safe eddy on the other side of the traffic. She was yelling out my name. I glided downstream from her. 

As I breached the sidewalk berm, I landed almost on top of this old woman. Her drawn face was pulled tight like a flounder. Her puckered mouth had sloppy wisps of red smeared around her lips like an electron cloud around a nucleus. My entrance jostled her already shaking hands and her costume jewelry bangled like cheap sleigh bells. Her gloved hands held a cigarette somewhere near her mouth. Her lips remained puckered for a few seconds until her face realized that no cigarette was forthcoming. ,Her costume pearl necklace and matching earrings make her look almost elegant, in spite of the raggedy clothes. I will always remember that intoxicating rancidity: the smell of urine mixed with cheap perfume, that wafting downstream from her. 

I just looked at this lady for what seemed like a long time, This fleeting moment stretched out endlessly in my mind. I saw Mother heading towards me full steam. I quickly reached into my pocket and took out all my cash, about eight and a half bucks. I handed the money to the lady. She bent down and kissed me on the cheek. I swooned not only from the kiss, but from the strong stench of alcohol. I darted my head sideways to see Mother. I was desperate to check on her exact transit points. If Mother had seen that exchange, I knew I was going to catch holy hell. The woman darted away as Mother loomed large. Mother was so flummoxed on our separation that she did not focus on details. The lady in black did not register with Mother. I was safe. 

Later, I often thought about the old lady with the red smeary lips. I knew that there were many others like her, living terrible lives in the street. After that experience, I would hand out quarters or perhaps a single dollar to the members of the down-and-out crowd that I passed on New York streets. On any occasion my parents took me to New York; I looked around before I stuffed some silver coin in some calloused, dirt-covered hand. I checked first to make sure the coast was clear as my parents could not see me in action. Years later, when I was in high school, I traveled to New York by myself. I brought along a small bundle of one dollar bills. I just passed them out to the needy as I walked down the street. 

While in college, I volunteered to work at local food banks. I took great satisfaction in knowing that in some tiny way, I was helping to redistribute the national wealth. I had more than an abstract interest in seeing the trickle down theory in practice. My greatest satisfaction was in seeing the people’s faces light up. People were all luminous smiles when I handed them a big box filled with neatly divvied up bags of food: pasta; rectangles of edible orange plastic labeled as “cheese”; all nestled among cans of off-label cans of beans, tuna fish or peanut butter. The face wattage went to full illuminate when Christmas came early. I would stuff some chocolate bars into the mix, just as I handed off the box.

After college, I went to In law school with the calling to help the deserving poor. I had an internship working for a non-profit on the outskirts of Austin, Texas. My greatest memory was being a city kid alone on Thanksgiving in the middle of back-clap Texas. I call it “back-clap Texas” as this was the standard greeting among friend: “Hey Bubba, howzit goin?’” followed by a big thwack on the back. On that Thanksgiving day, I did not care about all the colorful local culture because the I would be gnawing drumsticks by myself that day.  I was damn sure not going to stay alone on Thanksgiving. Early in the morning on the Big Day, I popped a big turkey in the oven with shiny foiled potatoes on the side. I got in my van and went people hunting. I cruised around the town and outlying mudflats. I checked the highways and byways, and then kicked the weeds under the bridges. One by one, I collected drifters, grifters, hitchhikers, and other lost people; all hungry souls who looked like they needed a good meal. I now had six insta-guests for our Thanksgiving dinner. We all became awkward new friends; but we shared some music, food and tall tales. 

Everybody was on their best behavior until the upset. A bunch of us were sitting on the couch, just talkin’ about the stuff of life; just making conversation. As a New Yorker, I talk with my hands. My hands are like tango partners on the conversational dance floor. A few of us were sitting on the couch and some in chairs. I was in the center of the couch. On my immediate left sat my new friend, Freddy. He was a young Midnite Cowboy type, a nice enough guy in his 20’s. He had a scruffy cowboy hat and boots, and a personality to match. He was hitchhiking around West Texas for the first time; just aimless and looking for work. He was new to life on the road and there was some tension about him. He kept nervously darting his eyes left and right as we talked, always focused on the speaker. He had his hat in his hand and he was one flex away was standing up and walking. In my conversation, I was making some dramatic point and raised both hands up in the air. My one hand was held aloft but was levitated over this guy’s leg. As I finished my thought and we all busted up laughing, I just brought my hands down. My hand accidentally brushed against Freddy’s outer leg, got a tiny ricochet bounce, and moved on. Someone else picked up on the discussion to keep the conversation moving forward. Poor Freddy, however, stopped laughing. I watched his face crack and then melt into tears. The poor man sobbed into his hands. Freddy bemoaned his fate. On that day, or any day, he certainly did not want to be with any one guy, or all these strange guys. Freddy told me he appreciated what I was doing but he did not want a man. Freddy wanted a woman; specifically, Freddy wanted his old girlfriend back. He said that he could not go on like this.

I got up and moved to a new seat away from Freddy. The image of his face dissolving into tears did not leave me for years. With rapid breath, I stammered out an apology Everybody else present chimed in their support. We all reassured Freddy that I meant no harm: that life is tough on the road, everybody goes through a rough patch or two; and that the only thing happening today was a nice sit-down dinner with new friends. Freddy recovered, and our dinner day was a big hit. After that day, I would periodically drive around and check on marginal folks to make sure they had a good, home-cooked meal. 

Years later, I was a staff attorney at a Legal Aid clinic in a small West Texas town. We represented the victims of forces beyond their control, also known as the “deserving poor”. I gladly took up the cause for the homeless, the destitute, the less fortunate. The most memorable client was Dan McGurk and his extended family. The McGurk’s all lived at the edge of town. They renting a desolate property that contained an extensive trailer-trash compound. The McGurks festooned the ramshackled buildings with rusted recreational vehicles, broken down jalopies, endless piles of junk, a stack of old refrigerators, and the entire McGurk clan. The locals know not to cross these folks as they are were born nasty and kickin’. The McGurks are brawlers and they had the bar fight scars to prove it.  The owner of the property went to court to evict the McGurks for all their screaming and fighting and drunken shenanigans. Plus, they did not pay the rent. My job as their lawyer was to fight the eviction. During our courtroom trial, the judge was not buying the original tale told by Dan McGurk in his testimony. The judge just frowned and shook his head while listening to Dan on the stand. We did not finish the testimony that day and had to come back in a few days due to a clogged court calendar. 

After the hearing, I had the beginnings of a big fight with Dan McGurk and his endless kin in the hallway; right outside of the courtroom. Rather than let tensions air publically, I schoosed everyone outside the courthouse to a quiet area outside. In the parking lot, my clients pitched a brand new, improved version of the underlying events that they wanted to present to the judge. I knew for a fact that this new story was a bunch of bald faced lies. I refused to present this whopper to the court. The whole snarl got ugly. My clients started off with loud ranting and raving and then escalated the fight. I refused to raise my fists and avoided a knock down, drag out. However, at the end, my clients huffed off unhappy. With the yelling over, they were reduced to fist shaking threats as they walked away all dark mutterings and hisses. Somehow, the next day, the McGurks were able to hire a private attorney and my office no longer represented them. I was off the hook.

Shortly afterwards, I was leaving my office after working late one night. I came out the front door and turned around to lock up. An unfurled tarp descending upon me from the low hanging roof, The tarp enshrouding me in momentary confusion, I was trying to pull off the covering when I heard the dull thud of boots hitting the ground. My head jerked forward as I felt the wallop of something hard smashing into the back of my skull. All went black. The pain must have woken me up. as I was all busted up and bleeding. For days afterwards, I was all black and blue. The two headed boy in the circus never had such a headache. What a conk! The physical wounds healed but left a scar on my right cheek. No one was ever charged in this attack. 

I got time off from work to recover from my injuries. Shortly before I was to return, I was driving into work to check on cases and files. I lived in a small hamlet outside of town that required driving on a desolate stretch of road that gets little traffic. While taking a turn in the windy road, I rounded a corner. I did not see the shiny muffler and tailpipe in the road until I ran over it. I did quickly notice that the car was driving uneven and getting wobbly. Sure enough, I heard a loud hiss and then the thumps-thumpa-thumpa of my car imitating a broken washing machine. I screeched over to the side of the road. I got out of the car and saw fluid running down the asphalt from under the car. I popped the hood and could not find a leak so I scooted under the car to have a look see. I used my cell phone flashlight to follow the fluid trail up the driveshaft. I heard the squealing tires of a car stopping quickly right behind my vehicle. I made a silent thanks for the good neighbors. I heard the boots quickly scrunching the pebbly sand on the side of the road. The scrunching sound stopped. I glanced over and saw the vague outline of some guy’s boots right next to the car. I yelled, “Howdy, neighbor. Thank you for stopping.” 

“Glad to help out. Hey guy, you got a flashlight with you?”

“Sure. I am using my cell phone as a flashlight to look to see what’s busted down here.”

“Well, shine your light this way” I flashed my light in the direction of the boots. All I saw was the barrel of a handgun pointed at me. He continued, “Jus’ take your wallet and throw it clear out from under the car. No one gets hurt.”

I did not stay at that legal aid office much longer. In fact, I left law altogether and opened an employment office in a nearby town. The True Grit Employment Service provided work for roustabouts, field hands, assembly workers, or other general factotums. The hiring employers ranging from highway paving companies to farm operations to sawmills. One day I watched a man enter the office with the bow legged saunter of a real cowboy. He introduced himself to me as the ranch manager for a nearby large pig farm. We shook hands as he gave me that quizzical look of someone who was either racking his brain, or fighting constipation.

His eyes focused on my face, “Say, did you live outside of San Antonio awhile back? And weren’t you the guy that rounded up hitchhikers for a Thanksgiving dinner one year?”

I burst forth with an uncomfortable laugh, “Yeah, that was probably me. And who are you?” I glanced back at the guy’s business card still in my hand and read the name: Fred LaPierre. I shook my head looking at the guy up and down, “Freddy?”

“One and the same. That was a long time ago. I am now the Ranch Manager of the Kickapoo Pig Ranch out by cross roads on the other side of the railroad tracks.”

“You have come a long way in life, Freddy. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Yeah well, when you helped me on that Thanksgiving, I was young and full of wild oats. I remember livin’ large and just having great time traveling from my home in Baton Rouge, to traveling all through West Texas, to wind up here outside of San Antonio. What great adventures. I would not trade it for the world. But it is better now that I have settled down and have a place to call home. Now, I am in charge of the ranch and got 2,200 hogs and 20 employees and they all call me boss.”

We both laughed but my thoughts went back to Freddy’s cry for help that day. I silently replayed the memory of how he tried to squelch the good time we were all having. I realized how ridiculous that scene was; and then it got serious. I stopped a half frown and said only, “I’m sure all those great adventures helped you out with the work you’re doing now.” 

“Sure did. Mostly, I learned about people. I learned who I can trust; and mostly the people not to trust, which is most of them. I have found that people drift and grift to their natural level. For example, on our ranch, no use letting workers off the leash more than you have to. If you do, they just turn around and bit you like the dogs that they are. The workers are a bitch to deal with. So now, I need to get some new ranch hands to replace the ones who did not work out. They just wouldn’t do a days work, so I need some fresh meat. 

I just nodded my head in agreement and brushed my right hand on the side of my face. “People get what they deserve.”

Freddy continued, “So, do you have some workers I can haul off to the pig fields?”

I piped up, “Oh yeah. We got workers for you. I have been accumulating them for days now. They are all stuffed in the warehouse out back. You just keep ‘em. I don’t want to see them again. Besides, we’ll be getting more. Actually, you lucked out as we are having a sale on workers this month. We sell ‘em three different ways: by the square yard, by the ton, or by the dozen. How many do you need?”

Freddy loaded up the truck. From the rear, I counted his new recruits, all swaying together in unison as they moved up the ramp and into the crated pick-up truck, “One, two, three….” After the last recruit cleared the truck transom, I snapped the rear gate closed and slammed the handle down to lock. I started to turn around but I saw an arm shoot out between the crate slats. The hand swiped down towards the lock. I raised my leg just enough to smash my boot against this offending arm. I remembered to take the padlock out of my pocket and secure the back gate to the truck. I gave the key to Freddy, “They’re all yours.”

I slept well that night. I still haven’t cried. 

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