January 29, 2004

In an older part of San Angelo, an eatery called Mr. T's feeds big crowds of Wool Capitol citizens. Folks not attuned to franchise houses flock into the former grocery store. Business is brisk; many prominent citizens are regular customers.

My favorite time to eat at Mr. T's is after my annual physical at the clinic, so I can visit hombres my age sitting around worse off than myself. I enjoy going before the momentum of springing free of the doctor's office wears off and I'm back to fearing every throb from my navel to my adam's apple might be a coronary attack.

Last week I ate at Mr. T's because I had a new set of hearing aids to test during the lunch rush. The din of the noonday crowd reaches a peak as high school students barge in to gulp down hamburgers, mingled with bridge players training on tuna salad for afternoon matches and working guys handicapping football games fueled by bowls of beef stew.

I chose a table close to the counter in the noisiest part of the building and folded my jacket over one chair to keep a margin of space. I took off my hat, hoping to signal that I was an outsider too aloof to join for company, and unfolded a newspaper for further protection.

No sooner had the stage been set than a big red-faced, gray-bearded guy bounded over, asking to sit down without waiting for an answer. Not waiting for an answer, I soon learned, was his forte. At the scrape of his chair leg, he blurted, "I know you, Noelke. Leased land in Irion County from your family 50 years ago. Did you know the county judge?"

"Yes," I replied. "I was shining shoes the night His Honor shot at a man three blocks behind the barber shop. Judge's aim was bad. Sheriff pried the bullet from a porch rail way off …"         

On he came with, "This may make you mad, but do you think the economy is recovering? 'Cause if you do, you are one of those dumb-heads who watch the Dow Jones and don't know the State of Texas, along with San Antonio, is as broke as the United States of America."

A slight pause … "and Noelke, do you know the spacing on those gas wells down in Sutton County? Make a guess how much one family makes a day in gas royalties. I've found a gas field in Edwards County. Did you ever see an ownership map? Bet by gawd you haven't."

The waitress interrupted the grilling long enough for me to set my hearing aids on channel two, hoping to drown the background noise. The drink machine dropping ice cubes hurt worse than hubcaps and tire tools careening off a mechanic's stall.

And here he came again: "You don't know it, Noelke, but bigshots come in here every morning who'd be driving a dump truck if their dads hadn't left 'em a ranch with oil wells. Been a multi-millionaire twice. United States owes more money than any country in the world. Didn't know that, did you?"

The counter thinned as a cousin of mine came for an outside order. Hooked a chair leg, but still was able to invite him to come meet this wildcat of a mad hatter of a fossil fuel miner. He caught the urgency in my voice, so he joined us.

No introduction was allowed past saying my cousin was a CPA. He launched the same questions used on me. When my cousin flunked the first one, I intervened, "Just one minute; Cousin is an honor graduate of one of the finest universities in the South. For the first time in his life, I am giving him a failing grade."

  Right on he shot his questions: "Mr. CPA, how much did the richest client you ever had make per day? Bet you can't guess what a family in Sutton County's royalty check is per day."

I whispered the answer, but "Cuz" had cut off his hearing aid to allow for the ice machine resounding like a winch rolling in the chain. Didn't matter, as our interrogator had produced his ownership map from under the table.

Before he unrolled the map, I trumped him. "If you unroll your map, you are going to have to cut us in on your gas field. We've got plenty of money to gamble on gas wells." The shock struck so severely, he rolled the map of the enormous gas field in Sutton County, forgot about his stake in Edwards County, and followed my cousin out the door, telling him a joke.

  My cousin's answers scored less than my new hearing aids. Remembered too late that the richest dump truck driver ever known was an old boy who drove for the county the year he sold a big New Mexico ranch. However, I sure couldn't have matched that old guy. Mr. T's attracts all kinds and year models …

January 29, 2004

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