March 7, 2002

The auras of the Austin trips fit the same pattern. No city in the state revives more memories of the past. Around the Capitol grounds waves of nostalgia hit with powerful blows. Just a glance at an old sidewalk or a Sixth Street building front brings back the 1950s days of collecting debit insurance or running errands for the Land Office.

One night last month, déjà vu nearly caused a serious wreck. I cut across downtown to take a friend to the symphony. Detours diverted the route. Past the main avenue, I was driving cool as his majesty's carriage driver until the shape of an old 1950 two-story tin building on the river street side loomed in sight. "Gosh-a-mighty," I all but shouted, "That's old man Brandon's building where I found a dead man at the second landing one morning on my insurance route."

My friend has the calming talent of a horse whisperer. Cool, she starts to save our lives by saying, "Monte, Monte, watch the cars. Move to the left lane to turn at the next light. We will talk about Brandon's at Eight and Red River once we are parked on the LBJ lot." Back on beam, I dodged the rush of the head-on traffic. By bluff or bumble, made the left lane in time without being forced onto the Interstate.

Once parked, it took a bit for my fingers to release their grip on the steering wheel. She accepted my apology. But the story started swelling into a gorge of words and phrases forming in the rerun compartment of the brain in the old reels of the past. Seated in the concert hall, I thought, "So what if I am the last man left who remembers Pasqual, the East Sixth procurer's (pimp's) murder early one morning in old man Brandon's rooming house (bordello)? You have written the story, told the story, and made up part of the story." Thus calmed, I relaxed as the musicians tuned for the performance.

The story stayed at rest until intermission, when I glanced above the frame of the huge stage and caught the sight of a marble cherub. Instantly, I remembered that my two new granddaughters and one grandnephew haven't heard of the time on Eighth Avenue at old man Brandon's rooming house when I walked onto a dead man sprawled on a rough pine floor. Once again the words roiled inside, wanting to escape, yearning for an audience. Trapped and miserable, the microphone pinned on the conductor's shirt looked as big as a bullhorn.

But back then I wasn't collecting insurance in the toughest part of Austin for fun or flavor or to gather stories. The job paid better than my previous position as an errand boy for the Land Office — much better. Running your training camp on a state job's pay in 1950 was a slim proposition. Favoritism and nepotism ran rampant in the Capitol, but didn't include underlings hoofing it back and forth between the Land Office and the Capitol rotunda, carrying such important state business as secretaries arranging meetings after work, or placing a bet for the Commissioner at the bookie shop at the Capitol Tavern.

Nowadays, I try to skip over the past. I watch for the new spots in town even if I don't go there. Places like "Sullivan's" serving the lobbyists and legislators succulent slabs of Angus beef aged for 27 days and priced higher than a Sultan's ransom, or joints of the elegance of "the Forum" where the figures run so high your fingers tingle signing the credit voucher.

The new Austin is a mod town of young people, leading braces of whippet hounds or packing pairs of Siamese kitties in a sling or papoose pouch. On any day, pampered pooches and curried kittens are led on the walkways in a display of four-legged pedigrees that'd make the image of a Park Avenue dowager's lap dog look as shabby as a small town circus.

One of my sons furthered my outlook at a chain store so active that "Ball Baby Pythons" were marked down from $70 to fifty-nine bucks. Headlining the reptile section was a Malaysian Hood Python for only $249. The clerk claimed that given proper treatment, these pythons became affectionate pets.

Looking at the pythons lying in the wood chip bedding behind glass, the difference between the $59 model and the $249 snake must be slight. However, you can't learn to price or judge snakes if every time you see one over three inches long, your primary response is to grab a hoe to chop off its head.

The scene has changed too much for an old premium collector to catch up. One thing for certain, I sure grew up the morning Pasqual died. Made me realize how the Sixth Street of those times could absorb a murder without the police or the newspapers needing to be seen or heard.

March 7, 2002