May 23, 2002

Until World War II, the men working on the ranches went by nicknames instead of their real names. First time they learned they had full names was when they registered for the draft. One old boy over at Sherwood we called "John Peter Paul Sweptson" became mighty incensed with his mother upon learning his name was "John Marian Sweptson."

The other night in a Ozona steak house, a man introduced himself as "Peanuts." Only "Peanuts" around Mertzon in my youth lived down across the tracks on the river. No record survives of the origin of his name except I remember Peanut sure wasn't small-time at playing nine ball. But hearing the name "Peanuts" again brought back all the Jakes, Shortys and Firecrackers who used to hang out around my shine stand at the barbershop.

One particular Jake was a fisherman and trapper forced to run the county road grader to support his vocations. Jake loafed in the barbershop during off seasons after the fur season ended and before the river warmed enough to be good fishing. Road grading was always "off season." However, feeder roads leading to the Middle Concho River and ranches having dirt tanks stocked with fish got plenty of attention.

Jake wasn't a customer. His wife cut his red hair; his faded tennis shoes wouldn't take a shine. On rainy days, he sat slumped in a chair, smoking a foul black tobacco called Tobacco Negro, rolled in yellowed corn shucks that smelled almost as good as a hair pad smoldering in a trash fire. The mien of a trapper surrounded him with a musty aroma from baits. His vision was so crossed, he had to hold the corn shuck to the side to catch the tobacco. I caught the rest in my dustpan, sweeping the shop at night.

Unlike the other men, Jake addressed me as an adult. He'd slump lower in his chair and say, "One time down there in Henderson where I was raised, I ran a popularity poll. Don't ever do that, boy. Ran for commissioner on the Ku Klux Klan ticket. Got four votes in a precinct where half the voters were kin to me. That fall took another blow to my standing over a social matter involving the hired hand's daughter. Took such a drop, I figured I better leave town."

He'd readjust, look out the window to give his floating eyesight a chance to catch his gaze, and resume: "Went by Papa's and stole his Colt six-shooter in case the social matter erupted into pursuit by the girl's brothers. Dropped off a freight in Fort Worth. Hocked the six-shooter at the stockyards for the down payment on Claudine, the biggest financial and personal mistake of my life, including running for commissioner on the Klan ticket and getting that girl in trouble."

Claudine was a mail order bride. Jake claimed they never had butter as Claudine drank all the cream his little yellow Jersey cow gave. Jake swore the next time he ordered a wife in the mail, (and I think he had two more wives,) he was going to consider "the disposal expense" as Claudine was already too big to pass through the mail car's doors, much less stuff in a return envelope.

Seemed the best storytellers were the worst customers. One named "Mac" of Irish blood traded next door, but told stories in our shop. Mac's past paralleled Jake's. He too took his Dad's pistol on a fast getaway from East Texas. The difference in the two was a pistol seemed like it'd only been extra weight in Mac's pocket. He was a wiry rock mason of a chap. On election years, Mac shortened the domino games down at Doc Sorrels' pool hall by several hands a day, challenging the players to defend their principles.

Barbershop loafers weren't the only opportunity for the subject of pistols. Pulp cowboy magazines on the magazine rack advertised imitation pearl handle Harrington Richardson and Iver Johnson pistols for 10 bucks or a bit less. Young cowboys drawing their first paychecks bought second-hand guns to add western flavor to the tin suitcases they brought on the job filled with meager goods of the trade. Stowed under a cot or lying in the suitcase by a bedroll on the bunkhouse floor, these questionable weapons offered the waddies protection from the villains they read of in the wild west magazines under kerosene light. Nightmares were less fierce protected by a nine-shot pistol that next payday might leave enough to buy a box of shells.

I wish I knew for sure, but either Claudine or one of Jake's other wives hooked a ride with a carnival moving on west, leaving him to fish in peace and have enough cream to churn. Mac whipped the old man at the Texaco station so bad the year the district court ruled on a tie in precinct two, he never was able to find another match. We don't have a barbershop today. If I had it to do over again, I'd keep better records.

May 23, 2002

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