Lon Roberts

Boring speeches, obligatory applause, obsequious laughter from suck-ups circled around boisterous bigwigs … all repulse me. But, here I am, plaque in one hand, a drink in the other, and a drooping nametag clinging to my pocket like an escapee dangling from a prison wall. Sam Guidry, The Star of Texas Daily—at least they got the name right this time; last year I was Stan. From the clock on the back wall I can see it’s almost nine o’clock, yet no sign the party is winding down.
 
            “Hello Beau, can I give you a lift?”
 
            I instantly recognized the voice behind me. Without turning around I nodded and said, “Yes indeed, if you’re going my way.”
 
            “And, what way would that be?”
 
            “Out the side door and away from this place. I’m thinkin’ the diner down the street. I hear they have a pot of strong coffee, and that’s what I need about now.”
 
            “Well, you’re in luck, that’s where I’m heading.”

* * *

My first encounter with Bly Arnold occurred on Highway 90 on the eastern edge of Uvalde. She was standing on the grassy shoulder, facing the road with her right arm extended, her fist clinched, and her thumb pointing straight up, as though surveying a plat of land on the other side of the highway. She was wearing a gray ball cap, a red western-style shirt tucked into faded jeans, and a pair of knee-high moccasin boots topped with strands of leather fringe that fluttered in the South Texas breeze. The overstuffed duffle bag behind her likely doubled as a stool during the interval between passing cars.

            As a rule I don’t pickup hitchhikers, and why I did on that Sunday morning in ‘63 is not something I can explain, even now. Perhaps I felt sorry for her, or more likely, for myself. After all, the interview was a bust and I was returning to Austin empty-handed. Well, not empty-handed but not nearly enough original material to rise to Joe Cannon’s standard. When Cannon hired me to write a weekly column for the magazine supplement in the Sunday edition of The Star of Texas Daily he made it clear he wanted engaging stories good enough to sell papers on their own—adding he didn’t want to see any crap come across his desk that could be pilfered from the goddamned Encyclopedia Britannica. I would be granted free rein to flesh out stories, as long as they had a Texas connection. The themes could involve people, places, or things … it wouldn’t matter, he said, as long as the story was engaging and original, or mostly original.
 
            A couple of weeks after getting settled into the job, Cannon invited me to the watering hole down the block. He led the way to a small table, raised two fingers to the bartender—who apparently understood this to be an order for two Pearl beers— motioned for me to sit, and then loosened his tie, which I took to mean that he was suspending his tough guy persona, at least till it suited him. “Sam, you wanna know what really sold you?”
 
            “What sold me? If you mean why you hired me, I suppose I’d have to say it was twenty-five percent due to my experience as a reporter, twenty-five percent due to my work portfolio, and fifty percent due to my irresistible charm.”
 
            “Lousy guesses, it was none of those. Hell, I kicked out 20 people ahead of you who had similar creds. No, the number one reason I hired you was because of your ignorance.”
 
            I almost choked on my beer. “Okay, that’s a first for me. So, what in my vast storehouse of ignorance impressed you the most?”
 
            “Well, I’m serious about this. You were born, raised, and educated in Louisiana, and till now you’ve spent your entire career working for Louisiana papers. In fact, I’m kinda surprised your ass could find its way to the Texas border.”
 
            I wanted to remind him of my time as a correspondent for the Army during the war, but I let it slide. “So, you have a soft spot in your heart for Louisianans. Is that where you’re from as well?”
 
            “Hell no, that’s not where I’m from! And hell no, I don’t have a soft spot anywhere in my heart!” At that point he gave something that hinted at a smile, though I wasn’t sure. “What I’m getting at is this: you didn’t know squat about Texas when you walked into my office. Let me put it this way, it was clear you wouldn’t need to unlearn eighth-grade Texas history—which would color every damn article you write. When I said I wanted fresh material, I wasn’t talking about a wart-free rendition of every Texas story that every native Texan’s heard over and over again. I want—no, our readers want stories about tarnished heroes, interesting back stories, little known places and events that history has overlooked, or maybe forgotten … like I said, engaging stuff you won’t find in an eighth-grade Texas history book.”
 
            “In that case, Joe, you couldn’t have found a better candidate for the job. I hope my profound ignorance never disappoints you.”
 
            “It’d better not! And, it won’t as long as your ignorance causes you to see the thorns while everyone else is drooling over the roses. Okay, that’s a bad analogy, but you know what the hell I mean.” And, indeed I did.
 
            For me, our conversation that day was liberating. As long as Joe Cannon was happy with what I wrote I seldom had to worry about public opinion. Readers seemed to eat up my stories, even when they took issue with my opinions or a technicality here or there. In Cannon’s view, controversy that didn’t cross a certain line meant that my articles were being read and newspapers were selling. He was right of course, though he never bothered to tell me what was on the other side of that line.

* * *

“Where you heading?” I asked as she dusted off the bottom of her duffle bag and tossed it in the back seat.
 
            “Austin. And you?”
 
            “Same here, but I’m going to stop somewhere up the road for a bite to eat since I haven’t had breakfast. If you’re in a hurry you may want to wait for another ride.”
 
            “No, I’ll go with you. Besides, I’m feeling a bit hungry myself, if you don’t mind me tagging along.”
 
            After I eased back onto the highway she thanked me for giving her a lift. She then extended her hand, told me her name, and I returned the gesture. I was still feeling uneasy with my capricious decision to pick up a hitchhiker, but she seemed intent in carrying on a conversation as if we were old friends.
 
            “Sam. That’s a good Texas name. Is it short for Samuel?”
 
            “No, actually it’s a pen name given to me by my boss—the editor of the Sunday magazine at The Star. He said Beau Guidry sounded too Cajun and that Sam Guidry would make a better byline for my column … for the reason you said: it sounds Texan.”
 
            “So, you write a column … for The Star of Texas Daily. What’s it called, I may have read it?”
 
            “Lost Trails & Texas Tales. Doesn’t do much for me, but the old man loves it. So, end of story. I don’t think he believes in democracy, at least in the newsroom.”
 
            I was feeling more at ease after our exchange of small talk, but I was curious why she was hitchhiking and how she felt about getting into a car with a stranger. “Do you mind if I ask a question … actually, a couple of questions? First, why are you hitchhiking, and second, do you feel … um, at ease riding with a stranger?” Wordsmith that I am, I wasn’t sure how to tactfully phrase the last question. I would liked to have asked if she thought it was a good idea for a young lady like herself to be hitchhiking.
 
            “Well Mr. Beau Guidry, I was wondering how long it would take you to ask those questions.” At that point she flashed a smile, and I felt a little stupid. “I think the average is around four minutes, but you made it all the way to six.”
 
            “I’m so sorry I asked, it’s really none of my business.”
 
            “Nothing to be sorry about. In fact, I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t asked. You see, I’m an anthropology major at the University of Texas, a graduate student specializing in archeology. Hitchhiking gets me from point-to-point, but it’s more than that—for me it’s research. Part of what we do as anthropologists is study cultures and, as you know, our American culture generally takes a dim view of hitchhikers, especially the female variety. I find that fascinating in itself, but when the question is asked it gives me the opportunity to turn the tables … to get inside the driver’s head to discover why he or she would risk picking up a stranger on the side of the road.”
 
            “Wow, I had no idea I’d be used as a lab rat when I picked you up. But to answer your question … well, I can’t answer your question. I don’t know why I picked you up. It’s a first for me.”
 
            “Okay, I believe you believe that, but I also think there are always reasons for our actions, even if we aren’t aware of them. Most people say something along the lines of ‘I felt sorry for you’ or ‘I was bored and wanted someone to talk to’—but I never assume what they tell me is true. I rely more on what I learn from our conversation about other things during the ride.”
 
            “And that works?”
 
            “Yes, well sometimes. At least it gives me the opportunity to meet interesting people … and I’ve learned a lot about human nature. If I weren’t doing this I might be hopping boxcars and chumming with fellow hobos.”
 
            “And personal safety’s not an issue … not something that concerns you?”
 
            “Yes … well no, you see ….” She paused at that point to reach into her jeans pocket. I barely avoided swerving into an oncoming car when I saw the derringer in her hand. ”You see, I carry some insurance.”
 
            “Holy crap girl, put that thing away! Is it loaded?”
 
            “Yes it’s loaded … with caps. It a toy, but it looks real, don’t you agree?”
 
            “You coulda fooled me! Actually, you did fool me. But why … why did you let the cat out of the bag.”
 
            “Easy answer: I can tell within a couple of minutes if the person who picks me up is trustworthy. We’d be having a different conversation if you hadn’t passed that test … and I’d be looking for another ride at the town up ahead, which, by the way, is Sabinal. Say, if you still have an appetite after all of that, there’s a great little cafe a few blocks off the highway on Center Street.”
 
            “Well, now that my blood pressure has dropped below heart attack level I can probably digest my food. I hope to God they have some strong black coffee!”

* * *

There were only a couple of cars in front of Mattie’s Cafe when we pulled in. The only customers in the place besides us were two elderly couples sharing the booth near the door. They appeared to be dressed in their Sunday best—perhaps members of a local church who made an early escape to beat the crowd to the café. The four of them fixed their eyes on us and nodded as the waitress led us to a booth near the rear of the dining room. I had a feeling they recognized Bly. If so, it was likely the most exciting moment they’d had in days … seeing Bly walk in the door with some older guy who was still reeling from a panic attack. But, whether they knew her or not, there was no mistaking that their voices went from normal to whispers after seeing us.
 
            The waitress returned with our coffee then took our orders. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast with strawberry jam for me. Bly ordered only a slice of pecan pie.
 
            “Say, do you know those folks over there, or are they simply amused at seeing an attractive young lady with a tottering old man?”
 
            “Yeah, I know them … not well, but I know them. I was raised in this town, so I know almost everyone. But don’t be hard on yourself; you’re not an old man. What is there, fifteen, maybe sixteen years difference in our ages? It’s more likely their curiosity is bustin’ at the seams. Anything out of the norm is exciting when you live a small town.”
 
            “Bly, we just met, but I get the impression you are enjoying this little charade. Oh, and I’m forty. Maybe not old, but a couple of inches away from middle-age.”
 
            “Well, I’m twenty-two so that would make it … um, eighteen years between us. And no, I wouldn’t call it pleasure … something more like fascination.”
 
            “Or, maybe a little of what Germans call schadenfreude, which means …”
 
            “Oh, I know what it means, my dad’s family emigrated from Switzerland and I studied German in high school. It means, taking pleasure in someone else’s pain or discomfort. But, that’s not me in general. I care deeply about people who’ve been dealt a rotten hand in life—maybe too deeply at times. But, don’t you think there’s a little schadenfreude in all of us? For me it’s self-righteous smugness that gets under my skin. Don’t get me wrong, Beau, I love the hardworking people who live here … well, most of them. It’s just that I have a hard time with judgmental people, even in my own family.”
 
            The waitress showed up with our breakfast … or, my breakfast and her pie.
 
            “So that’s why you suggested this place. It was the pecan pie you were after.” She pretended to ignore me, feigning ecstasy with closed eyes and exaggerated groans as she savored a bite of the pie. I couldn’t help but laugh.
 
            “Okay Bly, when you return to earth I have a question. If this is your hometown why were you in Uvalde this morning? None of my business, I’m just curious.”
 
            “Well, that’s easy. I was visiting Papa Jack. I had some time this morning before returning to Austin and I wanted to pay him a visit. He’s ninety-four, still feisty as ever, but at that age any visit could be my last.”
 
            “Are you talking about Cactus Jack … John Garner, the man who served as vice-president under Franklin Roosevelt? He’s your grandfather? I can’t believe it!”
 
            “Well, no we’re not related, he’s more like an adopted grandfather. You see, my mother helped care for his wife, Ettie, during the last years of her life, before she died from Parkinson’s. I was too young for school and my parents couldn’t afford child care so I was allowed to accompany my mother to the Garner farm. While she cared for Mrs. Garner and helped with the housework I’d sit with Papa Jack on the large porch, sometimes for hours. We’d crack pecans—there were hundred of trees on the property—and he’d tell me tales about interesting events and people he had met over the years, always keeping it interesting and on my level. He’s one of a kind, that’s for sure! But, why do you find it hard to believe I could be related to him?”
 
            “What I meant was I can’t believe the coincidence. You see, yesterday morning I drove down from Austin and checked in to a hotel. I had an appointment to interview him later in the afternoon, hoping to gather material for an article.”
 
            “But, let me guess, it didn’t go so well. He didn’t let you inside his mind.”
 
            “Precisely! What little I got from him didn’t pass the encyclopedia test.”
 
            “The encyclopedia test?”
 
            “Oh, that’s just an expression my boss uses to label articles that don’t shed new light on a subject—in other words, interesting details that aren’t likely to be found in a common reference source, such as an encyclopedia, or … God forbid … an eighth grade Texas history book. It makes me shudder to think about it! But, how did you know that? How did you know I came away empty-handed?”
 
            “Well, I know him. And I know how he handles reporters. It’s like a game … a game I’ve seen him play many times. Like shelling a pecan, you just need to know how to crack the hard shell to dig out the meat.”
 
            “Okay Bly, now it’s my turn to ask a favor of you. Your Papa Jack cut the interview short. Said he needed a nap, but he agreed to give me a second interview at a later date. I’d appreciate any pointers on how to crack that shell.”
 
            “Sure Beau, I’m happy to do that, but you’re lucky to get a second chance. I doubt if he told you this, but not long after returning to Uvalde from Washington he started a bonfire in his backyard and burned all his official papers. One of the Texas universities wanted them, but he chose to burn them instead. That’s how guarded he is about his past life. When he left Washington in 1941 he left for good. Actually I should say he left Washington, but Washington didn’t leave him. The next year—in 1942—Roosevelt routed his train through Uvalde for a visit with Papa Jack. Also, several years later Harry Truman stopped by while campaigning for election. You might say that Papa Jack put the little town of Uvalde on the map.”
 
            I was amazed at what she told me. These tidbits had escaped me when I did my homework before the interview. But calling them tidbits undermines their importance. Woven into a character story they turn a dull biography into an intriguing tale … the kind of tale that wouldn’t likely see the inside of Joe Cannon’s wastebasket.
 
            “Okay, you got my attention. What should I do or say?”
 
            “Well, there’s a little test he sometimes gives that may get your foot in the door.”
 
            “Oh sweet Jesus, not another damn test! I’m beginning to think this is a Texas thing. What kind of test?”
 
            “Well, it doesn’t have an official name, so I’ll call it the nut test. Like I said, Papa Jack planted hundreds of pecan trees on his property. In fact, he calls himself a pecan farmer. When you sit with him on the porch he’s likely to invite you to shell pecans while the two of you chat. At some point—I’ve seen him do this before—he may pick a pecan from the bowl, hold it up, and ask you to tell him everything you know about pecans.”
 
            “I see, so that’s the pecan test?”
 
            “No, I didn’t call it the pecan test, I called it the nut test. You see, if you the make the mistake of describing the pecan as a nut, you’ve failed the test and are done for.”
 
            “But that’s exactly what I would have said. So, if a pecan isn’t a nut, what is it … how should I describe it?”
 
            “Well now, I’m going to leave that for you to discover for yourself. I get the impression you have access to an encyclopedia.”
 
            “Oh you are funny! So, if I pass the nut test I may be allowed into his world?”
 
            “Yeah, or maybe. Even then he’s likely to allow you to go only so far—like I said, a foot in the door. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this since it feels a little like I’m betraying his trust, but there’s a more certain path to his inner world.”
 
            “Bly I wouldn’t want you to …. Oh, what the hell, I’m a cold-blooded reporter! Of course I want to know.”
 
            “Well, I don’t believe you are cold-blooded. But, I ain’t gonna cut you open to find out. In any case, the big secret isn’t as big or as secret as you might think, so I’ll let you in on it. You see, despite his gruff exterior, Papa Jack has a soft spot when it comes to one particular subject: the love of his life, Mariette Elizabeth, or Ettie as she was called by those close to her.”
 
            “I see what you’re saying. If I express interest in Ettie he will open up about other things, about other experiences in his life—in their life together.”
 
            “Yes, but if he thinks you are trying to manipulate him—and he has lots of experience with manipulators—he’ll shut you off. Keep it real and respectful. Oh, and it may come in handy to know this as well: Ettie was born and raised in the town where we are at this moment.”

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© Copyright | Lon Roberts

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