Not too long ago, I was down in a bar down in Houston, Texas. I had been on a run of bad luck, and stopped in to use my last bit of cash to drown my sorrows. Yeah, I was in pretty sad shape.
No sooner had I sat down in the place, I was approached by a comely, though rather large, senorita.
"Hey guapo, you buy me a cerveza, OK? I'll sit with you, OK?" she either purred or slurred or both.
"Sure, sister. I'll buy you one." I couldn't believe my luck! I had just walked into this place and already the chicks were all over me. Like I always said, some guys have it, and some don't, and this guy HAS IT!
She returned from the bar with a longneck for me and a beer in a glass for her. I liked that - classy broads don't drink from the bottle.
"You very handsome, that's why I call you Guapo. You know what that means?" she asked.
"Well, I'm pretty sure it means I'm a good-lookin' hombre." I said, knowing this to be true in every respect.
She laughed. "I like you, senor. You make me laugh! My name is Juanita," She grinned. "Say, you buy me another beer?"
I hardly noticed she had gulped the first one down so quick. Man, this babe can put the Colorado Kool-Aid away."OK." I said.
"I'll go get us some more." She leaned in closer; I could smell the mix of beer on her breath and kind of sweet smell of her sweat. "If a big gringo comes around asking for me, tell him you don't know Juanita. Tell him you haven't seen her around."
"Sure thing, Juanita." I said. I certainly didn't want to mess with a big drunk gringo in a bar I had never been in before in a town as dangerous and crazy as this one.
She headed over towards the bar, and I followed her with my eyes the whole way.
That's when I saw a huge hairy lookin' gringo dude makin' a beeline to my table."Hey, pal, you been talkin' to my Juanita?" He bellowed, his beard covered with fresh spit that come out in a spray.
"Why, no, friend. I was talkin' to another girl, one who looks just like Juanita, but isn't. No sir, it's not her." It's a skill of mine to be pretty quick on my feet with a lie when I need it.
"You sure you weren't talkin to Juanita?" he asked. He seemed a bit confused by the whole Juanita look-a-like horseshoe I had deftly thrown around his neck.
"Get out of here, Weldon!" shouted Juanita as she rushed towards us. "This is my new man now!"
Weldon's eyes lit up with a type of fire I ain't seen since I told my daddy I wanted to devote my life to leather and vinyl repair.
"You gonna die, Mister!" bellowed Weldon, as he brought a huge fist crashing down on the table in front of me. I jerked up in reaction, and fell backwards into a table of Mexican fellers behind me.
One of the Mexicans from the table stood up. "Hey Gringo, why don't you calm down and have another cerveza?" he said to Weldon. "This loser didn't mean nothing by talkin' to your girl."
"Why, that's a mighty fine idea," Weldon said. He took a big gulp of that Mexican's beer, and then spit it in a spray all over him.
"Why don't you mind your own beeswax, Seen-Yor!" laughed Weldon in a maniacal-type fashion.
Well, what happened next can be put in dispute by the experts, historians, troubadours and whatnot, but I'll attempt to portray it as I saw it, limited as I was by my position on the floor lookin' up at the action.
I saw the Mexican reach behind his back and pull out a large knife, real quick-like, and slash at Weldon's head with an upward motion. I didn't see exactly what that thrust did to poor Weldon's face, but I sure could figure out most of the consequences, as Weldon's ear landed in my hand.
Now, in nature, animals got what they call a "fight-or-flight" instinct. I too got me one of them things, but it's mostly geared toward the latter part of that, especially when I'm in the middle of a fight between a drunk and crazy Bigfoot-type and a Mexican with a damn hand machete.
I took off runnin' as fast as my feet would take me, and didn't look back until I was a couple of blocks of hopped fences between me and that run-down cantina. I walked around for a while to calm down, not sure what to do with myself for the rest of the evenin'.
That's when I noticed that I had Weldon's ear in my shirt pocket. I must have stuck it there when I was a runnin' for my life.
I don't know if any of you have ever been faced with such a dilemma. What to do with a man’s severed ear, that ain't yours, that you may have indirectly been the cause of gettin' it cut off in the first place. After all, I didn't need to be carryin' on with the man's woman that way.
I needed to make this right. I needed to give Weldon his ear back. It might not be too late to re-attach it, possibly with one of them new space-age glues. I'd hate for him to be a jug-headed lookin' feller for the rest of his life.
So, I headed back over to the cantina, hoping to find out where Weldon was, hopin' he wasn't dead by way of a beer-soaked Mexican with a pig sticker.
What I did find was mighty peculiar, let me tell you.
That old cantina was boarded up, like it hadn't been open for years. The lights were off, the parking lot deserted. I climbed up to a window to peek inside. In the moonlight, I could see the chairs on the tables, and the inside covered in dust.
Just when I was thinkin' I must be confused and at the wrong spot, I heard a voice behind me.
"Hey friend. You come to give me somethin'?"
It was the unmistakable voice of Weldon. I turned around to see him, but in the moonlight he looked pale and ghostly.
"Uh, yeah. Guess you've been missing this." I said, not familiar with what to say to man who wants me to give him his ear back. I pulled the ear from my pocket and handed it to him.
"More than you could possibly know, my friend."
He held it in his hand, then turned and walked away, fading into the moonlight. I followed after him, maybe wantin' to apologize, maybe to chew him out for tryin' to kill me, but it was like he was gone. In fact, it was like he was never there at all, cause I didn't see no footprints in the dirt parking lot, other than my own.
Which was disappointing, since I was gonna ask him where I could rustle up a few eggs around there. Man’s gotta eat, you know. Thems the thanks you get for giving a man his ear back.
Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part I
