Texas hold ’em, then crush ’em

Mob Rule: Part 33

Jack ponders his place in the deck after a long ride on Lyndon B. Johnson’s ranch that ends in a rickety shithouse

By John Armstrong

That night we slept in cool, fresh-ironed sheets while coyotes sang a lullaby through the open windows. I woke up with a smile, ready to eat again and go ride a bull, or perhaps just a horse to start with.

I got my wish. After breakfast Lyndon asked if we’d like to ride out with him and see the house he was born in. His wife, whose name really did seem to be ‘Bird” though the hands called her Miz Johnson unfailingly, packed lunches and filled thermoses with water and tea.

Vanessa was experienced with horses but I had some difficulty actually getting up onto the mine, a big bay named Baldy. Not that he lacked for hair; Lyndon said horses with a white patch on their face were commonly called bald-faced.

mob rules victor bonderoff illustrationI’d never actually seen one in the flesh and it was something else entirely to stand beside one. Do you have any idea the size of these creatures? I could barely see Vanessa and Lyndon over its back. Finally, after I’d tried climbing aboard from all angles one of the hands grabbed the seat of my pants and the neck of my shirt and hoisted me up onto it or we might still be there. If I thought he was big looking up from the ground, it was nothing compared to looking down at the ground from up on top of him. It was a disturbing distance away.

But once we set out, the riding itself was wonderful. As the horse’s legs move back and forth, left and right, his whole body shifts and you go with it, so it’s not simply riding but rolling as well. Within a mile I’d really forgotten any anxiety about it and just enjoyed the trip and the scenery. Vanessa showed me how to steer him using the reins, though to be honest our progress was more a tribute to Baldy’s sweet nature and skill than it was to his rider.

After a few miles Lyndon reached into his saddle pouch and came up with a small glass bottle, pulling the cork with his teeth.

“The missus wouldn’t approve this early in the day but it’s a shame to waste such a fine day by staying completely sober.” He tilted the bottle back and took a swig, then wiped his mouth on the back of a hand.

“Here, try some of this. Made from our own corn in my father’s copper boiler. It’ll make your sprits rise like a corncob in a cistern.”

I reached for the bottle and, being practically raised on hard liquor, swallowed down a mouthful without any qualms. It was a bright, hot morning but it turned much, much brighter and then the whole of creation exploded in a white-hot ball. Sweat ran on my cheeks and forehead. When my sight came back I heard a terrible coughing and wheezing and discovered I was doing it, but as the pain and shock waned a corresponding warmth and overall feeling of well-being filled me. I was surprised to see I was still holding the bottle and passed it back carefully, like a vial of nitro.

“Genuine Texas busthead,” Lyndon said with a proud smile. “Cures just about all known varieties of the miseries. Miss Vanessa?”

Vanessa took a look at me and shook her head, saying, “Maybe later, on solid ground.”

We rode for more than an hour before Lyndon said, “There it is.” He was pointing his finger like a cavalry scout at a small building in the middle distance and as we came closer it never really got much larger. Johnson pointed at a window. “That was my room, that I shared with my brother Sam. My sisters shared the other.”

I managed to get off my horse with a little more dignity than I’d got on and we looped their reins on a railing by the screened-in porch. Lyndon walked up the steps with the picnic basket swinging from his hand like a lady’s purse and unlocked the front door.

“No one lives here?” Vanessa asked. I could have told her that. Inside, the house was spotless, freshly dusted, the floorboards newly waxed, but it emanated the unmistakable ghostly feeling an empty house carries and tells you the residents are not just out somewhere, the key is on the draining board and they’re never coming back. Our footsteps seemed intrusive, rude, as if we were disturbing someplace that had earned silence.

“Nothing but the memories, “ he said. “My father was a congressman, an honest one, and he went broke because of it. When he left politics he came back here and lost what little else we had to drought and bad judgment dealing in cotton futures.

“We lost the house and land. It was quite some years before I could afford to buy it back and fix it up again.”

He led us through the parlor and into the kitchen, a tiny room with a large wood stove and a hand-pump set into the counter. He got a jelly glass from the cupboard and pumped hard on the handle. In a few seconds water gushed from it.

“Always nice and cold. It ought to be – we dug down deep enough. I remember the year we dug it. The old one went bad and it was damned hard work out there in the sun, and thirsty, too. We didn’t have any water until we were done, and warm milk just doesn’t do the job.” He splashed water on a hanky and wiped his neck with it.

He unlatched the back door and opened the screen.

“There’s a nice little spot to eat over under that tree. You folks hungry yet?”

We were. I had no idea that riding a horse was such work, enjoyable though it is. They’d fed us well for breakfast back at the ranch but I was ready to eat again. Lyndon spread a blanket and pulled roast beef sandwiches, pickles, thermoses, and several brown bottles of beer wrapped in cold cloths out of the lunch box. If I spent any real time in Texas they’d have to take me back on the campaign in a wheelbarrow.

There was good shade under the tree and you could see in all directions, an unbroken view except for a small shed off to one side in back of the little house. I assumed it was for tools or horse things until Vanessa said she needed the ladies room and headed back to the house.

“Hold up, Miss,” Lyndon called out. “You want the little facility just to your right.”

She stopped and looked at him for clarification. I figured it out faster than she did. I don’t suppose they have outhouses in England.

I reached for the bottle and, being practically raised on hard liquor, swallowed down a mouthful without any qualms. It was a bright, hot morning but it turned much, much brighter and then the whole of creation exploded in a white-hot ball. Sweat ran on my cheeks and forehead. When my sight came back I heard a terrible coughing and wheezing and discovered I was doing it, but as the pain and shock waned a corresponding warmth and overall feeling of well-being filled me. I was surprised to see I was still holding the bottle and passed it back carefully, like a vial of nitro.

“All we have is a Texas two-seater, ma’am. Or you can head off to someplace private, if you prefer.” I didn’t see much privacy available. The land was fairly flat in all directions and the few other stands of trees were a long walk away.

Vanessa disappeared around the side of the shed and we heard the creak of a hinge. Shortly it was followed by a scream and Vanessa came back into view trying to run and pull her pants up at the same time. It was probably a bad idea to laugh.

“Something walked on my leg!” She had her pants mostly done up and was slapping at them.

“Probably just a cricket. It’s best to whomp the seat a few times with the Roebuck catalogue and knock any little critters loose, before you sit down. I apologize for not mentioning that. We’re just all so used to it out here.” I could see him trying hard to look contrite. It really was funny, though less so a while later when I had to use it myself. It might not be so bad if it weren’t so dark, which greatly aids your imaginings of just what might be crawling around in there with you. I’m sure I set a personal best in getting my business accomplished.

When we were done eating we laid back with our beer and watched the clouds go by. I can think of far worse ways to spend time.

“Lyndon,” I said, “if I lived here you couldn’t pull me away with a tow truck. Why would you want to get involved in this campaign nonsense?”

He pulled a tall shoot of grass up and chewed on it.

“I suppose in a way it’s unfinished business,” he said. “I would have likely followed my daddy into politics if things hadn’t changed when they did. Likely gone broke just like he did if I had, but it just feels like what I should be doing.”

Vanessa was tying grass stems into a chain. She said, “Do you really think you can overthrow the … government or whatever it is? The Mob?”

“I think you have to try whether you have much chance or not,” he said. “People deserve a vote, no matter if they use it wisely or not. People should have a choice, and the freedom to make a bad one. Lord knows they make some terrible ones but somehow we always seemed to survive them.

“My daddy had plenty of experience with crooked politicians. They all got rich and he went bust; when they quit politics the people they’d taken bribes from were all there with job offers and they got even richer. Not one soul offered my father a hand.”

“The question is,” I said, deciding to test the water, “whether the Kennedys are any real improvement over the Bosses.”

Lyndon took the stalk of grass out of his mouth and looked at the chewed up end. “Yes, that is a coin flip, in my estimation.” Then he looked at me directly, straight in the eyes.

“I don’t think the odds are quite that good, “ I said, and he nodded slowly. It appeared we were in agreement on the subject.

 

Mob Rule is a work of fiction, serialized exclusively in The Ex-Press. To read past instalments, click here. 

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