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The Wild Bunch
Blowing Up Charlie
Turnpike Ticket Massacre
One of the keepers
The Myth of Gamey Vennison
Service Auto Glass
Throwing Down On The Bigshots
Knock City
Elanore
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JLF
I am as routine oriented as a man can be. I am at my happiest when left to my
routines un-tampered with. It has always been thus. In the glory days of Service
Auto Glass, it was my routine to stop by Mc Doogles on the way to work, purchase
my egg mc-muffin from the drive through, and enjoy a brief pre-work respite of
egg mcmuffin and diet coke in the office at Powell's desk. Powell was resigned
to this. Any legitimate thoughts of rank, respect, or protocol, he wisely kept
to himself, knowing full well that once Youngblood joined in the protest, his
life would be a living hell for the rest of the day.
On this day I arrived to a locked shop, and used my own key. A note on Powell's
desk explained that he and Youngblood had left on a hot call. This was a not
uncommon deal, and the empty shop only heightened my anticipation of a nice
quiet breakfast. I opened the shop, and retired to the desk. Now in the corner
behind the desk was an 18" 12 ga. mod. 97 Winchester pump. What? Are you telling
me that every shop office in the state of Texas does *not* have an 18" 12 ga.
mod. 97 Winchester pump leaning in the corner? Dear me, I find that altogether
curious, and hard to believe! The 97 was kept with an empty chamber, the
thinking being that the sound of a well-racked 97 far exceeded any dangerous
warning shot as a psychological deterrent.
As I sat down, I noticed a boxed birthday cake on the desk. Not knowing the
occasion, I just happily figured it for dessert. The office faces out into the
two-bay shop, with a good view of the overhead doors. The sun was shining, it
was a coolish summer morning, and all was right with the world. I finished
breakfast, and kicked back for some well deserved, first-class goldbricking.
Now customers, as an almost unbroken rule, will pull up outside one of the bay
doors, or in front of the office. We had a fairly steep driveway up into the
shop to boot. Nobody, and that means *nobody*, just pulls up into the shop like
they owned the joint, except for we three fine members of the Service Auto Glass
team! So I am happily engaged in some teeth-picking reverie with my feet up on
the desk, when bam! Up into the shop bay with no warning, and at a good clip,
comes this huge new black Cadillac which squeals to a stop, and all four doors
open at once!
Now I ask you fellers...what am I *supposed* to think? I ain't got time for no
psychological deterrents, and this is in my heyday, and I am rattlesnake quick.
I drop the feet, snatch the 97 from the corner, rack a round, and hold it kinda
at port arms from an erect sitting position in the chair. My Daddy has taught me
to *never* point a gun at anything I ain't ready to shoot, and I have just
enough good sense, and Daddy learnin' to not *quite* be ready to shoot these
hombres yet.
Suit one comes through the office door, and hits the brakes, and they all do
this bam-bam-bam cartoon deal into his back. He immediately asks the world's
dumbest yankee city boy question. "Is that loaded?" I ignore the question, and
in my best Service Auto Glass manner, ask "Can I help you gentlemen?" Suit one
is apparently the driver/lackey, because suit two elbows past him, holds out his
hand and introduces himself and all the others as various management big-shots
from the Home Office in St. Louis, or wherever. Oh crap...they *do* own the
place.
I quickly corner the 97, hold out my hand all around, and to avoid any pregnant
pauses, cheerfully ask "Ya'll want some cake?" Just in the nick of time, like a
movie script, Powell and Youngblood screech up into the other bay in the service
truck, and the four suits turn and walk back out to meet them. Powell is 6'5,
and I can see him looking worridly over the suit's heads as he greets them, and
I can just see the smoke from the brain oil churning in his head. no bodies...no
blood...no police outside. He knows me like a brother, and he has sized up the
situation in a flash, and I can see a mixture of relief, and the gearing up for
some fast talking both cross his face at the same time.
Youngblood comes into the office without a word, just another day in paradise,
and pounces on the cake, while Powell does his manager thing with the suits out
in the shop. He soon climbs into the Caddy, and the five of them back out of the
shop, and roar off down the street. I turn to clear the 97, and Youngblood says
"Don't be messing with that thing. If it goes off it will deafen us both!"
I never heard another word, and as odd as it is, Powell and I have never
discussed this particular piece of history. I'm certain that he saved my job,
and probably his as well. And I can only imagine how far up the managerial food
chain the incident went, with Powell doing his well-practiced dance routine
along with it all the way to the top. Maybe during all these years, in some kind
of brother-ish mental telepathy, we both just know better somehow than to bring
it up. Maybe with my Daddy-learnin', it really didn't look as bad as I thought,
even to some citified management types. Naw...it looked bad.:) I'll never know
now.
JLF.
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