The Last Lonely Exception

During World War II, the branches of the US armed forces were racially segregated as were most public institutions in this nation. For the military, that meant that Negroes, African-Americans, people of color, were generally not allowed to serve alongside white people in the same company equally.

That all changed on July 26, 1948, when President Harry S. Truman signed Executive Order 9981 which stated, “It is hereby declared to be the policy of the President that there shall be equal treatment and opportunity for all persons in the armed services without regard to race, color, religion or national origin.”

This declaration did not just suddenly transpire overnight nor was it put into practice immediately. Historians note it would be another 10 to 15 years, with all the urgent concerns of a different war in a different place, before this order even started to take root and military officials were held strictly accountable to it. As we recall, our nation tried to officially maintain an atmosphere of “separate but equal” treatment of black citizens for many years. George Wallace was still chanting “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever” to a receptive crowd in 1963.

And, while we're counting, in spite of the “all persons” theme of Truman's edict, add that it would be another 15-20 years again before females in the military would earn similar protective status from the government. Specifically, it wasn't until the 1980's that many traditionally perceived “combat roles” and their associated opportunities for military promotion were finally opened up for women, Female-Americans, people of the fairer sex.

Some may look back to the “All Men are Created Equal” origins of this country to suggest when our most lofty declarations first started to haunt our otherwise ignorant and bullish public behavior. But, tightening the historical screw of segregation a bit, one could point to the orders of President Franklin Roosevelt in 1941 as more visible sparks that eventually fed the freedom fire of Truman's EO 9981.

Still, real events of the post-war years left Truman's administration very little choice in the matter.

The uncomfortable pressure started to build quickly in 1945. Over the next couple of years, African-American WW II veterans returned home to a country that tacitly turned its back on them. At the least, they were herded into demeaning, low-paying jobs. At the worst, the were chased by lynch mobs and beaten by the police. At the very, very worst, they and their families were hunted down and killed by the same citizens that they had once fought so bravely and honorably to defend.

While reports and studies on the use of “Negro Manpower” in the military languished in the halls of the Pentagon, rational people of all colors around the nation began to demand a better deal from our leadership and aimed at segregation in the military as a ground-floor target for social change. But the US Army, fearful of upsetting the vaguely delicate balance of “good order and discipline” in all hastily prepared foxholes, set to marshaling its forces up Equality Hill at barely a half-step march. The Navy and the new Air Force only half-heartedly saluted the band as it went by.

Even George Marshall, famed WW II General but by then Truman's Secretary of State, essentially said that he expected the military would adjust its attitudes on segregation only when American society as a whole changed its conflicting behavior. In a perfect example of Catch-22 bureaucracy, anxious State leaders, most notably the Governors of Minnesota and Connecticut, complained that they wanted to end segregation in their own Guard units but were prevented from doing so by federal regulations.

Congress, being the Congress we've all come to know and expect the most self-serving actions from, was not eager for any dramatic law that might tie the generous hands of their most valued (white) donors.

Finally, in what I would call a bona fide fit of Show-Me determinism and in the style of rapid “the hell with it” decision-making that Harry was famous for, the President asked his legal staff to write a declaration ending racial segregation in the military, signed the order and never looked back.

But we can look back now and see how so much has changed since that day in 1948.

I don't think we have any direct proof that EO 9981 instantly changed our society. Later civil rights acts of government probably had wider impact. But I do think the attitude and awareness that demanded the order in the first place definitely led us down a path to greater equality among the races. Unalterably, a large number of our population, average service men and women, learned to trust one another regardless of their skin color and took that surprising assessment with them back to their homes and families.

Gradually, even slothfully at times, but just as clearly, we regularly witness evidence that our society has grown to be more accepting of racial, ethnic, and religious diversity today than it was back then. At least, I think, the great majority want it to be that way. If nothing else, I can hopefully report that it's doubtful we will ever again sit idly by and watch while citizens of this country are chased down by angry lynch mobs.

Cautiously optimistic, perhaps, the number of hate crimes committed in this large country are now relatively small in number. The FBI statistics from 2007, for example, show that particular crime is low but has not completely exhausted itself. Maybe it is human fate that for ever more we must always be on the lookout for the few insanely ignorant bullies who refuse to conform in our communities. But from these statistics we can thankfully note that each of the categories of deliberate hate crimes are vigorously pursued by our government.

With the exception of one, of course.

But when these hate crimes do occur, the entire public naturally gets involved. After that, people take a hard look at themselves, questioning their abetting behavior while demanding a better accounting of the services of our federal, state and local agencies to ensure no person in this country has to live in fear.

Except for one kind of person, of course.

And by blanketing us with nanny-like oversight, today our national government can maybe be said to have finally stepped up to honor the words of our founders, truly guaranteeing the constitutional rights and equality of all persons of any distinction you can imagine in this nation.

Except for one distinction, of course.

Reviewing this history, I have to laugh at anyone who suggests an order signed by the President is illegal because it spontaneously flies in the face of public mandate or conflicts with constitutional law. I am confounded by those who claim the Commander in Chief should not experiment with the structure of his military forces to the point that it only represents what we want to be, not who we are. And I am regularly confused by the circuitous religious philosophy that holds we are all God's people, put here on this earth to bask in His love and glory ... except for one kind of people, of course.

In fact, as a result of this quick look back, complimented by the excuse of every modern “don't ask, don't tell” compromise, I'm annoyingly reminded of a time when “separate but equal” was a similar explanation for anything but fairness.

Today, I'm more willing to say that the time for another Executive Order has arrived. I think even George Marshal would say that our general society has already turned the corner. Based on what we've experienced in the past, I realize it may take another 15 or 20 years before it really settles in and gets comfortable. But I think we're ready for it, we were ready for it last year, and one day in the future we'll be glad someone finally said “the hell with it” and got it done.

Honestly, if I was President now, I'd probably want to close the loophole on this last lonely exception to national service quickly but also on a day that signified when we renewed a long march to equality in 1948. This year, that would be July 26th , sixty-one years to the day since Harry S. Truman ended racial segregation in the military by signing EO 9881.

Cheers,
Mb

It's A Modern Free For All

A conservative pal of mine recently sent me a moving account of Mr. Ted Nugent, claiming that Ted had gradually evolved from a twisted rock star into a national hero, a defender of the common man, and one who has perhaps single-handedly saved more average lives than he really knew.

On the contrary, I think he's turned into a fiery demagogue, only a hero in the standard “cult leader” reference. Ted has an agenda, he's pissed off and he has an oddly frightening way of expressing his concerns.

But I'm not too sure what he's trying to accomplish when he calls Hillary a “stupid bitch” or invites Obama to suck on his machine gun at his recent concerts. It's one thing for me and you to joke casually like that at the pub. It's highly suspicious for a celeb to be that way in front of a paying audience. He's always been a bold showman, I love some of his music, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn his gate receipts have gone up since he started this particular show.

Come on, consider what we know of our own history! Using the stage and notoriety to provoke common people, prodding them with words of hate pointed at other personalities and anger towards vague notions of evil, is no way to deal with honest conflict.

I see after he rants on attacks to the 2nd Amendment, he typically pokes the interviewer in the chest with the forceful words, “Any questions?”

As if to proclaim that he has all the answers. Nobody has all the answers, man! He would be funny if he wasn't so serious about it.

That's the same kind of testy tactics the armies of dictators used to question a citizen's loyalty or the Roman Catholics once used to determine a peasant's unflinching belief in the Pope. To a demagogue, honest questions may bely treason and that's what he wants us to infer.

But I agree, there is a conflict that we need to deal with here. To me, it's not about the Constitutional right to “keep and bear arms” untethered from government oversight. It's really about the right of an individual to choose his own path to personal liberty within the protection of a peaceful society.

In spite of my respect for our Bill of Rights, I do not believe we have any unique rights to life or even the pursuit of happiness divinely bestowed upon us by an unseen Creator. In fact, the proof suggests a different story. People die all the time due to disease or natural calamity, some sooner rather than later, victims of odd virus or weather condition, without any logical way to always prevent it. The vast majority of humans have suffered just to survive on this earth, learning that any vision of constant happiness is like fool's gold just out of their reach, a fleeting and deceitful goal, not worthy of any realistic expectation. But I agree the one thing we all enjoy, if we are lucky enough to be alive for any healthy period of time, is the right to determine just how much personal risk we are willing to endure to secure our liberties while living.

Americans tend to believe and teach their children that they have the inherent right, and in many ways, the personal responsibility, to defend themselves and their family against all perceived aggression. Generally, I see that as an honorable notion but blatantly untrue, really backwards from the only right we can claim as humans. The old “Don't Tread on Me” flag that many like to hide behind doesn't mention family, friends, or community. Even if it might be so widely construed, it still just selfishly says “me” alone.

Well, the isolated “me” has been in danger from the beginning. Fortunately, like most earthly animals, we have learned that there is power and safety in numbers. A circle of like-minded friends, all protecting the peace of the central nest is at least one basis for the ideal defense of a society. But in practice it means that individuals within that community must naturally be willing to give up some of their own personal freedoms. They can't yell “FIRE!” in a theater. They can't take a nap in the middle of sentry duty. And they can't just wander off when they want to. In this way, we say it is a crime to individually violate the rules of a society which is designed to defend the safety of the whole.

Oh, but you can surely step out on your own volition. You can choose to ignore the rules and put yourself and everyone else in greater danger. But if you do, then you deny yourself any protection that comes from staying inside or supporting the circle. You lose no rights but you do forfeit the privilege of collective defense. It is an individual choice to stay or go, either way. And, to me, the right to make that choice is the only right worth a damn in this life.

People make this individual choice every minute of every day. When a soldier enlists in the service of our nation, when a cop pins on her badge, when a fireman pulls on his boots, they know full well that they are risking their personal lives to defend our circle. In this case, they are taking advantage of the only right they truly have.

Alternatively, this is not to demean the lawyer, the mechanic or the plumber who chooses to pay their taxes and remain safely inside because, to me, they are really doing the same. The are just making the choice of personal risk that they feel they can comfortably choose to survive—the only choice they have the inherent right to make—stay or go, contribute or endlessly complain, abide or don't.

As noted before, I have found the modern trend of the general public towards profusely thanking service members somewhat confounding over the last few years. I guess this explains my amusement to some degree. In my view, the old hat ideas of patriotism and nationalism have long since passed us by if they ever existed in the first place. In modern reality, where there rarely exists a clear enemy, those who serve us at the edge of the circle do so for the same reasons they do everything else—predominantly for their own personal reasons, not necessarily for the glory or continued existence of one state, maybe not to salute a beautiful flag that represents all that is good with life, and not always to defend one form of economy over another.

That is not to say we shouldn't continue to thank them because we really should. We should thank our mechanics and plumbers, too. They deserve our recognition since it is painfully clear to most of them that most of us are sadly incapable of defending or taking care of ourselves alone.

Yes, the lawyers are on their own in my little world. I know that's a harsh assessment. But it comes from the heart. (Insert winky-smile emoticon here.)

A long time ago, I chose the circle of American society. Yes, I was born into it. I was lucky that way and it made my decision quite easy. But, if your choice is to go outside the circle wherever it may be, to choose a life of ignorance or crime, then I tend to side with Mr. Nugent. Hopefully your decision will eventually lead you to lengthy stay at a rehabilitative institution, the business end of an Indonesian cane whip or to swift Chinese justice, I really don't care which as long as you don't take me or my friends with you.

On the other hand, to put it just as bluntly, if your definition of society's protection includes a personal demand to walk around with a loaded, fully-automatic M-60 machine gun, I have news for you. Your right to choose your path within the circle does not include that option. The right to arm yourself with an assault arsenal for your personal peace of mind is one those small sacrifices that a society demands you should make for the security of everyone else. In fact, if the rules of a competent society are such that it ignores or allows such unrestrained liberties, then everyone else within the circle should have sufficient cause to reevaluate their personal choices and determine whether your individual needs are truly worth their commonly shared risk.

Thankfully, I don't think that's the conflict. I may be wrong but I don't believe that's what Ted really means even if it sure sounds like that nonsense is exactly what he so passionately says.

Weapons can be very useful tools. But when they're turned against other people, especially otherwise innocent people, the “right” to own them begins to tread on the fundamental purpose of a peaceful nation.

We all want the same thing. We want a society that protects us. We don't want to live in constant fear. We want a way to keep weapons out of the hands of criminals and nutjobs, those who choose to go or are forced outside the circle, without overbearing limitations on a sane, law-abiding citizen's choice for personal risk.

But our majority has let it be, allowed the sore to fester in a way, and no good choice has been made. Out of fear or apathy, whether the populace is freely armed to the tooth or the compromises of law restricts gun ownership in some fashion or degree, nothing seems to satisfy everyone while our communities continue to evolve into veritable kill zones where good people, our friends, our family, don't really know what tragic danger awaits them around the next corner.

In truth, the common lament that I witness, a lament that any demagogue worth his salt should know, is not that our rules overly limit personal freedom but that our society regularly fails in the task of protecting us from thieving thugs and fanatical fruitcakes. And, let's be honest, now more than ever perhaps, we can't do that on our own.

I don't know the answer. Wish I did. But I believe we've networked our nation together for good reason and I imagine that at some point each of us must and will take advantage of the only right we truly enjoy as humans and law-abiding citizens of a great country.

Here's my raised glass in the hope that Mr. Ted Nugent, the people he rants about, and each of you all live long enough to make the right choice.

Cheers,
Mb

Dead or Alive

Had the opportunity to spend a few nights near Tombstone, Arizona, last week. There are four bars in Tombstone but I only made it to three. The story goes something like this here ...

When I entered Allen Street from the north, I almost walked in at the fourth bar. But something told me to go on down the road. The place was too quiet. I could see it had perfectly good porch, an excellent view of the center of town, but nobody was there and it was too well lit up. Not my kind of place, I decided.

A few more steps and I saw one of the authentic stagecoaches was sitting idly on the other side of the street. The tired, dry horses still hitched up and shivering quietly, heads down. A grizzled old driver sat on top of the coach, leaning over to the edge while holding the motionless reins in his left hand, his gray-bearded chin resting uneasily in the cup of his right palm. He stared straight ahead and ignored my approach, looking like the most pitiful, forlorn cowboy I had ever seen. Somewhat chilled by this cold welcome, I moved on and felt a gust of wind suddenly whistle up across the the wooden boardwalk but noticed the flattened brown dirt in the road lay curiously unmoved.

After testing the other two bars in town, feeling that the sun would soon make its departure, I eventually pulled into Big Nose Kate's on the west side of the street and was introduced to a tall, dusty fellow in the front corner named Billy.

Lean and strong, with a full reddish-brown mustache crudely hiding his mouth, Billy said he had been a real Cowboy most of his life. He told bold stories of rounding up the wild cattle that roamed the deserted area between Bisbee and Albuquerque. I did not know there were wild cattle out there but he claimed it was true and at one time there had been quite a large herd running free, damn near begging to be gathered up and sold by smart men like him.

“Oh, man,” he exclaimed while reminiscing, “on those long drives we'd have three boys, each towing as many as ten horses a piece 'cuz we'd ride 'em all so hard.”

Billy wore a cowboy hat with what is called an Arizona Rancher's crunch recessed in the front. If you recall what Gus wore in Lonesome Dove, then you know what I mean.

At some point along the trail, Billy said the wild cattle herds started drying up. “Goddamn fences on the free range,” he moaned. “Might as well be a penitentiary out there today!” He spat out the word “penitentiary” several times that evening, as though it might be the only honest word which expressed his full contempt for fences of any kind.

I had driven over to Tombstone from Sierra Vista that afternoon with friends, Chicago Slim and Texas Tom. The sun was setting quickly outside and about this time a karaoke man arrived and started his show at Big Nose Kate's. After a short consideration, I chose the song that I thought Slim should sing, “Wanted: Dead or Alive” by Bon Jovi. I'd heard Slim sing this song before in some bars further east and I knew he could handle it. It was the perfect song for Tombstone, I figured. But Slim was pouting since he was our designated driver so he refused to sing for us right away while he pondered the predictable, annoying loneliness of a sober evening in a wild west karaoke bar.

Tom, who wore his own cowboy hat that night, was enthralled with Billy's stories of true western adventure. Tom lives on a small spread north of San Angelo, up near Grape Creek, and enjoys wandering around his property shooting snakes, raccoons and other little critters with his handgun. Had he not settled down and married a stern Korean woman years ago, Tom would have probably ended up a roustabout just like Billy. And he knew that deep inside, I suppose.

As the night and the cowboy stories wore on, Tom tapped me on the shoulder and stated quietly that he believed Billy may represent the last real cowboy in the west.

I disagreed and firmly replied that modern long-haul truck drivers still had my vote.

Somebody at the bar then jokingly suggested Tom's hat looked like he might be from Little Rock, Arkansas. A proud Texan, that perception made Tom shiver a bit and internally question his own appearance. Billy leaned closer to us and confided that the drunken gentleman who raised that silly point was a dumbass who had never been north of Louisiana so how the hell would he know. That made Tom feel a little better but, still, he Googled his hat the next day and was relieved to learn that his style was correctly known as “The Amarillo” instead.

Besides the existence of wild cattle wandering freely between Arizona and New Mexico, I had no idea that every cowboy hat told a story by itself or enjoyed such geographic distinction. But it makes sense to me now.

The bartender was a young dandily dressed fellow named Bret who wore a more sporty cowboy hat and carried two toy pistols in his belt. He came over to our end of the large bar and began to show off, laughing and spinning his pistols as best he could.

“That ain't no way to do it,” Billy yelled. He reached over the bar with his long arms, grabbed one of the pistols in mid-spin and began to instruct young Bret on the fine art of twirling a gun. After the eastern Arizona-western New Mexico wild cattle industry had soured, Billy had taken up a gunfighting act for tourists near the OK Corral in order to pay his few bills. Once domesticated to some degree by a less rugged form of capitalism, he had quickly learned the best way to turn a handgun around his thick fingers even though he'd never had the need to do so out on the free range. And he was quite proud of his newfound professional skill.

While spinning the gun vertically with great speed, he showed how he taught himself to push his arm forward to cause a momentary horizontal spin where the pistol seemed to hover precariously before he deftly brought his hand back in for the terminal slam into his imaginary holster.

“Whoa!” he bellowed with glee. “That there's how ya do it!”

Dandy Brett, unimpressed, twisted a half smile on his face and sulked back to bartending.

“Dumbass pansy,” Billy said, not so much under his breath, before taking a deep swallow from his long-neck bottle of original Coors beer.

Feeling a bit flushed by that display, perhaps, the drinkers at that corner of the bar silently followed Billy's lead and took a healthy sip, too.

In no time at all, Slim had recovered his confidence and agreed to sing the song. His name was finally called and as he walked to the stage a short man in a black suit, sporting a lengthy western tie and flat black hat, strolled into Big Nose Kate's through the open door behind us. The man's thin mustache was as black as his long rider's coat and it was waxed to a stiff point on each end.

He was the town's Doc Holiday reenactor who wandered around all day graciously taking pictures with the unending throng of shorts-and-sandals tourists. Doc, entirely true to his character that night, was obviously bobbing with the sluggish gate of an inebriated Faro player and carried a certain foul odor of mixed sweat and alcohol with him that confronted us all at the same time when he saddled up at the bar next to Billy.

“Hey, Don,” Billy drawled cautiously, lifting up his reddened stubby nose at the unwelcome stench.

Don/Doc Holiday, lurched a bit as if he hadn't noticed the towering, tanned cowpoke standing next to him.

“Well, well, how was your day, William?” Doc gurgled profusely with a grand wave of his hand.

“Cut the shit, Don,” snapped Billy.

Bret the dandy bartender must have sensed an urgent need as he quickly produced another Coors for Billy and a Miller Lite for Doc. “From the ladies at the table,” he lied.

Doc turned and bowed dramatically to no one person in particular.

Billy tugged the last drop of beer out of his old bottle and, in a single motion, without the slightest look in the proper direction, sent the empty one sliding off the bar top towards a hidden trash can he thought to exist in the corner. The rest of us at the bar watched as the speeding bottle passed us by, missed its target and splashed down hard on the floor.

Overcoming the din of a crashing bottle, Slim was on stage and growling the crucial verse.

“I'm a cowboy ... on a STEEL horse I ride! I'm wanted ... WANTED ... dead or alive!”

Oblivious to his sliding-empty-bottle misfire, Billy turned towards the stage and nodded his approval.

Doc slurred, “Now, William, you know you'll be talking differently to me one day soon.”

Billy straightened up from his bent lean on the bar and talked down to the small man, “I told you not to role play with me. You stay in character with me while I'm drinkin' at this bar and I'll kick your motherfuckin' ass.”

Apparently unconcerned, Doc smiled without a sound.

“You know I will,” Billy added needlessly.

Tom nudged me and quietly advised that Doc Holiday had previously voiced plans to become the new, real mayor of Tombstone. Now, that got my attention and I suddenly felt emboldened to beckon Mr. Holiday from my corner post.

“So, what's this about you running for mayor?”

Doc cemented his polished grin, turned his head to see if anyone else at the bar was listening, and confidently announced, “I am not running for mayor at this moment. But I will if need be. The current mayor is verifiable prick. He's corrupt and everyone here agrees. He even had the gall to have me arrested in the middle of the street for no good reason the other day.”

Doc finished his summary with an audible burp.

Tom poked me again and whispered, “Doc's been in contact with the Stephen Colbert show.”

“So, you're getting some national attention over this,” I offered loudly as if jolted from a sound sleep.

In a very self-assured way, Doc maintained his tight smile.

“If it brings good advertisement to this fine town, then I am very happy to support that.”

“Christ,” Billy muttered as he sucked some more Coors from his bottle.

Ignoring Billy for a moment, I drew closer to someone who seemed more familiar to me than I had first believed.

“Say, where are you from originally?”

“Kansas, sir,” came Doc's answer, his words dripping with haughty eloquence.

“Really?” I said knowingly. “I come from the Missouri side.”

“Perhaps you've attended the Renaissance Fair in Kansas?” asked Doc, suddenly transforming himself into some sort of court jester, waving his arms wide and speaking in a fake British accent. “I was the emcee there for several years. My wife is from the same area,” he added turning around again with a confused look towards the uninterested customers in the room. “She was just here, I thought. Where on earth did she go?”

“Honestly, I didn't spend much time at that place,” I answered dryly. “How did you end up here?”

Doc stiffened, “Well, I bought the theater here in town a few years ago. It was in terrible shape. I've turned it around completely now. It is doing quite well thanks to my efforts.”

Tom whispered again, “He's supposedly trying to start a recall of the current mayor.”

So much new information, and all on the record, of course. I couldn't have been more thrilled to finally be getting somewhere on a quiet night in Tombstone. I searched my mind for some balance to the scene but I couldn't control myself while the beer and the noisy karaoke must have started to drown my typically good senses. I knew I had to get to the bottom line quickly. But, in retrospect, the next question was not well thought out, aimed like one of Billy's empty bottles, more of a blurted shot somewhere over the bow, another untrained volley fading fast into life's container for missed intention and lost opportunity.

Still, taking Billy's cue, I steadied myself and fired anyway, “So, do you think you can do it?”

Twisting like a snake, Doc smiled even wider and delivered his lines slowly, at last not so much for anyone else to hear but in a way to make sure that he said exactly what he wanted the answer to be.

“I have not been asked to be mayor. But if asked to serve, I will gladly do so.”

Billy sniffed at his nearly empty bottle, kept his eyes on the stage where Slim was driving Bon Jovi home, and mumbled to himself, “... fuck me.”

As if he needed to quickly smother Billy's rude rebuke, Doc visibly lowered his chin and raised a steady forefinger before repeating himself with a slightly more serious tone.

“If asked to serve, I will gladly do so.”

With that pronouncement complete, Slim slowed the tempo up on the stage and rode the last verse like a champion.

“...Wanted! ... Dead-or-alive! Dead or Ali-i-ive! Dead or Alive ....”

“WHOA!” Billy hollered and pounded his flat hand on the bar at the last note. “Now, that was a good job!”

Without warning, the next empty Coors bottle went sliding past me in blur but again missed its target with a crash.

“Shit!” Billy realized. “I need a smoke.”

Tom and I followed Billy outside like two motherless calves and leaned up against the wooden hitching posts to light up under a cloudless night sky. I offered my Zippo to Billy but he couldn't get his lit.

It was a very cool evening in Tombstone. In fact, the whole time I was there the weather and the scenery did not exactly jive with the commonly accepted caricature of a one-horse town in the sweltering Arizona desert. I had to remind myself that the picture and the theme had been so carefully rigged to satisfy the tourist trade. Even the main street, I was told, is not what it seemed, covered as it was with Hollywood-fake dirt, some sort of chemical dry sludge that won't dust up in the ever present wind. Dressed up and remodeled to remove any historically accurate layers of grime, everything appeared very tidy for what one would call an otherwise perfectly restored wild west town. Until you kicked it around a little and saw it for what it really was, of course.

Frustrated with his cigarette, Billy pulled off the filter and tossed it to the ground. Judging by how well the local Chamber of Commerce maintained Allen Street, I imagined that was the only grounded cigarette butt for miles around and it wouldn't be long before a feverish night crew came storming in to sweep it up and carry it away from view.

Finally getting a good, straight pull from his skillfully shortened smoke, remarking that he really didn't need the filter anyway, Billy was happy. But from inside Big Nose Kate's, we could hear Doc Holiday entertaining the small crowd with his forged frontier version of “She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain” and Billy's mood turned sour again.

“You know,” I began, stirring the pot in my own way, “where I grew up, people from Doc's neck of the woods are all known to be dicks. In fact, when he said where he was from, I immediately thought, here's just another Kansas asshole.”

“Clearly,” added Tom.

“Well, you Arkansas boys got that right,” said Billy.

“Uhh, Texas ... we're from Texas,” Tom corrected.

“Yeah, well,” Billy said without pausing to reflect on Tom's sensitivity, “either way, I oughta beat the shit out of him right now.”

Tom looked soberly at me and I looked back at him. We both took deep breaths, pondering how quickly Billy's bluster could turn skinny little Doc into a small pile of bloody pulp. Together, we'd been around some and might have witnessed something like that a time or two before.

“He's not what he seems!” Billy blurted. “He's not Doc Holiday and I can't stand it when he stays in character around me. I know what he really is. I saw him slap his wife once ... I should have whipped him right then and there.”

Hearing that, I coolly agreed, saying, “Things are rarely what they seem but I didn't notice anything like that. Still ... probably nobody would blame you on that account if you did.”

Tom's eyes caught mine again, growing wide with a “what the hell are you doing?” stare.

“Well, maybe I oughta just kill him and get it over with. I could kill him,” Billy nodded and looked at us straight with eyes as blank as the dark Arizona night. He stubbed his short cigarette out with the toe of his boot, suggesting this plan to us as he might offer to watch our houses or lend us his car, while numbly repeating, “maybe I oughta just kill him.”

“Hey, uh,” Tom started with a cheery smile, “I don't know about that. If you did, you'd never get to go back out there like you want and round up the rest of those wild cattle. Right?”

“Aw, hell!” Billy hooted, his small teeth barely visible under his drooping mustache. “ Cowboying is done; them cattle's all been took up. Besides, you can't go for a hund'erd miles on the range in any direction without running into a damn fence.” Returning to previous form, he coughed and stammered, “It's like a goddamn peni-ten-tiary out there!”

I took a long drag on my cigarette, trying to think of a way out for Billy while Doc, from inside the bar, was still loudly warning us that she'd be coming around the mountain sooner or later.

“Maybe,” I said, “maybe you could go up to Montana. I bet they still have wild cattle running free up there somewhere.”

“No, no! You're right they do have wild cattle up there but, man, you don't understand at all,” Billy pleaded

“I couldn't show my face up in Montana,” he continued. “There's a Cowboy .... uh, um, ... there's a Cowboy Code, don't ya know? That's their territory and I would not be welcome at all. They'd as soon kill me as look at me.”

He stood for a moment, then rested his butt back on the hitching post in front of the bar. I could sense his rapid agitation at the casual idea of trespassing in Montana was now resolving its way all down his spine, leaving him fatigued like a spent prize fighter. I quietly marveled at the thought that murdering Doc was an option here but a Montana trip was not in the cards.

“Them boys up there'd kill me,” Billy's explained with tired eyes, “flat-out kill me.”

Still desperately trying to change the subject, Tom pointed to a couple young trees on the other side of the street. “Do you think those were here back in the old days?” he asked.

“Naw,” Billy answered softly. “Town Council had 'em planted a few months ago. Don't know why, never no trees on Allen Street before. But I guess they look OK.”

I sighed and realized we had no good way out of this mess. Billy was stuck in an unreal world that he hated, working beside charlatans and hucksters that he despised. But he had bought into the charade, owed his existence to it now, and whether his dreams were fabricated or once a true reflection of his actual experience didn't matter. Chances are, either way, in spite of its glorified motto as a town too tough to die, he knew the Tombstone that he remembered had in fact perished a long time ago and the modern barriers of expedience and comfort would not allow the dirty truth to come to life ever again.

I dropped my cigarette into a large planter on the boardwalk and smiled at Billy.

“You know, Billy, I'm starting to feel like you now,” I said. “Everywhere we go, seems like the fences are all getting nearer, closing in on us or something. Not too sure who I'm sorrier for, the wild cattle or us. But, to be honest, all this talk about killin' and cowpokin' is startin' to make me feel sorta tuckered out.”

Billy folded his arms and passed a toothy grin at Tom. Tom looked at me. Then we all started laughing. Drunken, big belly laughs of relief that probably hadn't echoed authentically down Allen Street in a hundred years.

Since whoever she was had probably long since come around the mountain, Chicago Slim walked out of the bar and shook his head in disgust at three happy drunks whooping it up on the boardwalk in Tombstone, Arizona.

Intuitively knowing it was time, he put both hands on his hips and barked his orders.

“We're done! Let's go home!”

Without complaint, we shook hands with Billy and made our goodbyes.

Walking north out of town, not really trying to keep up with Slim who raced ahead to the rental car, Tom and I moseyed along about as slow as we could go, like we didn't really want to leave. I lit a pre-ride cigarette to get me home and, as we passed the fourth bar again, Tom read the name on the sign out loud but I still can't remember what he said. He mentioned that it looked clean and inviting, though. Maybe we'd have to stop in there next time, he advised.

Tom then nudged me with his elbow like he always does and asked, “So, what'd ya think? Wasn't that fun? I love this place! Probably a good thing my wife won't let me live here, I guess. I'd be in those bars all the time! Did ya think Billy was for real or what? Wasn't he the last of the real cowboys?”

“Hmm ... maybe,” I said, answering everything with one honest word as I tossed my still burning cigarette down into the virgin, fake dirt of Allen Street.

“Then again, maybe not.”

Cheers,
Mb