Story Time: The Passenger (from the San Angelo Sheets)

Leander caught a ride with me one time going from Laramie to Wolf Point.   Going from a night to a 10 AM slack we had to hurry.

Brookman had the rodeo and he was the kinda guy who wanted to give everyone a good chance so his best ones would be out in the slack too.    Leander had the best one; he’d been two for two on him when Beutler Brothers had owned him.  All he had to do was get there.  I had a Big E—I was stupid.   Drove right past the Cowboy Bar on our way out of town.  Boy was I stupid. Be a sex object or drive 500 miles to get on a Big E…. hmmmm.   Boy was I stupid.

Usually, I was kinda a Lone Ranger—drove my own car most places, traveled alone a lot.   Had a big four door Ford luxury liner... 460 engine, CB radio, 19 speakers for my 8 Track—none of that country music crap either.   My car... my rules. DO NOT TOUCH the radio.   

When  I’d say I was leavin, I was leavin’. Forget rounding up drunks, or pulling guys off buckle bunnies so the little scout troop could get to the next rodeo.  Yep, I was the Lone Ranger only I had no TONTO to worry about.   Hi Ho Silver (that’s what I called the Ford even though it was white).

To tell the truth—me being the Brad Pitt of that free love era—the Ford was usually filled with Playmates and other women of great beauty and abilities. You didn’t need to buy a Playboy’s calender—just open the back door of the LOVE MACHINE and watch the months tumble out.  My car… my rules… my story.

So anyway MR. NEVER DRIVE needed a ride and I couldn’t say no. Heck I’d lived at his house for weeks at a time during the winter rodeos. After a couple of fun filled days with his two kids, I started mixing Nytol in their pancake syrup….  and their Ice Cream Syrup… and their tooth paste…. and their pop.   They made the kids on Malcomb in the Middle seem Amish.  His daughter was taking Karate classes so a person would be stumbling along through the dark trying to find the bathroom and YA HA she’d jump out of nowhere and go to slashin' and kickin’. The next morning it looked like a fire hose had gone off in the hall. A little air freshener wouldn’t have hurt either.   

Leander’s wife was nice, smart, great cook, and even spoke English.   No one else in the family even came close. Louisiana Coon Asses.   All I could do was nod a lot.   What for you say DAT.   Huh?

So anyway… I’m driving and Frey has set up camp in the back seat.  Budweiser breath and his greasy head on my goose down pillow.  Covered up with Grandma’s hand made comforter with the hand stitched bulls on it.   Boots off…. if those were socks they were black socks… nope they were his FEETS.   Snoring.  

It’s a dark night.   It’s sleeting, roads slick—the mule deer in that part of the world were apparently Muslim—martyring themselves. Lots of mule deer in Heaven. I know... I sent half of 'em myself. Venison on the menu.  Venison and San Angelo committee men—if God accepted the confession.  If not he’s in that OTHER place with a ferris wheel up his butt.

About 3 AM and running on the left side of E, I find the world’s dirtiest truck stop.  The café door had been nailed shut by the Wyoming health department.  You could still see dead people in the booths.   After all—we WERE in Wyoming. I’d imagine some time after that they mounted their heads and hung them. Some huge dude with tattoos and a double barrel was manning the gas station cash register.  I figured he was a biker chieftain who had been on his way to the rally in Sturgis and killed the real guy.   Looked like a Hell’s Angel minus the wings.

It’s supposed to be Leander’s tank of gas but as I pull up to the pump his snoring gets louder.  An old Bo Ashorn trick. Back then I was into macho rodeo cussin’ lingo so I let SCOOBIE have all my best.  No response.  It’s raining as hard as it can rain without requiring ARK construction and there is no roof over the pumps so I grab Leander’s Silver Belly.   Nearly everyone else was wearin’ straws but Jim Shoulders had given one of his $500 hats to Scoob.   It still had that special tri-angle crease that Jim and half the mall western stores in America put in 'em.   I swear it made Leander look like that Captain guy on the Captain Crunch cereal box.   Actually, he looked like a coonass Pirate.  Jean Paul Le Deadbeat.  

So I slide his billfold out of his boot.  Gas up.  Go into pay.   No credit cards in Leander’s wallet… but he has a twenty... oops—HAD a twenty. The gas was 15 dollars and the biker dude kept the change.   Said something about doing sexually perverse things to next cowboy he saw.   I really didn’t hear him that well because I had a barrel stuck in my ear.  He snatched the Silver Belly too.   Cut the top right out of the crown with a bowie knife.   Sharp knife.   Don’t tell Jim, but it actually looked better.

I was going to kick his big, fat, smelly, biker butt but like I said, we were late.  

I never knew whether he took a shot at me or not.   It was snowing and the wind blowing 80 MPH when I made my escape.   Frickin' blizzard in July.    The wind kinda caught Leander’s wallet when I did my Chuck Norris evasive somersault through the plate glass, but I managed to save the leather part of it.  Everything else went SOUTH at 80 MPH.

Ho Ho Silver and away we went.

The sad end of a friendship…..

I never stayed at Leander’s after that night.  He was always one to hold a grudge.  Anger problem.  Yep, losin’ Jim Shoulder’s hat upset him.  Oh yeah…. there was one other little thing he had the red ass about.  

When we rolled into Wolf Point the bulls were already loaded.  “WE” in this case being ME, the remnants of Leander’s bill fold (on the dash), Leander’s boots (on the floor board in back), Leander’s jacket (crumpled up on the backseat to be used as a toe warmer), Leander’s shirt (in the back window), Leander’s belt and buckle (stuffed up under the front seat), Leander’s riggin bag and clothes bag (in the trunk), and the change out of his pockets (had fallen out).  

All of US made it to Wolf Point. Unfortunately, we lost Leander somewhere along the way. How was I to know that he’d crawled out at the truck stop to take a leak? The bathroom door had been locked.   Being a coonass he’d gone around behind the building. Oooops.   Tonto?   The Lone Ranger dun lost Tonto.

Someone told me they saw Leander at Salinas.  Riding on a HOG (Harley Davidson) with a gang of bikers.   Actually they said he was a passenger riding behind a big Hell’s Angel who was wearin’ an open aired silver belly.   Said they looked prison intimate, too.

If you run into Scoobie him tell him he still owes me $2.32 on the gas …. plus interest.  Ah heck, tell him he can forget the interest.  My bull was crippled and I ended up with his turned out bull.  Only won third.  Back then if you spurred rank bulls with both feet the judges thought they were easy to ride.  My car… my rules… my story.

Oh oh…. I just remembered…..  tell him to forget the $2.32 too. I forgot to pay his entry fees.

Bryan McDonald
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