George's Place

 George’s Place

“Well, the wind blew, the shit flew, and in walked Cowboy Bob.”

Big John let out a small belch and turned back to the bar, looking down at his beer, which has sat untouched for the past fifteen minutes.

“Hell’s bells, John. Good to see you, too.” Bob pulled up a barstool, shiny silvery metal with a plastic seat. It scraped with a loud metallic squeal across the concrete floor. The stool creaked under Bob’s considerable weight as he sat down. He hooked the heels of his Tony Lama boots, lizard, gray and badly scuffed, over the lower rail of the stool.

People called him Cowboy Bob because of the wide Resistol cowboy hats he wore, cattleman style, felt in winter and bronc style, straw in summer. Truth was, he worked offshore on an oil rig when he could, and didn’t know one end of a cow from the other. “All hat and no cattle” was how it was said in Texas. Still, he’d been born and raised in Conroe, Texas and often came down to Houston to stay with an aunt who lived near George’s Place. He was an irregular regular.

“Buy me a Lone Star and mebbe I’ll talk at ya,” John said. In a suit and tie, Big John could have passed for a banker or Texaco executive, that is, until he opened his mouth to smile and revealed six missing front teeth. But he rarely smiled, cantankerous man that he was. John stood six feet four and weighed about 190, was ruggedly handsome, lean and trim from a lifetime of hard work and his coal black hair, graying at the temple, was cut military short. He was raised near Nacogdoches, had secured a proper, sixth grade education there, before his daddy started hiring him out to local farms for day labor. His dog, “Rat,” lay at his feet, motionless, stretched out on his side. He was so still you couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not.

“Still got that sorry ass dog, I see,” said Cowboy Bob. “Ain’t gonna win no kennel club award for his looks. That’s for sure.”

At the mention of his name, Rat opened one eye, but continued to lay still, and closed it again. He was some kind of terrier mongrel mix with stiff, bristly fur, which was bare in spots and scabbed over. His lower canine teeth protruded in front of the uppers giving him a pathetic looking under-bite. A musty smell emanated from his coat and a quiet snort escaped from his mouth. Perhaps, he dreamed of competition at Westminster or more likely, a thick, juicy steak. Neither prospect seemed likely.

“He’s a workin’ dog is all,” replied John evenly. “Picked him up at a junk yard where I was sellin’ some old, scrap, angle iron. He’s smart too. Got him trained.”

“Yeah, what’s he do? Yodel in Mexican?”

John leaned over to peer down at Rat. “Rat,” he commanded “play dead.” They all looked at Rat who remained motionless on the cool, cement floor.

“It’s his best trick,” John said. “But he can eat and fart as well, when he has a mind to. Ain’t that right, Rat?” John snapped his fingers and Rat opened one eye for a moment, then closed it again.

“What you drinkin’ tonight, Bob?” Bonnie asked.

“I’ll have a Lone Star, Bonnie, and give Rat’s better half a cold one as well, if you would.”

“You bet.”

Bonnie spoke in a slow monotone drawl, which never varied in pitch or volume. In that way it reflected the ambience of George’s Place, which also never varied. On the northwest end of Houston, George’s Place was a simple ice house, which sold beer and set-ups, soft drink mixers for patrons who brought in their own hard liquor. Outside, it was a simple wood framed building covered by white corrugated metal sheeting, sitting on a cement slab. The front door was covered in a faded blue paint. Christmas lights wound around a rusting sagging gutter, where, on a painted metal pole swung an old sign which creaked in the wind.”

This Friday night, it was populated by regulars. Herbert, the owner of George’s Place, who hailed from southern Louisiana near Lake Charles, was perched on a bar stool at one end of the bar reading a Houston Chronicle, while his wife, Bonnie, stood at the other end, leafing through an old Cosmopolitan magazine. A headline screamed “Twelve Ways to Tame your Man in Bed.” Bonnie’s raven black hair, dyed from a home care kit, was shellacked with hair spray into a tight beehive hairdo. Every move she made was done with the utmost economy.     

“Hey-bear.” Fat Alice called out from the domino game. “You got any barbecue potato chips tonight?” Though his Acadian ancestry lay deep in his past, several of the regulars called Herbert “Hey-bear” to honor his Cajun roots.

“Just for you, Alice. I bought da whole case, me. Bonnie, make a bag da chips come here.”

“Sure thing, Herbert.” She reached under the bar and pulled a bag of chips from the box and carried them over to Alice. The four players were concentrating on the game of dominoes. They were playing Moon and getting ready for the annual tournament in a couple weeks. Winning earned one a photograph displayed prominently on the wall between the two bathrooms, where fading pictures of past winners were tacked to the smoke-stained walls. There they hung in glory, mixed alongside fading 1940’s and 1950’s photos of Herbert and Bonnie in younger days. Herbert posed in his Army uniform, Bonnie in a light summer dress. Random photos of bar patrons were taped to the wall as well, Sonny and Cowboy Bob holding up gar they’d caught, Duke in front of his Trinity River cabin, Big John and Alice posing beside a small Christmas tree.

Tonight, playing dominoes with Fat Alice, was Herbert’s cousin Eric, a small elderly man in a neatly starched, plaid, short sleeved shirt and overalls. Eric wore an enormous hearing aid over his left ear (his good ear, he called it.) Ben, a recent widower with a shock of white hair that stood nearly straight up, was playing with his partner, Duke, a local 50-something year old, rail-thin, with a pleasant manner, who hailed from downstate Illinois originally, but had moved to Houston to set up a local delivery service.

“Moon!” announced Duke. “That’s four games to one.”

“Damn, Eric, why didn’t you see that coming? I hate playing Moon with four people,” Alice grumbled moodily. “Hell, let’s go another one.” 

“What’s that, Alice?” Eric responded, looking up.

“I said your leg’s on crooked.” Alice smirked. “This your first time playing dominoes?”

“No thanks, I don’t like barbecue, gives me heartburn.”

“Save your breath, Alice.” Duke muttered. “He ain’t heard a sound since the sixties.”

The door rattled loudly as Sonny walked in. He wore a white western shirt and jeans. A leather belt with his name stenciled on the back was decorated with a bright silver belt buckle in the shape of Texas. If the buckle was turned upside-down, the point at Corpus Christi, would’ve popped his large beer belly like a balloon. He shook the rain off his hat.

“Damn, Hey-bear, why don’t you get that door fixed. The frame’s all bent to shit and I think I might’ve just made it worse,” Sonny complained, as he stomped his boots on the front rug. “Liked to drown just gettin’ in here. Damned Houston rain.”

“Didn’t git that job at Welcome Wagon, I see,” Big John bellowed. “Always good to see a optimist.”

“An optimist,” Lenny corrected. The youngest of the regulars, Lenny was poring over a textbook at the end of the bar and nursing a Shiner Bock.

“Sorry, college boy.” John replied. “Sorry to you too, Sonny. An optimist and a gapin’ asshole.”

“You’re in a fine mood, Big John. I’m damned near soaked to the bone. My friggin’ hat is near ruint.” Sonny pulled up a stool next to John and tipped his hat to Lenny. “How’s school goin,’ son?”

“Pretty good. Pre-med is tough, no doubt. But it’s all good.” Lenny replied. He took off his glasses, exhaled on the lens and polished them with a bar napkin. “Hope Rice is worth all the money I borrowed.” The regulars wouldn’t admit it out loud but they took pride in the fact that one of their own was progressing past high school.

“How’s it goin’ for you, John? Still ain’t ate that dog, I see.” Sonny gently nudged Rat with the toe of his boot. Rat opened his eye for a moment, then closed it again. “He is alive, ain’t he? Hell, is it even a he?”

“Give his tallywacker a tug,” John said. “If he smiles, it’s a he.”   

“When’d it start raining, Sonny?” Alice asked. “My tires ain’t worth shit on wet roads.”

Bonnie handed Sonny a Shiner and took the wet singles he tugged out of the pocket of his Levi’s.

“Thanks, Bonnie.” He took a swig from the can and set it down on a Lone Star coaster. “About 10 minutes, I guess, Alice. How you been?”

“Can’t complain. Can’t seem to win a game of Dominoes with my tin-eared partner, here, though.”

“My turn? Already?” asked Eric. “No it ain’t. It’s Duke’s.”

“See what I mean.” Alice remarked, shaking her head. She sipped on her beer and lit a Marlboro, exhaling the smoke toward Eric who waved at the air absentmindedly.

“Moon!” Duke declared triumphantly.

“Damn your eyes, Duke!” Alice exclaimed. She reached out and started flipping over the dominoes for another game.

“I’m serious about that door, Hey-bear,” Sonny called out. “It’s been sticking, but it looks like a piece of metal’s getting caught in it. Good thing you got a back door or we might all be stuck in here forever.”

“Back door’s padlocked, Sonny.” Duke offered. “Some Mexican kids broke in last week and took out six cases of beer.”

“Seven cases and a case of Cokes, besides.” Herbert corrected. “I got a guy comin’ in Tuesday to look at dat door. I ain’t made a money, not like Cowboy Bob, here.”

“Bonnie, I’ll have a Coke, if you don’t mind,” Lenny asked.

“Sure thing, son.” She set the Cosmopolitan down on the bar and pulled a Coke from the refrigerator.

“You might want to think seriously about that door issue, Herbert,” Lenny suggested. “With all these boxes of newspapers and magazines laying around, this place is a bit of a fire hazard.”

Herbert shrugged. “Dey for da paper drive, Lenny. S’posed to pick ‘em up next week sometime.”

Cowboy Bob got up to play some songs on the jukebox. “Smoke Gets in your Eyes” played quietly as the coins rattled into the old machine. Big John bummed a Chesterfield King off Sonny and the regular crowd fell into a comfortable silence as the jukebox filled the smoky air with familiar strains of The Platters.

Suddenly a squeal of brakes sounded outside the bar and a loud crash shook the room.

“Christ, what the hell was that?” shouted Big John and the bar patrons quickly emptied out into the parking lot, where they found a young motorcyclist lying on the side of the road. A motor bike lay a few yards away, wedged against a telephone pole, its front tire spinning wildly, spraying waves of rain into the evening air.

He lay face down against the curb with his helmet slightly askew. Lenny bent over him as Cowboy Bob gently turned him over. The young man was unconscious but breathing raggedly. Lenny undid the chin strap, which eased his breathing somewhat, but a large gash appeared at his throat, blood mixed with the rain running down his neck onto the wet street.

“We shouldn’t move him too much,” Lenny said. “Let’s get him up off the curb. Careful of his neck. I can’t tell if it might be broken, but I definitely have to stem the blood coming from that neck wound. Bonnie let me have that bar towel.”

Bonnie handed Larry the bar towel from her belt as the regulars formed a circle around the young man, shielding him somewhat from the falling rain. Larry gently lifted the rider’s head and firmly pressed the towel into the wound staunching the flow of blood. 

“Damn. Look at his leg,” murmured Sonny. It was bent unnaturally at an angle from his body. “Leg’s broke for sure.”

“Should we take him inside?” Herbert asked.

“No, shouldn’t move him. Not sure about that neck. It’s warm enough, even with the rain. Best to leave him here and call an ambulance,” Lenny answered. The group nodded in agreement and one by one returned inside, as Lenny applied even pressure to the man’s neck.

“I’ll call the fire department,” Cowboy Bob said and hastened back into the bar.

In a few moments, the sound of sirens filled the air as firemen and an emergency crew arrived. They quickly bundled the man into an ambulance and headed for Houston Methodist hospital. Police marked the scene with emergency tape and started to make measurements for the accident report. The rain stopped as the crews busied themselves about the task of cleanup and investigation.

Three days later, Marvin Hawthorne awoke groggily from unconsciousness. Beeping machines and blinking lights revealed his status. His left leg was suspended in a cast from an overhead trapeze bar and his head and neck were swathed in bandages. An IV dripped medication into his arm. Asleep in a chair at the side of his bed, was his wife, Amanda. On a tray table next to the bed was a small vase of flowers which had begun to wilt. He couldn’t swallow easily and a dull pain wracked his entire body. He groaned.

A nurse came into the room as Marvin blinked and croaked, “Where am I?”

The police report indicated that Marvin had been traveling at too high a rate of speed for conditions. A divot in the dirt alongside the exit pavement had caught his front tire and flipped the bike over, sending Marvin over the handlebars, twisting his body in flight and cracking his head into the curb. If he hadn’t been wearing a helmet he would most certainly have been killed. The neck wound was bad but no damage had been done to his spinal column and the nick in his jugular, while serious, had been expertly stemmed from the bar towel. Otherwise, he would have bled to death in the rain.

A week later, Marvin was discharged from the hospital with pain medication, his leg in a cast and bandages about his head and neck. While swollen and still badly discolored from the bruising, the doctor said there would be no permanent injury.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Hawthorne,” the doctor declared. That bar towel saved your life. Whoever applied pressure to your neck wound and head provided you with a new lease on life. Should have saved that towel as a souvenir.”

Driving home, Marvin asked his wife to drive him to the scene of the accident. He only remembered his bike tire hitting the pavement, then waking up in the hospital. They pulled off of I-610 and saw the deep groove in the dirt alongside the exit ramp pavement of the frontage road.

“That’s what my tire slid into,” Marvin pointed out to his wife. “The bike must have flipped forward from here, across the street into that telephone pole.”

 They pulled off the frontage road exit into the dirt driveway of an abandoned old building. Its windows were gone, replaced with weathered plywood. Above it, an old, rusted sign creaked in the breeze, hanging from one corner. Nothing else but the telephone pole and the ruin of an old building marked the spot. On either side of the dilapidated metal structure, for a mile or more, lay nothing but weeds and wildflowers.

As they examined the spot, Amanda carefully watched her husband, as he moved gingerly about the site on his crutches. He saw pieces of his bike strewn about and saw the gash in the telephone pole where his bike had struck. Coming down the road was an old black man pushing a grocery cart. In it was a blanket, sleeping bag, and several garbage bags full of belongings.

“He’p you, suh?” the man asked. He wore an old Army fatigue jacket, gray pants and worn leather work boots which looked a size or two too large for his feet.

Marvin replied. “My bike went out of control here in the rain last week and sent me flying with it. I’m lucky to be alive. A passerby stopped and administered first aid while I was lying here. Stopped up some bad bleeding with a bar towel.”

“You’se a lucky man, then, that’s fo’ sho.’ Never thought a towel could save a man’s life,” the old man said, scratching his head.

“Got that right,” Marvin replied. “Funny thing, though. I don’t see a bar anywhere close by.”

“No suh, only bar around here was George’s Place. That’s what’s left of it there. Burned down back in the ‘80s, with eight or nine people in it. Turrible thing. Paper said the door was stuck in the front somehow and the people couldn’t get out. Back door was locked tight. Turrible thing. Ever’body died.”

“Man, that is a bad thing,” Marvin replied. “Wonder who stopped to help me, then?”

The three people looked at the ruins of the old bar, its white metal siding bent, rusted and

scorched black in places. The old sign, its lettering faded and illegible, swung gently in the wind.