Until you forgives it, I reckons.
The Coincidence Coordinators will rub our noses in the alternatives just for the hell of doing it.
I’d stopped into the Office Max store in Kerrville to pick up a cheap flash drive when I saw the little bastard. He and what I figured must be a lady employ of his [now] were looking over the copying machines, taking notes, asking a clerk questions, frowning and muttering to one another.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, changed positions pretending to look at other merchandise on other counters to get a better view of him. Shaking my head in disbelief. He’d put on a bit of weight, hair’d gone gray, but it was Tony. The very man I used to swear to myself if I ever caught him out somewhere I’d whip his ass until it thundered.
And here he was in Kerrville, Texas.
Shortly after I came into Grants, New Mexico, after I gave myself a Y2K, discovered I couldn’t find a job paying higher than minimum wage, I went to work for Tony. He was managing the Rodeway Inn, needed a graveyard shift clerk. I hired on.
During the interview he drifted to personal conversation. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Old stuff, mostly. Rock and Roll, pre-1980s CW. Bluegrass. Opera, classical. I’ve got promiscuous tastes in music.”
“Any kind of music you especially don’t like?”
“Yeah. I never cared for disco, and what passes for country music now drives me nuts.”
I had no idea.
After I’d trained for a week with one of the day shift clerks the place was all mine from 11:00 pm until 7:00 am. The radio/stereo was locked in the office behind me, but I didn’t have access to it. Tony’s apartment was back there, too, but the speakers to the radio were in the lobby.
11:00 pm every night I’d report to work, 11:10 pm every night, just so’s I’d know it was deliberate, the volume would go up almost so’s I couldn’t hear anything else allowing me to check in customers. Modern all night country music station out of Albuquerque.
When they came down to check out early or to grab some breakfast the customers would often get nasty about it, ask me to turn down the racket. All I could do was shrug.
I got this far writing the draft before I thought of the ‘Bypass Surgery’ post and song. Thought it might tell some other tales about working in that motel, and about Tony. But it turns out it might as well be this post played 78 rpm.
Spark and Tinder for the Next Country Music Wave
I suppose I ought to begin all over and tell you some other tales about old Tony, maybe sometime I will. Because there are a lot of them, and many were codified in letters I wrote to Jeanne while I was working those long nights. She’s pestered me plenty of times to post some of them here, though some weren’t about Tony.
Good stories, though. The night clerk at the other motel Tony managed across the street giving $25 bjs to the customers and Tony’s reaction when it got back to him. How he got to banging the woman-prisoners from the State Women Prison who worked daytimes cleaning up, and how pissed he was when he discovered they were also screwing the customers.
How he’d rent the ‘suite’ room out a week at a time to the local crystal meth dealer, then spend his time up there rolling #100 bills, the motel register showing the room as vacant and closed for repairs.
But I ain’t going to waste my time telling you all that. I’m just going to forgive old Tony for being among the lowest scum tyrants I’ve ever met this lifetime, then do my best to forget that entire episode of my life.
Actually, now I think about it, there are a couple that don’t involve Tony I might get around to telling.
Old Jules
So Far From Heaven 