BIG SOUTHERN CHAPTER 61

1978

DAVID AND GARY

I'm a good listener, at least for the first six beers. After that I am all noise, converted from introvert to extrovert. I am on number three. Gary and I are the only ones at the bar, save Deon. Though he's normally not a talker he's talking now.

"You think it's hot here, Davy boy, try jungle hot," he says. A whiff of a laugh, as if it came from the bottom of a well, drags behind his words and his attention is presumably in Vietnam.

"Humid?" I prompt.

He laughs a little more wholeheartedly. "You might say that."

The Allman Brothers' 'Jessica' plays from the jukebox, and I already added Commander Cody and a song by the New Riders, so a backdrop of sound makes us less conscious of our conversation. "You were in the Guard?" I ask, knowing he was. Along with two or three dozen other local boys wrongly thinking they would avoid the war by joining. Guard units weren't normally sent, but Nixon had a grudge against Idaho's anti-war senator, sent Gary and his cohorts to Vietnam as payback.

He nods, starts naming off fellow Guard members. "The proud, the few, but not the Marines. Dell. Danny. Ed. Frank. Johnny." He counts, comes up short. "There were more. Lots more. I must be drunk...Stoned...Both."

I venture into taboo ground. "My sister's boyfriend. Sheldon. A wrestler. Jumped on a grenade to save his buddies."

"Hoskins," Gary says. "He was a Marine, they had it worse than us. Not many came back." He sips, in a way that blends him into the bottle, a practiced sort of activity. It reminds me of the way Willie McCovey or Hank Aaron play baseball on TV. Smooth and effortless. "I joined up a couple years later." He laughs again, that expulsion lined with a kind of bitterness or self-reproach. "Right after I left my mission."

I feign surprise, though I know of his LDS mission. People talk, I listen. "You went on a mission?"

He lifts his bottle as if showing it off. "It didn't take, did it."

I lift mine and clink it against his. "I missed that boat myself."

"I don't know which was worse, the mission to Argentina or the mission to 'Nam," he offers. He pretends to mull the thought over. "Weather in Argentina is better but door-to-door righteousness I didn't get used to." He drinks. "Course, we were proselytizing in 'Nam, too. Guns instead of the Book of Mormon. More convincing."

I match his pace. When Deon finishes arranging the draft glasses—she's up on her knees on the back counter by the cash register, too short to reach the shelves when standing on the floor—I signal to get us a round. "Never thought of it like that."

I have a lot of questions about Vietnam—I avoided the war, being one year too young for the draft when the lottery ended—but I've been around those who returned so know not to pry. "What was Argentina like?" I ask as an alternative.

"I learned Spanish, there's that," he says, pondering. "Tell you the truth, I have to really try to remember anything about it. My mind was elsewhere." He drinks, I can almost see a sequence of events unfolding in his head. "Religion and women. All I thought about was God and Rowena. Paid no attention to where I was." He shakes his head. "Sad story. Probably real nice country. Maybe I should go back. See if my companion's converts took. They might all be Catholic again." He looks me in the eye. "Water seeks its own level, doesn't it?"

He winced when he said her name. Though we've drank together plenty, he's never actually said it. I know the story—daughter of a prominent farmer, her family the LDS equivalent of Mayflower pilgrims, the self-described royalty who came here first in handcarts across the prairie. The chosen of the Chosen. Gary and Rowena grew up together and in high school she decided he needed the gospel, his family being Gentiles. Wanting her, hormones being what they are, when she intertwined the possibility of sex and religion he converted. She promised herself to him and asked him to go on a mission to prove his commitment, which he did. About a year into his stint she sent him notice: she'd found her true love and was getting married, she knew he'd understand.

"You speak Spanish?" I ask, taking him into less treacherous territory.

"I learned a little from the Peruvian sheepherders growing up. So I guess the authorities decided a Spanish-speaking country was where I should go." He laughs hollowly. "They were right about me needing a head start in language school, I was never great shakes as a student, that's for sure. I can speak to the Mexicans now, though, I came out with something."

The Lost Planet Airmen's 'Hot Rod Lincoln' kicks in on the sound system. Only about twenty songs of the two hundred on the jukebox get played, most of them remnants of the early sixties and late fifties—Gus's, the first incarnation of Pingree's bar, on the old highway, left its clientele's choices; the second incarnation, Joe Rossi's on the new highway first and then in this abandoned depot, adding its; Joe's son, taking over after Joe died, selecting the songs we play now. Deon hasn't gotten around to putting in new songs, working the bar on a shoestring as she is, but promises to put in a stereo system with all the songs we want to hear. For free.

"I was not a success," he admits. "Not a single convert. My companion was a better salesman. But he had a year's head start, that must count for something." He swirls the last of his beer as Deon brings him another. "I was pretty overbearing, so I recall. I'm sorry for that." He lifts his fresh Olympia, its sides still slick with ice. "Typical convert. 110%-er."

"My sister's that way," I say, concurring. "We call her the black sheep of the family."

"What converted her?"

"Boyfriend," I say.

"Ah," he answers. "Should have known." He turns to me, lifts his hair back from his forehead. "My scalp still there?" he asks. I stay silent, perplexed. "Counting coup," he explains. "Converting a Gentile is the LDS equivalent to the Indians counting coup. Rowena got my scalp. Almost as much prestige as having a dozen kids. Points collected toward your heavenly reward." He pauses, I nod in understanding. "And to inspire someone to a mission?" He whistles. "Instant Celestial Kingdom."

We simultaneously turn, hearing the door open, its' stuck creakiness loud enough to override the last of the New Riders singing 'Fifteen Days Under the Hood'. It's Juan. It must be four-thirty, his shift in town ending at four. He gets a sincere greeting from Gary who gets one back from Juan—they have history. They exchange hippie handshakes and Juan pats me on the shoulder and nods, then sits astride a stool on Gary's other side. Deon already reaches for a Coors, knowing his desire. Gary looks with mock distaste at the bottle, the Coors-Olympia battle an ongoing argument.

While they catch up, I sympathize internally with Gary—its a pretty small pool of partners here without Mormon girls, so dating frequently crosses the religion barrier. After three or four dates the topic comes up about conversion. Sometimes it's expressed passively: "My husband will have to be LDS." Sometimes it's posed as a question: "Don't you believe?" Occasionally the method mimics that of the comic book drug pusher portrayed to grade schoolers: "Come here, kid, just try it. What harm could it do." I never took the bait, interpreting religion as a whirlpool that would suck my soul away. Consequently, I never got a steady girlfriend. Well, for that reason and ineptitude.

Juan's father worked for Gary's for a couple years as a farm hand and helped lamb the sheep. Before that, Juan lived out at the Taber boxcars and then those at Rising River. Rumor is Juan runs four working girls to the Hispanic labor force, one of the girls called "Tiny" despite her six foot tall, two hundred pound stature. His pickup, facing the window now, sports a large camper that would make the business possible. It reminds me of Warren Hill's Mobile Butchering, a truck he took to slaughter animals on site, but I refrain from commenting on the likeness.

The two compare notes, having a lot to catch up on. I only know Juan from here—Gary, too—but the threads of their lives open up in my imagination. Tired of my own life I can drop into theirs—with the aid of alcohol. There is so much consciousness abounding, and I feel like the center of it here, moreso as the beers collect. That trend will continue into the next few hours. The compressed space inside the depot, the focussed social life separate from a greater community, allows me to abandon my own life, which will seem paltry once I sober up. It seems just fine right now. Life is beautiful.

I drink number four, which puts me past the point of return. There's a place where stopping is still possible, but I am beyond it. I'll be here until closing time. Possibly beyond.

© 2025 Ralph Thurston