RUB-AH DUB-DUB
y friend Sam went down to Dallas to visit his daughter and son-in-law. They are "oilies",
and he, like most cowmen, isn't fond of the oil business or those who engage in it. He
only went to keep peace in the family. Both his daughters think he is too old to be living
alone. He doesn't pay them any mind. He has a housekeeper, and I do all the driving when
he goes on trips buying cows. He's slacked off some since he turned seventy. He only
winters over about 1,500 head on wheat pasture these days. That's down from 2,500 to
3,000. I help him doctor and such when he needs a hand. For the most part he doesn't
need it. He knows about ten times more about cattle than anyone I know. He can take a
look over a hurd and tell you exactly where the problems are, and I would swear he can
tell a cow is sick about a week before the cow knows it.
He was gone to Dallas for exactly a week. It would have been less if he'd thought he could get away with it. His truck was in the drive of his little house in Bushland when I stopped in to check on him. I would have thought he was still gone since he hadn't stopped in at the store to see me. But Mrs. Johnson, his neighbor from across the street, had come by at lunch and told me she saw him come home. "I believe he's hurt hisself," she told me. "He had to use crutches to get in the house."
I went in the back door, neither door of Sam's house is ever locked. "Hello the house," I yelled out when I opened the door.
"I'm in here," Sam called from the living room. I walked through the kitchen and into the living room. Sam was sitting in his favorite chair with his right leg up on a footstool, a set of crutches parked by his chair.
"What the hell have you done now, broke your damn leg?" I asked. You don't ask one of those old boys a question about their health or welfare except in a rough way. If you come on to them like a preacher, all full up with brotherly love and touching concern, you'll be shown the door.
"Ain't broke, just sprained an' hurt my knee," Sam declared pulling at the leg of his jeans. "Look here they cut my damn jeans to get 'em on over the wrappin' they put on."
"Well, what the hell did you want 'em to do? Let you run around bare ass naked?" I asked.
"No, but I ain't got that many pair of good, broke in Jeans. You know them daughters of mine always throw away my old jeans ever time they come up here. They don't think jeans are fittin' for a man of my age an' station. They buy them damn golf pants an' shirts with little gators on 'em. I got a closet full of that shit that I ain't never wore an' I ain't never goin' to wear. I'm just lucky I got two pair of jeans hid out. When you go into town pick me up three pair of new."
"How'd you hurt your leg," I asked.
He scowled at me. "Don't want to talk about it. Go in there to the kitchen an' get the bottle. It's hid up over the sink behind that old pitcher. I need a dram or two. I ain't had a dram since I left home. Them damn daughters of mine won't let me have more than a drop, an' then they put water in 'er an' ice, God Damn ice."
I knew to humor him if I wanted to find out what had happened. I went into the kitchen, got the bottle of Irish, and two double shot glasses. I put the glasses on the end table by his chair, and poured out two generous shots.
"You got a tailor made?" Sam asked.
"Yep," I answered.
"They don't allow no smoking in that house down there. I have three smokes a day an' they swear that's too much. Had to go outside to smoke even that much. I'd swear it wasn't me that raised them girls."
I gave him a cigarette took my glass and sat down in the chair across from his. I figured to wait him out. He is like most of the old boys I've known. He has vices but they're few and indulged with a balance one rarely sees these days. At home I've never seen Sam take more than two drams of straight whiskey. One time in a saloon up in Colorado with two other old cowboys we did get liquered up. The experience had the quality of a ritual. They all drank more than I did, and in my estimation showed much less effect. We sipped on our whiskey and smoked in silence.
After a few minutes he said, "Your goin' to make me tell, ain't you."
"Up to you," I replied. "But if you can't tell your friends you might as well tell me."
He laughed. "It'd be funny if it warn't so damn embarrassin'."
He put out his cigarette had a sip of whiskey and settled back in his chair. "Slim, you swear you'll not tell no one 'bout this?"
I raised up my right hand, "I swear I won't tell 'less I can get a drink out of it, or a meal."
"Slim, your a no good son-of-a-bitch, I can't figure why I like you,"
Sam said. "Cause I don't tell you pretty lies. We got the same bad habits, an' I'm the only one 'round these parts that'll put up with your crap. Now quit your stallin' an' tell the tale."
Sam rubbed a weathered hand across his face as if he was checkin' to see if needed a shave. He does that when he is thinkin'.
"They 'bout drove me crazy drivin' down to Dallas. I swear they got more empty headed notions. If it's empty headed my daughter has bought a piece of it. You know what she tole me? She goes to some lady that is a dead Italian saint. I mean this dead saint supposed to speak through this woman, an' my daughter pays good money to listen. Hell, I wouldn't pay money to hear a dead saint even if I knew it were a dead saint talkin'. They got big ole fancy house in Dallas. You could put five of this house inside it, got more bathrooms than you can shake as stick at, but most of 'em just got a john an' a sink in 'em. You can get lost goin' from the kitchen to the bedroom. Got all this damn furniture that is pure-d torture to sit on, hard as a rock, or you sink so far down in it you'd swear it was quicksand. Damn house ain't fittin' to live in. Ain't got a housekeeper, got a little Chinese feller, 'cept he ain't Chinese he a Krorean, somethin' like that. Name of Wan; calls hisself a houseboy. They got a cook from down there in Dallas. She supposed to be a Texan an' don't know how to cook a thing but goddamn vegetable stews an' such, call it a "ratthoey". A damn rat wouldn't eat such shit. Red meat ain't healthy! Hell, what do they reckon they were raised on, an' kept me alive for so damn long. They got a Mexican feller that comes over 'bout ever' day to cut the grass an give the bushes a haircut. Ain't a single natural thing 'bout that whole place."
Sam paused for a second to catch his breath. "I'm gettin' to my leg, just got some other things to say. I'd been there 'bout four days. I don't know why they wanted me down there. My daughter was gone to this or that ever' day. Don't blame her I'd got out of that house myself iffin I could have. At night they were always goin' out somewhere, left me to eat the damn shit that woman cooked. After four days I figured I needed a bath. It was my downfall. Thar ain't a natural bathtub in that whole house. You know I hate a shower, feel like I been caught in the rain. They got this bathtub sunk down in the floor 'bout the size of a stock tank. It's got a set of steps down into it. I filled 'er half way with hot water an' slid down in there. It warn't too bad; it had these little bubbles that shot on your backside. Thar was plenty of room to stretch out an' the water was good an hot. I had a good time 'till I went to get out. You know how my back won't bend a bit."
Sam like most old cowboys has a bad back. Years on horses have fused all the vertebrae together. He can only turn his head from side to side about two inches. It troubles him some, but it don't stop him.
"I tried to come up them little steps dug into the side of the tub holdin' onto these little handles up on the top. But I'd get a few step up an' couldn't hold onto the handles 'cause I couldn't bend none. I kept on tryin' an' got up pretty high one time 'fore I fell back. That time I twisted my knee an' knew it warn't no show. I was trapped like a cow in a mud hole. I give up on gettin' out by myself. My daughter was gone out to some Junior League thing, an' I knew I didn't want her commin' home an' findin' me in thar. I started in to yellin' for that houseboy feller, Wan. He come in an' it took some doin' to make him understand I couldn't get out on my own. Well, that little feller don't weight but 'bout ninety five pounds soakin' wet, an' he sure did get soakin' wet. He just warn't strong enough to pull me out, an' I couldn't help much with my leg hurt. He went off an' come back with the Mexican gardener, who of course don't speak much English either. The Mexican, name of Carlos, ain't very big either. It was hell for breakfast I'll tell you. They both tried pullin' on my arms yellin' a one another. Wan in Krorean, Carlos in Spanish, an' me a cussin' pretty hard too. They couldn't make no progress. The floor was all slick with water. They'd pull me out a ways, slip, an' I'd go back in again. My knee was hurtin' like hell by that time. Finally Wan got down in the tub with me an pushed while Carlos pulled, an' I come up on dry ground. I got a robe on an' they helped me back to my room. I sat an waited 'till my daughter come home, an' had her take me to the hospital. I told her I slipped in the bathroom an' hurt my knee. She had a damn hissy fit anyways. I had to yell at her to keep her from callin' a damn ambulance. Wan an' Carlos helped me out to the car. They done me a kindness not tellin' her what really happened."
I had been way past chucklin' for some time.
"Well, go on an' laugh at a poor ole man," Sam said.
"Your laughin' too," I came back at him.
"Make yourself useful an' fill up this damn glass," He said stretchin'' his glass forward.
I filled both glasses and raised mine high. "Rub- ah dub- dub," I said grinnin'.
