Barbershop
news not always on the square
A Big Chief Tablet Tale
From the back files of
The Son of Obituary
From the back files of
The Son of Obituary
Hillsboro
– Dog days during a red hot Sheriff's race are the stuff of Texas
legend.
If
it ain't down and dirty, it ain't no Texas Sheriff's race, what I
mean. No fireworks? No recriminations? No rumors, both outlandish and credible? You're looking at a reshuffling, an appointment, a change of command ceremony.
That's
why The Metropolitan Barbershop was a favorite spot for anything in
britches when the heat hovered at well above 100 during those final
days leading into cotton season, the days of brown lawns and
shimmering heat waves rising across the broad expanses of pavement on
the square.
To
start the description, let us first consider that the place still had
spitoons; its huge beveled mirrors mounted on opposing walls were
angled just so that a man reclining in the chair for a quick shave
could still make eye contact with another in a similar position at
the other end of the tonsorial operating theater.
A
massive carved mahogany shine stand complete with fancy cast brass
stirrups for the boots of any bowlegged philosopher wanting a nickel
rub-off dominated the area by the front window where the attendant
would announce the pending arrival of visitors, saying, “Here come
Mist' G_____,” or, “There go Mist' H______,” if the customers
passed on by.
Benches
amply supplied with current copies of crime news magazines, pulp rags
with lurid covers and headlines such as “The bold Yank who
single-handedly captured a Nazi brothel,” sports tabloids, The
Dallas News, and “The Drover's Journal” for those feeding cattle
or herding mama cows, lined one wall. Next door, there was a peculiar
and innovative form of adult day care, a social program a century ahead
of its time, called “Bond's Alley.”
There,
the spit and whittle club congregated each day, sitting on wooden
benches in deep counsel to solve the problems of the world. They
changed to the opposite side of the alley, sitting on the benches on
the west when the sun made its post meridian passage to cast its
scorching rays on the baking surfaces of the brick walls of the “Old
Rock Saloon,” which once housed one of the town's shot houses, and
the T.B. Bond Pharmacy on the other side of the alley.
Here, there was much swapping of pocket knives - for luck. They recited The Work, one to another, in low tones, often offering corrections prefaced with such remarks as "Boy, you better think about taking 'The Pledge.' You done slipped back a couple of notches. I have it..."
Here, there was much swapping of pocket knives - for luck. They recited The Work, one to another, in low tones, often offering corrections prefaced with such remarks as "Boy, you better think about taking 'The Pledge.' You done slipped back a couple of notches. I have it..."
It
was during one of these unfortunate periods that Dr. Morgan Buie, a
co-founder with Dr. Silas Grant of the Grant-Buie Hospital, revealed
the fine art of disinformation – or, in the extreme, misinformation
– to a budding but as yet decidedly un-legendary newsman for that
mighty organ of public opinion, “The Hillsboro Daily Mirror.”
Dr.
Buie was a ball of medical fire who started his career as a general
practitioner, then switched to a surgical specialty by taking a
residency in middle age to expand his practice.
He
affected the iron gray brush cut of the general surgeon who scrubs in
every morning before daylight, leaving a closely-clipped military
moustache on his closely shaved face.
It
was during the sweltering afternoon of a hot mid-August day that Buie
took his place in the rear-most barber chair and announced in a loud
voice that “They're about to run Frank and that bunch over at the
office half crazy, a'callin' in to see if they can buy options on
both sides of the split...”
No
one spoke for an moment or two, then a real estate sales agent with a
brokerage rival that of “Frank and that bunch” cleared his throat
and asked, “Options on what, Dr. Buie?”
“Aw,
options to buy, man. Disneyland is coming through the country,
looking to locate somewhere in between Itasca and Milford, all that
area in there between Interstate 35 East and Interstate 35 West.”
The
news hit like a thunderclap. The rattle and snap of newspapers,
throat clearing, and “Look'a here, Morgan...” was a sudden
seismic shift from a low murmur concerning the various acts of
meanness of a deputy who was front-running in a late season runoff
for Sheriff, a man who had numerous times shot the dogs as he stepped
from his patrol car - before he ever got to the porch to serve his
papers.
It
was true that he had also shot a number of men under mysterious
circumstances, but Grand Juries had always no-billed him and it
smoothed out ruffled feathers on both sides of the disputes. Shooting
dogs was a reflex action for this fellow, who eventually retired
after a couple of terms as Sheriff.
All
that was forgotten as the crowd peppered the doctor with questions,
to all of which he merely threw up his blunt-fingered surgeon's hands
and peered through his bottle glass bifocals, saying, “Now, that's
all I know, y'all. That's what it's all about, man. That's all I
know.”
How
come no one had heard anything? “They don't exactly advertise it,
don't you see? Don't send any telegrams...” His tone trailed off in
a tentative expression of exasperation.
The
place cleared out quickly, guys finding reasons to be elsewhere.
Not
being one to let the facts get in the way of a good story, I tried to
confirm the rumor, but when I couldn't, I printed it, as such, as old
but enticing news. Two days later, the evening network feed announced
that DisneyWorld would be located near Orlando – in a swamp - at a
place called Kissimme; the item made national headlines.
Decades
later, when Buie was still practicing from a makeshift office at a
rest home on the edge of town and I had an oil burner case of
pee-noo-moan-yah, I asked him - “Why in the hay-all did yew doo
thay-at, Doctor Buie?”
“Way-all,
I just can't stand it when they get all morose and carry on like they
were – talking about ol' Ray and his trigger finger. Just wanted to
see what would happen.”
He
peered over the top of his glasses, looking up from where he was
scribbling in my chart, and said, “Sure enough, the news beat me
back out to the hospital. It was the first thing someone said when I
walked in the back door. Had I heard about Disneyland. Grant and I
had our little wager, you see, and...”
What
about the other rumor, the one that had it carved in stone that the
Disney organization was hot for Hill County real estate until the old
skin flints on the Economic Development Council had defiantly opposed
the California outfit on the grounds that locating a Disney theme
park there would raise the payroll threshold to a level unbearable to
other employers and manufacturers?
“Get
the hell outta' here, and get well quick, hoss. You're coming along
fine,” Dr. Buie said, slapping me on the back.
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