Stand up, lay down, screw. I know.” He didn’t elaborate on how he knew.
“Who do you like better, Unitas or Starr?” People always asked me to compare players. I didn’t know how they compared. To me it was a stupid question.
“I dunno, they’re both pretty good.”
“I think Unitas is better,” Louis Lafler concluded. He told me once he loved Unitas because he wore high-top shoes. Louis had worn high tops when he played in high school. The shoes were the only thing he remembered about the game. They were the only things about the game to which he could relate.
“Yessir, he is a good, steady quarterback. He’ll get those key third downs,” Louis continued confidently. “He wears those high tops and he means business.” The inference was obvious all those guys in low cuts didn’t mean business.
“That’s the trouble with America today.” Louis’s voice softened and his eyes became distant.
“High-top shoes?” I asked.
“No. Not enough people mean business.”
I noticed my glass was empty again. I was drinking fast, a sign of heavy tension. I signaled the bartender and asked the four if they needed a refill. They were all fine, so I just ordered a beer.
“Coors?” It was a new bartender.
“No.” I started to order a Budweiser, then changed my mind. “Bring me a Pearl.” I nodded and smiled, pleased with my order.
“We ain’t got it,” the bartender replied unsmiling. “How ‘bout a Coors?”
“No. Bring me a Budweiser.” I felt a twinge of nostalgic remorse over the passing of the West and the end of Texas beer sovereignty. It was a rotten shame.
“Do you like these slacks?” Louis said suddenly and stepped into the middle of our circle to do a half-turn. They were madras slacks, the kind that were popular in East Lansing in the late fifties. “They cost forty-five dollars a pair here at Jack’s,” he continued. “But I get ’em for fifteen dollars a pair when I’m in Hong Kong. The guy’s got my measurements and everything.”
“Next time you’re over there, get me two pair.” Mutton-chops seemed interested.
“Two pair?”
“Yeah.” Muttonchops smiled. “One pair to shit on and the other to cover it up with.”
They all laughed again.
“I saw Conrad at Windwood Hills, Saturday,” said Muttonchops, changing the subject.
Windwood Hills was the newest, richest Dallas country club. Conrad R. Hunter was the member , as he was in all Dallas business and social circles of any consequence.
“He was hitting a few shots, waiting for the rest of his foursome.”
“Yeah, we were in the same foursome last weekend,” Louis interrupted. “Charlie Stafford was along. He goosed ol’ Con on the fifth tee and made him hit one in the water.”
They all laughed again.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I stood in front of a black urinal with gold fixtures, feeling guilty about the intense pleasure I felt. My eyes wandered around the room. It was a palatial toilet with gold-plated fixtures, hand-carved floor-to-ceiling doors, and walnut paneling.
A tiny black man crept up behind me and began brushing my back rapidly with a whisk broom. I ignored him and continued to survey the walls. A small mark on the paneling, just above the urinal, caught my eye. Leaning closer, I could make out four words etched deeply into the walnut:
CONRAD HUNTER SUCKS COCKS
It was 7:15 P.M. as I drove back north on the expressway, heading for Joanne’s high-rise apartment. I had just turned off the radio after the seven o’clock report of death and violence in the Southwest: A Dallas property owner had been acquitted of the murder of a sixteen-year-old boy who was stealing tools from his garage. He had shot the boy twice in the back and left him to bleed to death in the alley. The police chief came on the radio to warn the citizenry that shotgun-wielding officers would be lying in ambush in high-crime areas. He was reminding the public to avoid suspicious behavior that might
“Who do you like better, Unitas or Starr?” People always asked me to compare players. I didn’t know how they compared. To me it was a stupid question.
“I dunno, they’re both pretty good.”
“I think Unitas is better,” Louis Lafler concluded. He told me once he loved Unitas because he wore high-top shoes. Louis had worn high tops when he played in high school. The shoes were the only thing he remembered about the game. They were the only things about the game to which he could relate.
“Yessir, he is a good, steady quarterback. He’ll get those key third downs,” Louis continued confidently. “He wears those high tops and he means business.” The inference was obvious all those guys in low cuts didn’t mean business.
“That’s the trouble with America today.” Louis’s voice softened and his eyes became distant.
“High-top shoes?” I asked.
“No. Not enough people mean business.”
I noticed my glass was empty again. I was drinking fast, a sign of heavy tension. I signaled the bartender and asked the four if they needed a refill. They were all fine, so I just ordered a beer.
“Coors?” It was a new bartender.
“No.” I started to order a Budweiser, then changed my mind. “Bring me a Pearl.” I nodded and smiled, pleased with my order.
“We ain’t got it,” the bartender replied unsmiling. “How ‘bout a Coors?”
“No. Bring me a Budweiser.” I felt a twinge of nostalgic remorse over the passing of the West and the end of Texas beer sovereignty. It was a rotten shame.
“Do you like these slacks?” Louis said suddenly and stepped into the middle of our circle to do a half-turn. They were madras slacks, the kind that were popular in East Lansing in the late fifties. “They cost forty-five dollars a pair here at Jack’s,” he continued. “But I get ’em for fifteen dollars a pair when I’m in Hong Kong. The guy’s got my measurements and everything.”
“Next time you’re over there, get me two pair.” Mutton-chops seemed interested.
“Two pair?”
“Yeah.” Muttonchops smiled. “One pair to shit on and the other to cover it up with.”
They all laughed again.
“I saw Conrad at Windwood Hills, Saturday,” said Muttonchops, changing the subject.
Windwood Hills was the newest, richest Dallas country club. Conrad R. Hunter was the member , as he was in all Dallas business and social circles of any consequence.
“He was hitting a few shots, waiting for the rest of his foursome.”
“Yeah, we were in the same foursome last weekend,” Louis interrupted. “Charlie Stafford was along. He goosed ol’ Con on the fifth tee and made him hit one in the water.”
They all laughed again.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I stood in front of a black urinal with gold fixtures, feeling guilty about the intense pleasure I felt. My eyes wandered around the room. It was a palatial toilet with gold-plated fixtures, hand-carved floor-to-ceiling doors, and walnut paneling.
A tiny black man crept up behind me and began brushing my back rapidly with a whisk broom. I ignored him and continued to survey the walls. A small mark on the paneling, just above the urinal, caught my eye. Leaning closer, I could make out four words etched deeply into the walnut:
CONRAD HUNTER SUCKS COCKS
It was 7:15 P.M. as I drove back north on the expressway, heading for Joanne’s high-rise apartment. I had just turned off the radio after the seven o’clock report of death and violence in the Southwest: A Dallas property owner had been acquitted of the murder of a sixteen-year-old boy who was stealing tools from his garage. He had shot the boy twice in the back and left him to bleed to death in the alley. The police chief came on the radio to warn the citizenry that shotgun-wielding officers would be lying in ambush in high-crime areas. He was reminding the public to avoid suspicious behavior that might
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