West Texas Crude: A Novel

By Rick Marcum

In West Texas Crude, a young Cochiti Pueblo student and quantum physics genius, Edwin Teba, has been attacked and left for dead. Edwins college professor, Alex Lohr, soon realizes that he has a surprising personal connection to Edwins familysomeone he hasnt seen in over forty years. As a result, the college president asks Alex to help protect and defend Edwins family. In the process, Alex learns that Edwin is involved in the creation of a revolutionary artificial intelligence with astounding potential. This special action means Alex must now put on hold his quest for inner peace and happiness. He has had a lifetime of struggling with his fears. So in his mind, the only way to totally eradicate his fear is to not just find the culprits but to kill them.
As Alex considers all the potential attackers, we learn of his many financial successes and the transgressions he committed to enable them. Alexs life is also sprinkled with tremendous consequences. He has paid dearly for his many sins and only recently has he learned that everything that looks good aint always good for you. Throughout his life, Alex has been exposed to evil in many forms, some more deceiving than others. And in West Texas Crude, we join him on his journey as he considers all the potential suspects. In the process, we learn the complexities of northern New Mexico, the pueblo people, and the Hispanic culture. But we also learn what Alex must do to find true happiness. He must confront the rage that lies deep in the heart of the man in the mirror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514429037

Rick Marcum

Rick’s prior business experience includes financial advisor, real estate consultant, and government liaison in Florida, New Mexico, and Texas. Rick’s experience with government included downsizing initiatives at both the U.S. Department of Defense and the U.S. Department of Energy. During his capacity as executive director in Santa Fe, he became immersed in the multicultural aspects, history, and politics of northern New Mexico. His organization’s mission was to manage a U.S. Department of Energy grant to promote economic diversification. During a visit to the Los Alamos Lab, he met an individual who made some dramatic claims regarding artificial intelligence. That meeting was the genesis of West Texas Crude. Rick holds a bachelor’s degree in banking and finance from Texas Tech University. Rick and his wife, Johnene, reside in Panama City, Florida, and travel extensively throughout the world, especially in South America. Rick’s first novel, Message of the Locust, was published in 1988 and is available online at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Rick Marcum.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015919580

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5144-2905-1

                Softcover        978-1-5144-2904-4

                eBook             978-1-5144-2903-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/09/2016

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

CHAPTER ONE

2008 Santa Fe, New Mexico

Two days ago, the headline of the Santa Fe New Mexican read Cochiti Youth Found Beaten and Unconscious. The story read, At approximately 5:30 a.m. Sunday morning, the Santa Fe County Sheriff's Department reported that Edwin Teba, a sixteen-year-old Cochiti Pueblo Indian and student at St. John's College, was found lying on the crushed rocks of Cochiti Damn. Santa Fe Sheriff Department officials stated that the perpetrator and cause of attack remain unknown at this time. When asked whether drugs were involved, sheriff's officials stated that it was too early to tell, but that scenario is not being ruled out nor is robbery. Officials at St. Vincent's Hospital list the youth's condition as critical.

What the New Mexican didn't say was that the boy was a trouble-free kid, a good swimmer, and cross-country runner. More significantly, they didn't mention that Edwin was well-known in the community to be a genius. I know this, as he is a student of mine. I teach English at St. John's College in Santa Fe. It is what I do in my new life. This new life of mine is only a couple of years old, but after the first fifty-seven years, I am beginning to sleep much better. Having Edwin as a student is a big part of what makes my new life good. Considering my first fifty-seven years, even amnesia would be a blessing. Sadly, my memory is still intact, but I remain hopeful that the old adage a leopard can't change his spots proves to be wrong. I've tasted the counterfeit sweetness of wealth and have the scars to prove it. The truth is I finally had to face the man in the mirror. Honestly, I really want to do more than change my spots. I want to kill the leopard within me.

CHAPTER TWO

Starting life over came via sessions with a family therapist and eventual good friend David Gustafson. It was only through David's efforts that I got this job at St. John's. He was an alumnus of St. John's and under consideration to be formally named the newest member to the school's board of regents. He told me that I needed a change of course. He said that I should find a career more worthy than what I had done before and that the school had an opening for new English literature professor. I couldn't believe that they would hire me.

Although my degree in English literature from New Mexico State met the minimum qualifications, I had never taught school before at any level. Being well aware that I had millions parked in offshore banks, he still felt obligated to remind me that the pay was not good. He told me that if I wanted the job, he felt sure that he could make it happen. So what the hell, I went for it. He did some maneuvering and got me the interview. However, once I got really excited about the job, he told me that I could easily clinch the deal, especially if he became the newest board member, which would be assured if he could bring a large donation to the school. He knew that I could use some of my old dirty money for good social benefit and simultaneously get my life back together. I was all in.

Not being totally stupid, I told David, It is a big yes from me, but my Mexican donor would insist that, first, you do become the newest board member, and I do get hired. And of course, my Mexican donor wishes to remain anonymous.

My Mexican donor, Jaime Orvanjanos, happens to be my quasi investment banker but more often my partner. When the offer was formalized, I called Jaime to move the money. By the end of the week, I was headed for Santa Fe.

David has always been somewhat of an oddity to me. After graduating with a liberal arts degree from St. John's, he enrolled in Tennessee State. And then he became a physicist at the Oakridge National Laboratory. But after a frustrating five years, he gave it all up to become a preacher. I thought his career transition to be a bit odd. But hell, look at me. I'm an English professor all of a sudden.

David and I first met in Dallas. I accommodated my then-wife, Meredith, and her father by going to marriage counseling. David was the newly designated family counselor for a large Baptist church in Dallas. He had just recently been brought on as one of the associate ministers but was soon reassigned, or maybe demoted is more accurate. It seems a family member of David's caused some disruption at the church's deacon's meeting. As a result, David had caught holy hell. Luckily, my ex-father-in-law was a big founding member of the church and thought the world of David. David was saved, and in order to expedite my divorce, I agreed to the counseling.

I think David realized very early in the process that I was already mentally divorced. In my opinion, all he and I ever really did was debate the existence of God. And in spite of our disagreement on that subject, we became reasonably good friends. Even after my divorce, David continued to help me sort out my life, especially after my son's death in Afghanistan. He helped me find a pathway to my new life. For that, I will be forever grateful.

So my love of reading combined with a bachelor's degree in English literature acquired some thirty-eight years ago qualified me as a teacher at St. John's College.

*     *     *

Annapolis, Maryland, is the home of the United States Naval Academy, founded in 1845. There, discipline and chain of command is core. However, sixty-one years prior to the founding of the Naval Academy, Annapolis was already the home to the first college established by the State of Maryland, St. John's College. Ironically, St. John's is and has always been a contemporary model for teaching free thought. Only in America, right?

In another oddity, that very same St. John's College in Maryland is the main campus of St. John's College here in Santa Fe, New Mexico. And I am a tutor at St. John's Santa Fe. St. John's does not call its teaching staff teachers or professors or doctors or deans. They are called tutors. This school's mantra is to create a community of learning. And that means everyone, including its tutors. My special tutoring subject is English literature, but occasionally, I am required to attend and participate in classes in math, science, and ancient Greek.

Now with the attack on Edwin, this community of learning has just received a tremendous blow. Some person, or persons, viciously attacked and beat to near death one of our most gifted students, Edwin Teba. St. John's is part of my recovery. But it is important to know that Edwin brings another major need for my anti-leopard formula. And right now I feel my instinctive leopard juices stirring. I want to hunt down Edwin's attackers and kill them.

Edwin is special. And if there is a God, he damn sure doesn't make too many gems like Edwin. St. John's College had approached Edwin early in high school, offering him a total scholarship at the college, including room, board, and a stipend. Considering the school's normal fees for such exceeds $43,000 per year, you know they wanted him bad. He was extremely intelligent, but knowing how the school strives for a diversified campus, I thought the scholarship still fell into a racial quota category. I am also sure that the school wanted to take some covetous ownership of his genius, with hopes that it would enhance its reputation, and it didn't hurt in marketing the school either. At St. John's, all students have different schedules but an identical curriculum. Thus, Edwin would be in contact with a large number of the other students at some point during each day of classes.

Much to the college's surprise and mine as well, Edwin specifically requested to be in my class. He told me that some of the other students had said that I was way out there. President Monahan told me the kids call me weird or funky. I'm too old to know if that was a compliment or not.

Edwin is so far advanced in math and computer science that it is scary. However, he's not what you call debonair, but he is not one to be bothered by whatever debonair might be. It is my guess that he is way too honest for women. But I'm no one to talk; my expertise in relating to women or pretty much anyone falls headfirst into the septic tank of the pathetically inept.

Tutoring English literature for someone like Edwin is a rarity and a reward in itself. As I began my attempt to tutor him, I noticed something unique about Edwin. He didn't want to just read literature; he was especially interested in how non-native Americans think. Or more bluntly, in what motivates white people. He loved truth. For example, he once asked in class, Mr. Lohr, how can people claim to actually own water?

That question is especially significant in New Mexico, as water is a rare and highly valued commodity here. There are lawyers who specialize in the acquisition and sale of water rights. In New Mexico, to own a piece of land does not necessarily mean that water rights come with it.

Edwin paused and then continued with We Cochiti have been living here for thousands of years, and we have never owned water. So when the Europeans came here, who did they buy the water from? Did they buy it from the Great Spirit or something?

I answered, I don't know, Edwin. Man has been horse-trading with God for thousands of years, or maybe better stated, using God. Just visit any church on any Sunday, and you'll see each Church claims God's endorsement. He just smiled. His smiles were sometimes very mysterious and even disturbing to me. You never knew if inside he was smiling with you or at you.

Everything I ever longed for in my own son's stolen life could be found in Edwin. Hell, for that matter, I was really learning from him. I never had much appreciation for things like gentleness, kindness, consideration for others, or any of those traits. Or as my father would say, pussy behavior. Edwin and I did have one thing in common: a voracious pursuit of knowledge and truth. As his tutor, I have tried to learn from him about how to be more caring. In some ways, I am jealous, but mostly I am overwhelmed. His goodness is my shame.

So now I find myself driving to the hospital to see how he is doing. But I have one major fear. There is more to know about me and Edwin. And I mean much more. Edwin being a genius is a minor surprise compared to what I learned from him one day.

One day, I asked him about his family: mother alive, father killed in a car crash. Then he continued his family story by telling me about his mother's younger brother, his uncle Michael. He went on to tell me all about his uncle Mike's troubled life and how it had it turned sour while in a college football game at Texas Tech. After hearing his story, Edwin's words became background noise. I had just learned that my old college roommate, Michael Deerinwater, was Edwin's uncle. At some point, I began to actually hear Edwin's words again and how Mike's life had continued its downward spiral as a result of the Vietnam War. Yes, I knew the horror of his uncle's college days and could personally claim credit for them. What I had no knowledge of was his Vietnam War history. Edwin just kept talking as I tried to digest what I had just learned. Edwin paused momentarily. I think he knew something was wrong with me. I came up with some excuse to leave.

From that time forward, if Edwin spoke of his uncle, I did everything possible to change the subject. When is your next cross-country run? I would interrupt, or I'd bring up his work with the Santa Fe Institute or some other passion of his, hoping to get us off the subject of Mike. He seemed to never notice why I moved conversations away from his uncle Mike. There was one time when he stopped and stared his brown eyes directly into mine. At that moment, he made me aware of my not-so-smooth transitions. And then he just shrugged and resorted to one of his mysterious smiles.

For a sixteen-year-old kid, he sure could really unsettle you with his expressions. He knew something was strange about my behavior whenever he mentioned his uncle Mike. I hoped the truth behind my awkwardness would always remain a secret. If I could change anything in my life, Thanksgiving Day of 1966 would be right up there top of the list. Hell, I would be happy with just forgetting it; but in my soul, I knew that memory could never be erased nor my sin ever forgiven.

CHAPTER THREE

Lubbock, Texas - Thanksgiving Day 1966

I can still close my eyes and smell the fresh-cut grass of Jones Stadium in Lubbock, Texas. Mike Deerinwater and I were roommates and teammates at Texas Tech University.

Truth be known, I hated football and everything about it. What I hated most was growing up in the game. My father was a GI, a product of a World War II who saw action in Poland and Germany, and later a football coach. Combine these two components with his shadowed love of liquor and you come up with a formula for an angry and aggressive man. The eternal conflict between me and my father began at about the time I began to walk. But it really turned to shit when I was old enough to play football.

In his world, football was the symbol of manhood and bravery. However, as mean as he acted, especially around his British war bride and his children, he was afraid of his own shadow. He would never buck the system or think about taking a risk in business. I guess being a poor white farm boy growing up in the dustbowl of west Texas during the depression, he could never escape survival mode. He was not a happy person, and he managed to make those closest to him equally, if not more, unhappy. I soon learned to be quiet and stay out of his way. And if I was ever to escape his Neanderthal plans for my life, I needed a way out. Ironically, football was my only way out. If I was going to college, I would need to pay for it myself or get a football scholarship. And if my desire to get a college degree was not enough, I always had the additional motivation of staying out of the draft and Vietnam.

Neither Mike nor I were starting players. Mike was a second-team linebacker with too little size, while I was backup cornerback with too little speed. But we both had full scholarships, and that is all that counted to me.

Tech came into the Thanksgiving Day game with only a three-win, six-loss record. But miraculously, Tech was knocking off the University of Arkansas, the Southwest Conference champion. Late in the fourth quarter, Tech was ahead 24 to 20. I knew in a game this tight, there would be no way Mike and I were getting into the game, unless someone playing ahead of us fell down dead.

Mike was much more enthralled by the game than I was. I kept looking up into the crowd where some little coed had been giving me a little peek show.

Look at that! She knows what she's doing, I said to Mike as I faced away from the field of play, looking directly into the stands.

Mike, afraid to glance over at me, said, You don't ever care about shit, do you?

I'm tellin' you, ol' buddy, she's got her legs spread like the entrance to Carlsbad Caverns.

Mike walked over close to me without looking into the stands. Alex, have you seen the scoreboard? We're beating Arkansas on Thanksgiving Day and on national TV.

Putting my face next to his ear, I whispered, And may I ask, what does that have to do with you and me, Geronimo?

Mike, still looking away from me, said, We might win, that's what it has to do with us!

"My ol' Cochiti friend, we, you and me that is, have not played one down the entire game, so we haven't done shit."

About that time, the crowd roared as Arkansas wide receiver C. B. Collins caught another twenty-yard pass. Bruce Kennedy, the guy who played in front of me, went down, or at least pretended to go down. Matt Blair, the defensive coordinator, shouted out my name. I snapped my chinstrap on and moved my way through the cluster of my teammates who actually cared about the game to stand next to Blair.

You ready to play, son? Blair asked.

I took a quick glance back at Mike and replied, Yeah, Coach, I'm ready, and then added, but if you send Deerinwater in with me for one play, the two of us can put an end to C. B. Collins's scoring. Promise!

There was a pause in the play on the field so that the trainer and crew could help a grimacing Kennedy limp off the field. The expression Kennedy forced on his face was Academy Award-winning stuff. Blair took advantage of the time out and stared at me intensely. He broke his stare by looking back to the bench and then yelling, Deerinwater! Get up here!

Blair looked back at me. I don't know what you got planned, Lohr, but you better deliver the goods, or I promise you I'll kick your sorry, ugly ass all the way back to Roswell! Do you get me?

The trainer had almost gotten Kennedy to the sidelines. As Mike and I raced on to the field, I turned to Mike and said, Don't pay any attention to anything called in the huddle. We're gonna make history, my Cochiti brother. With Blair's words still pissing in my ear, I decided to move my plan up one hundred degrees on the gauge of malice. Look, I'm gonna hold Collins at the line, I mean, severely and blatantly hold him. I'm gonna keep his cleats stuck down in the grass. When I turn him to the side, you give him the biggest flat tire you can deliver. Kinda like Oñate chopping off Cochiti feet. Know what I mean?

I hoped that would get Mike riled. After four hundred fifty some-odd years, the Pueblo Indians still spit before and after the names of the Spanish conquistadors, like Coronado or De Vargas, but they especially hated Oñate. On one occasion, Oñate had cut the feet off some young Cochiti braves just to get the attention of the whole tribe. I hoped to rile up Mike's special Indian rage.

The huddle broke before we got there. Sonny Williams, our safety, shouted the defensive play to us. We didn't listen. We had our own special play to execute. Mike seemed pumped; he had worked himself up into a mind-set of high octane and pure adrenaline. He looked at Collins before positioning himself closer to me and Collins. I stepped in as close to Collins as I legally could. Collins's eyes were looking inside and downfield. Keeping the ball in the corner of my eye, I watched the center's hand, and at the ball's first fractional movement, I hit C. B. Collins high and face on. I looked right into his eyes. I grabbed him and held him close and tight with my hands clinging to the back of his jersey. I pulled down on his jersey, aiming to keep his cleats firmly planted. I turned him to the side, exposing the leg and knee to Mike. Collins's leg stiffened in an attempt to free it from my hold.

Collins had been looking into my eyes while shouting Holding! Holding! when Mike's helmet hit him.

I still hear the sound in my dreams. The impact knocked Collins and me to the ground. When Collins started screaming, I wanted to cover my ears, but I still held him tight.

I stood, and the crowd roared with rage, including much of the Tech side. But their sound was only a backdrop compared to Collins's gut-wrenching screams. Mike remained on his knees, staring at Collins. Collins's leg lay at almost a ninety degree angle from his body. His lower leg looked like a huge limp sock full of sand. Mike, still on his knees, began to shout and cry out that he was sorry. Mike was like a child who has just broken his mom's best lamp; he almost began trying to put Collins's leg back together when Arkansas players knocked him away followed immediately by many other Arkansas players who wanted to kill us both. With the help of the officials and other Tech players, I pushed them back. Mike just took the blows. He gagged like he needed to throw up but nothing came up, and then he looked up at me.

He screamed at me. Alex, look at his leg! Goddamn!

I looked down and away from him. There were yellow flags all around my feet. I looked over to the sidelines; Blair was having his ass chewed out by Tech head coach J. K. Lane. Blair turned to face me and angrily waved for me and Mike to get off the field. I turned to find Mike, and all I could see was the back of his jersey as he headed directly for the locker room. His helmet was still lying on the field. That was the last time I saw Mike. And it was the very last day C. B. Collins walked without a cane. When I got back to the dorm that evening, Mike and his things were gone.

Starting that very next day, Alex Lohr and Mike Deerinwater were pariahs. And not just at school: our names hit sports pages everywhere. Two days later, the editor of the Dallas Morning News wrote about the incident. It was titled West Texas Crude has a face. And the picture directly below the title was mine. It was now official; my face was the symbol of west Texas crude. There was no picture of Mike. There was only mine.

The editorial went on to describe how obviously the incident appeared to be upsetting for Mike Deerinwater. And went on to say that Mr. Deerinwater was so upset, he left the Tech campus within hours of the event. Numerous failed attempts have been made to contact the other Tech player involved, Alex Lohr. To date, he has made no comment or apology. Alex Lohr appears to be remorseless and unfazed by the entire event.

Those lying cocksuckers never once gave me a call. As expected, early Monday morning following the game, I got a call from an assistant coach, telling me that my scholarship was being revoked at the end of the semester. Also, there would be a new cafeteria meal ticket provided for me. I was not to attempt to eat at the athletic cafeteria again.

So from that article on, no one knew or cared about poor ole' Mike Deerinwater. They didn't need to. They still had me, Alex Lohr, the human face of west Texas crude. Not being totally stupid, I also left Lubbock at that semester's end.

*     *     *

It was one of my conversations with Edwin that I learned that Mike had spent the next five years in the army, which included two and one half tours of duty in Vietnam followed later with time in the either the brig or army mental health facilities. According to Edwin, Mike had been trying to get himself killed.

Having embarrassed my mom---not to mention my father---going to live at home was not an option for me. My dad was wroth, a word I'm sure he didn't know. I thought about my high school days and how before each game my dad would tape foam around my forearms and then cut a metal tape can in half, taping the two metal halves on top of the foam on my arm. Twice this recipe of metal, foam, and tape applied to my elbow had struck its target---the chin of an opposing player. Once a poor kid from Clovis, New Mexico, was KO'ed and another time a kid from El Paso, Texas. They each spent one night in the hospital. I guess those two episodes escaped my dad's selective memory. But what the hell, he and I had hated each other for so long. It was not like any great relationship had been undone. I felt sure Mom would come around.

I am still plagued with nightmares of that frozen moment when my best friend glared at me with anguish and rage. The mental picture of Mike racing off the field and out of my life that sunny and sad Thursday afternoon haunts me as does the cruelty I inflicted on C. B. Collins. It's the most boring curse that many suffer from: to become our fathers.

CHAPTER FOUR

Las Cruces, New Mexico 1971

It's not that I was forsaken by all. My mother and I finally connected, and we touched base from time to time, thus maintaining our sad relationship, although it was reduced to clandestine phone calls and meetings. Neither she nor I would ever consider engaging in a conversation if the old man was around. Although she never said so, I think she hated and despised him even more than I did, at least during the years when I lived at home. So for the next two years, I roughnecked and roustabouted in the oil fields of west Texas and southeastern New Mexico. I saved my money, and in September 1971, I finished college at New Mexico State University in Las Cruces. I earned two degrees, one a bachelor of business administration with a major in banking and finance, and the other a bachelor of arts with a major in English. I truly loved my literature classes and loved to read, as did my mother. It was our one good common connection. Reading took me to places, times, and people totally different from my reality. Hell, I even read the biography of Pee Wee Reese. My mother had no idea who Pee Wee Reese or Dizzy Dean was. As an angry Englishwoman all alone in the States with three small children to watch over, she had no time nor inclination to watch baseball. But she would have me tell her about whatever I was reading, unless he was around. So we usually saved those conversations for our special times, as Mom would call them.

Don't want Daddy to have one of his aye-gods, she would say in a whisper.

My father's aye-gods usually involved a few too many snorts from his favorite potion of the month or whatever was on special at Pinkie's Liquors. The aye-gods always began with aye-god this or aye-god that. His aye-gods were just like a rattle-snake's rattler sounding its warning. If you heard the words, aye-god, you stayed clear of him. I remember one aye-god moment when I was about ten years old. He caught me outside lying on the ground next to my best friend in the world, my dog Rusty, to whom I was committing the sin of reading.

Aye-god, you're gonna grow up to be the biggest fuckin' fag. Look at you, lying around, reading to that fuckin' mutt! he yelled before kicking Rusty so hard the dog yelped. Get in there and help your mother with the dishes. Go do some women's work. That's what you are anyway, a fuckin' little girl. Shit, I'm gonna buy you a dress the next time we go to Montgomery Wards.

Just before packing up and leaving Las Cruces, I called Mom to tell her I had graduated.

Mom, I finally finished, I said proudly. And with a hillbilly accent, I joked, Ize a college gradreat.

It's about time, she said, and then she shouted out to the roar of the television in the background.

JW, JW! It's Alex! He's graduated from college!

Hell, Mom, why did you have to bring his sorry ass into this? I moaned back.

He's your father. He should know, she scolded.

I paused a moment, and then, trying to sound serious, I said, "OK, tell him I got a degree in English, and I am going to New York to be an editor for Ladies' Home Journal."

She said, Why do you love to provoke him so? It doesn't help me one little bit. It makes my life a living hell every time you do.

I'm sorry. I paused, trying to think of something else to say, but when I heard the sound of my father's mumblings getting louder as he approached the phone, I said, Gotta go. Love ya, Mom.

I stared at the phone for a moment and shook my head. I put a smile on my face, packed my pickup, and left town. Seeing Las Cruces in my rearview mirror was one pretty picture. As I had learned to do so often, I began to put all the bad out of my mind. I silently gave myself a pep talk: no time for regrets. Forget C. B. Collins, forget Mike, and forget your mom. What's done is done. But as much as I would have liked to, I couldn't undo what I had done to Collins. Instead, I was determined to focus on something constructive, like building a career. I was one pissed off guy ready to kick the world in the ass, and I was as hungry as a bitch wolf with nine suckling pups. I wanted it all. And in retrospect, there is only one thing worse than being young and stupid, and that is being young, stupid, and really pissed off at the world.

CHAPTER FIVE

1971 - Dallas, Texas

From 1971 toward the end of 1985, the Dallas economy was on fire. The price of west Texas crude oil slowly climbed from a little over three dollars a barrel up to thirty-two dollars. And beginning early in 1986, oil started to drop, all the way down to just under $12 per barrel. Interest rates and real estate rose and plummeted in very much the same way. There were huge fortunes, old money and new, made and then mostly lost forever. It was a wild and uneasy era in Dallas history. This I know to be true, as I was one of the ride's numerous thrill-seekers. At the tail end of the '80s, a famous Dallas bumper sticker said it best: Lord, give me one more oil boom, and I promise not to piss it away this time. Like Dickens said, It was the best of times and the worst of times. And in many a case, in those topsy-turvy days, it would be proven that the best way to rob a bank was to own one.

One attribute my mother passed down to me is a skeptic's perception of the world around me. She trusted no one. In one of our private moments, she told me, Alex, every person, circumstance, or situation might appear to be an opportunity, but most likely, it is a threat. Read each person carefully and assume the worse. If you are proven wrong, then that will be good news. But if you assume the worst, you will be prepared. I promise you, surprise endings are not fun. If you can avoid surprises in your life, you may get a chance to change your destiny. Lord knows I wish I had.

She came from a blue-collar background in the London suburbs where she was yanked out of school to contribute to the needs of her family. Life in postwar England held no promise for her. And when a dashing young Yank soldier provided a means of escape, she recklessly jumped on it. What she didn't know was that she would regret that decision for the rest of her life. She reminded me of her misery every day, but we were to never say anything negative in front of my brother or sister. Why I drew the magic bean, I never knew.

My mother had left her family, friends, England, and all she knew for the promise of America. Little did she know that she was about to be incarcerated in a lifetime of hard work and misery called west Texas. In west Texas, Hell is a local call. Her constant and increasing bitterness over the con job my father had done on her eventually took its toll. She became more and more unenthusiastic about life.

One time in her lifelong struggle with bronchitis, the bronchitis had worked its way up to full-blown pneumonia. I visited her in the hospital. I was sitting there, trying to think of things to say that might distract from her dire condition.

Finally, she broke my concentration with You know, here in America, you people of wealth have no sympathy nor an appreciation for the hardworking middle class, especially those who have died defending your beloved money. The rich are most undeserving. Then she looked right at me and said, You rich Americans have very little awareness or care for the rest of the world.

Surprised, I forced a smile back at her; and with a sarcastic laugh, I said, Mom, I was three years old when you became a citizen of this country. Why do you say 'you rich Americans' to me? God, Mom, I'm not so rich, and you're also an American and have been one for the majority of your life.

She stopped talking and looked away and out the window. Then she muttered, A technicality only. I am British and have always been British, and I will die British. And your father and I have never had the kind of money you have.

What she said saddened me. That was the first time she had ever made that statement. As confusing as it may sound, I thought we were alike and that we were a team; but with her comment, she let me know that we were not alike. In fact, all we really had in common was a common enemy---my father.

I could think of nothing else to say, and as she continued to stare out the window, tears leaked out the corner of her eyes. I could do nothing but lean over, squeeze her hand, and kiss her forehead. She gave me a small squeeze back. As I attempted to quietly leave the room, without looking back to face me, she said, I love you, Alex.

I could tell she wanted to be alone. I answered, I know you do. And I love you too, Mom.

She must have had a vision about her plight, as she died ten days later. And I knew that in her mind, she died a Brit. And I also acknowledge that I was not like her as much as I had always thought I was. To her, I was exactly what the Dallas Morning News had labeled me: west Texas crude.

It was always my opinion that I had got the degree in English for my own enjoyment, but the business knowledge I retained from college could be shoved up a gnat's ass with room left for a three-ring circus. The only college insight worth remembering came from a retiring professor on his last