said that it was every man’s right to make a damned fool of himself, and that my turn would come later.
I was disgusted with Pa. I felt that he had failed me sorely. Thus, the following morning, when he came into my room after the family’s departure, I told him to get the hell out.
“Have a smoke,” said Pa, tossing me a foot-long Pittsburgh stogie. “Got a little surprise for you.”
The surprise, or part of it, arrived right behind him: a white-jacketed waiter with a pitcher of boiling water, a bowl of lemons and sugar. Pa took a bottle of bootleg corn whiskey from his hip and mixed us two tremendous hot toddies.
“Kind of like old times, ain’t it?” he said, slanting his savagely humorous old eyes at me. “You remember that night out by the privy when—Now, what the hell you sniveling about, anyway?”
“I—n-nothing,” I said, choking back a sob.
“Light up, then. Drink up. Stop acting like a goddamned calf. Anything I hate to see it’s a fella cryin’ in good whiskey.”
I lit up and drank up. The steam from the toddies mingled with the clouds of cigar smoke, and the morning sunlight shone through it upon Pa’s bald head. It seemed to me he wore a halo.
“I tell you somethin’, Jimmie,” he said casually, freshening our drinks from the bottle. “We all got our own way of doin’ things, an’ that’s the way we got to do ’em. Ain’t no man can do a thing another fella’s way. Ain’t no use tryin’ to make him. He’ll just go his own way all the harder, an’ he’ll be your enemy besides.”
I nodded my understanding, although I was far from agreeing with his doctrine. Pa went on to remark that while other people had their ways, he also had his, and it was no more than just and proper that he should pursue that way since I had been left in his charge.
“In other words,” he concluded, “anyone that thinks you’re going to tag around with me in that outfit your Pop bought you has got another goddamned thing coming.”
He gave me another stogie and urged me to help myself to a second toddy. Then, he left the room, returning a few minutes later with one of his “uniforms”—complete even to the wide-brimmed black hat and Congress gaiters. All that was missing was the cane, and Pa promised to pick one up for me if I felt too naked without it.
Happily, the stogie lodged in the corner of my mouth, I dressed.
The hat and the gaiters had to be stuffed with paper to be wearable. And since Pa stood six feet to my five and weighed two hundred pounds to my one-ten, the suit was a trifle large. But this difficulty was easily solved—to our satisfaction at least. The pants legs were rolled up and under for a few inches, likewise the coat sleeves. A few pins here and there and the job was done.
True, the seat of the pants bagged to my knees, but the coat reached below them. One hand washed the other, to use Pa’s metaphor. I looked fine, he declared, and no one but a damned fool would think otherwise. So, equipped with fresh stogies, we sallied forth.
During my long residence in Fort Worth, I often felt that it was cursed with more than its share of damned fools. But it was a western city, and peculiarities of dress went more unmarked than otherwise. Thus, while I drew a number of startled glances, no one, damned fool or otherwise, said or did anything about me.
Pa and I ate a whopping breakfast of steak, eggs and hot cakes, and only once did he see fit to criticize me. That was when he observed me eating from the sharp edge of my knife, and he pointed out the danger of it, suggesting that I use the reverse edge instead.
After breakfast we went to a pool hall where Pa beat me five games of slop pool and I beat him two. We returned to the hotel, then, for a few before-lunch drinks, and following lunch we went to a penny arcade.
Pa had brought the bottle with him, and he became quite rambunctious when “A Night With a Paris Cutie” did not come up to his expectations. He caned
I was disgusted with Pa. I felt that he had failed me sorely. Thus, the following morning, when he came into my room after the family’s departure, I told him to get the hell out.
“Have a smoke,” said Pa, tossing me a foot-long Pittsburgh stogie. “Got a little surprise for you.”
The surprise, or part of it, arrived right behind him: a white-jacketed waiter with a pitcher of boiling water, a bowl of lemons and sugar. Pa took a bottle of bootleg corn whiskey from his hip and mixed us two tremendous hot toddies.
“Kind of like old times, ain’t it?” he said, slanting his savagely humorous old eyes at me. “You remember that night out by the privy when—Now, what the hell you sniveling about, anyway?”
“I—n-nothing,” I said, choking back a sob.
“Light up, then. Drink up. Stop acting like a goddamned calf. Anything I hate to see it’s a fella cryin’ in good whiskey.”
I lit up and drank up. The steam from the toddies mingled with the clouds of cigar smoke, and the morning sunlight shone through it upon Pa’s bald head. It seemed to me he wore a halo.
“I tell you somethin’, Jimmie,” he said casually, freshening our drinks from the bottle. “We all got our own way of doin’ things, an’ that’s the way we got to do ’em. Ain’t no man can do a thing another fella’s way. Ain’t no use tryin’ to make him. He’ll just go his own way all the harder, an’ he’ll be your enemy besides.”
I nodded my understanding, although I was far from agreeing with his doctrine. Pa went on to remark that while other people had their ways, he also had his, and it was no more than just and proper that he should pursue that way since I had been left in his charge.
“In other words,” he concluded, “anyone that thinks you’re going to tag around with me in that outfit your Pop bought you has got another goddamned thing coming.”
He gave me another stogie and urged me to help myself to a second toddy. Then, he left the room, returning a few minutes later with one of his “uniforms”—complete even to the wide-brimmed black hat and Congress gaiters. All that was missing was the cane, and Pa promised to pick one up for me if I felt too naked without it.
Happily, the stogie lodged in the corner of my mouth, I dressed.
The hat and the gaiters had to be stuffed with paper to be wearable. And since Pa stood six feet to my five and weighed two hundred pounds to my one-ten, the suit was a trifle large. But this difficulty was easily solved—to our satisfaction at least. The pants legs were rolled up and under for a few inches, likewise the coat sleeves. A few pins here and there and the job was done.
True, the seat of the pants bagged to my knees, but the coat reached below them. One hand washed the other, to use Pa’s metaphor. I looked fine, he declared, and no one but a damned fool would think otherwise. So, equipped with fresh stogies, we sallied forth.
During my long residence in Fort Worth, I often felt that it was cursed with more than its share of damned fools. But it was a western city, and peculiarities of dress went more unmarked than otherwise. Thus, while I drew a number of startled glances, no one, damned fool or otherwise, said or did anything about me.
Pa and I ate a whopping breakfast of steak, eggs and hot cakes, and only once did he see fit to criticize me. That was when he observed me eating from the sharp edge of my knife, and he pointed out the danger of it, suggesting that I use the reverse edge instead.
After breakfast we went to a pool hall where Pa beat me five games of slop pool and I beat him two. We returned to the hotel, then, for a few before-lunch drinks, and following lunch we went to a penny arcade.
Pa had brought the bottle with him, and he became quite rambunctious when “A Night With a Paris Cutie” did not come up to his expectations. He caned
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