Christmas Morning - Remembering 1981 - Heartbeat of a City
It is 3:30 AM as I sit down to write. Lately I find myself staying awake all night more and more. It is quiet. My dog, Buford, lays with his nose on my feet and waits with great anticipation for me to read back what I write. He will either nod with approval or tilt his head to the side and let me know it still needs a little more work. We have both become friendly with the night.
Neither of us have really managed to get into the spirit of Christmas this year. I don't think I have been out of the house in about two weeks and except for his duties of making sure the backyard is secure four or five times a day he hasn't strayed far either. They don't put up Christmas lights in Irene, Tx (population 30) and this is the first time I have ever lived anywhere that I couldn't drive down the street and see Christmas lights adorning many of the homes.
It is peaceful. Buford and me like it here. It just doesn't seem like Christmas.
All week long I have been thinking about the story I am getting ready to tell. I have told it many times, but I have never written it down. The first time I told it was to Sandy (see yesterday's blog) the night it happened. I think the last time I shared it was with Cindy in Austin sitting on her brickyard one afternoon. I really don't know why this story has stuck with me the way it has for the past 29 years, but I can think of no other memory I have in a taxicab that has clung to my heart like this story.
On south Main street in Ft Worth about half way between downtown and the stockyard district where Billy Bob's and the other places that attract the upscale crowd is an area that is predominantly Mexican and the street in 1981 was lined with three or four small bars that were only patronized by local residents who lived in the surrounding three or four blocks. It was a close knit Mexican neighborhood and outsiders were not welcomed which made no difference to me because I would never go there and we seldom had taxi calls there because everyone lived withing walking distance of their homes.
I have been waiting my turn in the stockyard district and am first up in the zone when the dispatcher calls "five-one" and gives me a fare at one of these little taverns. I am actually a bit disappointed because I had been sitting and waiting my turn and now I assumed I was going to go up the street and pick up a drunk and take them perhaps two blocks and have to get in line again.
It only took me about a minute to get there and when I arrived there was a Mexican woman whom I guessed to be around 50 weeping and wailing and bleeding from her face and head and two younger people who appeared to be in their twenties shouting at each other nearby. One was a man and one was a female. They are carrying on in Spanish and I had no idea what was going on and for a moment was tempted to just pull off and leave this scene because I had no business there, but the girl stopped her shouting for a moment and approached me . . . I was still sitting in my taxi . . . and she spoke English well enough to tell me what was going on.
The man was her brother and the woman was their mother and her brother had just beaten their mother inside the bar and she is bleeding all over the place standing on the sidewalk about ten feet in front of me looking like she needs an ambulance, not a taxi. Her brother is drunk and still shouting at his mother and sister and am am keeping a close eye on him while the daughter asks me if I can get her mother home and of course she only lives a couple of blocks away.
Every bit of common sense in my brain was telling me "Don't do it.". Aside from the danger involved I was getting ready to make a bloody mess out of my taxi which would have to be cleaned up and for all practical purposes it meant I was done for the night because I couldn't really clean the cab up properly until morning. And the fare . . . if I got paid at all . . . would be about $1.20.
But the more I listened to this young man yell and the more I listened to this woman wail I said "OK". I told the daughter she would have to help me get her in the cab and I wanted her brother to stay back out of the way. We got her loaded in the back seat and the door shut and I got the address from the daughter. Before I pulled away I looked in the backseat and tried to talk to the woman and I could see she needed stitches.
"Hospital?" I asked her in a question. She knew exactly what I had said and screamed a fearful scream. I said "OK. I'll take you home."
When I get to the house where her daughter had told me to take her I am asking myself why I didn't insist her daughter come with us, but too late now. It must be at least 50 feet from the street up to the porch of this old house and other than my headlights there isn't a light anywhere. I could at least have gotten her daughter to help me carry her up to the house.
She hangs on to me and we make it up the path and finally get to the porch where there are several steps she is going to have to go up, but I was prohibited by rules and regulations from going beyond this point. I tried to talk to her one last time as she sat there on that porch step. I pointed to all the blood and I said "You need medical attention. Are you sure you don't want to go to hospital? Again she understood enough to shake her head no.
I said, "Well, I have to go. Are you going to be OK."
She shook her head, "Yes."
I said, "Well, I have to go." she continued to shake her head.
I didn't even ask her for the small fare. I was just glad to have her safely home. I touched her on the shoulder and looked at her eye wishing she would let me take her to John Peter Smith. She looked back at me and I turned to walk away. I had gone no more than four or five feet when I hear her make a noise like a shreak to get my attention and I looked back.
She was holding out a hand toward me and she uttered the word, "amigo".
So as Buford and me sit here at what is now 5:30 AM on Christmas morning I have to ask myself, "How much is a story worth?" I was disappointed when I got that dispatch. I wanted to pull away when I arrived. Even up until I walked her up that path I was wishing I hadn't done it.
And now on Christmas morning 29 years later I can say "It is . . . and always will be. . . the best memory I ever had behind the windshield of a taxi."
Neither of us have really managed to get into the spirit of Christmas this year. I don't think I have been out of the house in about two weeks and except for his duties of making sure the backyard is secure four or five times a day he hasn't strayed far either. They don't put up Christmas lights in Irene, Tx (population 30) and this is the first time I have ever lived anywhere that I couldn't drive down the street and see Christmas lights adorning many of the homes.
It is peaceful. Buford and me like it here. It just doesn't seem like Christmas.
All week long I have been thinking about the story I am getting ready to tell. I have told it many times, but I have never written it down. The first time I told it was to Sandy (see yesterday's blog) the night it happened. I think the last time I shared it was with Cindy in Austin sitting on her brickyard one afternoon. I really don't know why this story has stuck with me the way it has for the past 29 years, but I can think of no other memory I have in a taxicab that has clung to my heart like this story.
On south Main street in Ft Worth about half way between downtown and the stockyard district where Billy Bob's and the other places that attract the upscale crowd is an area that is predominantly Mexican and the street in 1981 was lined with three or four small bars that were only patronized by local residents who lived in the surrounding three or four blocks. It was a close knit Mexican neighborhood and outsiders were not welcomed which made no difference to me because I would never go there and we seldom had taxi calls there because everyone lived withing walking distance of their homes.
I have been waiting my turn in the stockyard district and am first up in the zone when the dispatcher calls "five-one" and gives me a fare at one of these little taverns. I am actually a bit disappointed because I had been sitting and waiting my turn and now I assumed I was going to go up the street and pick up a drunk and take them perhaps two blocks and have to get in line again.
It only took me about a minute to get there and when I arrived there was a Mexican woman whom I guessed to be around 50 weeping and wailing and bleeding from her face and head and two younger people who appeared to be in their twenties shouting at each other nearby. One was a man and one was a female. They are carrying on in Spanish and I had no idea what was going on and for a moment was tempted to just pull off and leave this scene because I had no business there, but the girl stopped her shouting for a moment and approached me . . . I was still sitting in my taxi . . . and she spoke English well enough to tell me what was going on.
The man was her brother and the woman was their mother and her brother had just beaten their mother inside the bar and she is bleeding all over the place standing on the sidewalk about ten feet in front of me looking like she needs an ambulance, not a taxi. Her brother is drunk and still shouting at his mother and sister and am am keeping a close eye on him while the daughter asks me if I can get her mother home and of course she only lives a couple of blocks away.
Every bit of common sense in my brain was telling me "Don't do it.". Aside from the danger involved I was getting ready to make a bloody mess out of my taxi which would have to be cleaned up and for all practical purposes it meant I was done for the night because I couldn't really clean the cab up properly until morning. And the fare . . . if I got paid at all . . . would be about $1.20.
But the more I listened to this young man yell and the more I listened to this woman wail I said "OK". I told the daughter she would have to help me get her in the cab and I wanted her brother to stay back out of the way. We got her loaded in the back seat and the door shut and I got the address from the daughter. Before I pulled away I looked in the backseat and tried to talk to the woman and I could see she needed stitches.
"Hospital?" I asked her in a question. She knew exactly what I had said and screamed a fearful scream. I said "OK. I'll take you home."
When I get to the house where her daughter had told me to take her I am asking myself why I didn't insist her daughter come with us, but too late now. It must be at least 50 feet from the street up to the porch of this old house and other than my headlights there isn't a light anywhere. I could at least have gotten her daughter to help me carry her up to the house.
She hangs on to me and we make it up the path and finally get to the porch where there are several steps she is going to have to go up, but I was prohibited by rules and regulations from going beyond this point. I tried to talk to her one last time as she sat there on that porch step. I pointed to all the blood and I said "You need medical attention. Are you sure you don't want to go to hospital? Again she understood enough to shake her head no.
I said, "Well, I have to go. Are you going to be OK."
She shook her head, "Yes."
I said, "Well, I have to go." she continued to shake her head.
I didn't even ask her for the small fare. I was just glad to have her safely home. I touched her on the shoulder and looked at her eye wishing she would let me take her to John Peter Smith. She looked back at me and I turned to walk away. I had gone no more than four or five feet when I hear her make a noise like a shreak to get my attention and I looked back.
She was holding out a hand toward me and she uttered the word, "amigo".
So as Buford and me sit here at what is now 5:30 AM on Christmas morning I have to ask myself, "How much is a story worth?" I was disappointed when I got that dispatch. I wanted to pull away when I arrived. Even up until I walked her up that path I was wishing I hadn't done it.
And now on Christmas morning 29 years later I can say "It is . . . and always will be. . . the best memory I ever had behind the windshield of a taxi."
Posted by Marvin David Webster at Friday, December 25, 2009 5:31 PM 
Categories: Society
Tags: friends taxi
Categories: Society
Tags: friends taxi
Ok, Webster, so I have enjoyed all the blogs so far, but I must confess that this one left me "hanging" a bit. So you were nice enough to do a good deed and the woman called you "amigo" but I have to ask," did you ever see her again?" My being a person of Spanish ancestry I must tell you that when we say "amigo" it is much deeper than saying "friend." I gather you trasure the memory, but did you follow up???
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I did not. Like many things that happened in my life when I was young I was ignorant to the value behind it at the time.
I could probably give you several lame excuses why I didn't, but the truth is the house was only one block off of Main Street and I passed within one block of it several times a day.
Also, I never wanted to be a part of that scene from the beginning and my participation wasn't done with a noble spirit.
Why she reached out her hand to me and said "amigo" is even more puzzling now that you point out the depth your ancestry places on it. You could probably come closer to knowing than me. She obviously was feeling something deeper than anything I was feeling.
Quite honestly I was glad when I got back to Main Street and headed for home.
Wow, Mario. What a comment. I think every time I recall that story from now on I will have to also think about what you just pointed out to me and I sincerely apologize for leaving you "hanging". I think you know that was just an insensitive gringo not fully understanding the depth of an endearing term of another culture.
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Sorry, David, I have been out of town and not able to read the stories. Sorry I have not commented....it is Christmas I think. As much as you do not feel it is Christmas, I think I do. At least for this year. I am sure part of it is my 3 grandkids and their belief if Santa and everything. Their exuberance and wide-eyed enthusiasm Christmas morning makes it all worthwhile. I am sorry that you dont have anything to help push you into the mood.
The stories were good. I think I would like to have more information in the body of the stories. For example, I lived in Mexico City many years ago on a project. I walked everywhere in the Zona Rosa because I did not have a car and it was reasonably safe back then. I also like to walk because you see and hear so much more. I distinctly remember that when I would come to a residential area, regardless of what time of day it was, I always smelled that heavy, meaty, half burned beans aroma of Mexican cooking. I can almost smell it right now writing this. I bet you also could smell the living odors as you moved into the area. Also, she was bleeding but from a deep head cut and was it staining her dress, was she trying to hold her hand over it to stop the bleeding, was it scarlet red or that dull dark red of beginning to dry blood,...see what I mean?
I wondered too exactly what she meant by amigo...Mario surely knows better than you or I. I think it was her way of saying thank you to someone who helped. I also wondered what the son was doing while you were getting her into the cab. Was he agressive and others had him at bay or was he just one of those sleepy eyed drunks with no idea where he was or what he was doing.
Keep up the good work...I assume more stories soon.
Schaub
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Wow. You guys are awesome. I really mean that. They say exposed nails get hammered and I was exposed today and I am glad you guys got your hammers out. seriously, because you both are so right on it isn't even funny and I want to come back and expand on this in a moment, but first I want to clear up a couple of facts that you bring up, David. I don't remember what her son was dong while I was helping her get in the car. I didn't get out of the car until he had gotten comfortably out of the picture. He may have gone back inside. I can't recall. The other details I did a very poor job of relating. As a mater of fact I started that whole story of with a piss poor attitude 10 or a Christmas morning. Well "Hello Scrooge Webster in Irene Texas". I am actually laughing about it now, but it was the truth and it shows big time in that story. Also, I think Buford and I were in the right frame of mind because I now realize that wasn't a story I wanted to tell on Christmas Day. I was dong it for someone else who I think the world of in order to make them happy, but that story did not make me feel the way I wanted to feel on Christmas, therefore I think I rushed to get it over with, and your, my friend Schaub, aren't going to let me get by with that for a minute.
The good news is that it is nearly 9:00 PM and only 9 people have visited this blog today so I could do it over , but I am not. I will leave it there to remind myself that I for the second time since I started this journey it only works when I walk done my own path, pick up my own rocks and skim them across the lake. It was that same feeling that made me stop writing entirely for a month and a half in the early days because I felt I had to stay inside set boundaries.
I just looked over at Buford and told him I thought we had had a pretty neat Christmas. When you communicate back to me the same openness and honesty I strive to communicate to you then this becomes a wonderful media. I a few days I want to get off this blog at GoDaddy and on a WordPress Blog that makes it easier and offers a lot more capabilities. I will probably be offline for 24 to 48 hours while the DNS (Domain Name Servers) are propagating and I move the content. I may do that new years.
For a day that started off kind of blah I an all fired up now. I may have to go out and cut down a Christmas tree.
Mario and David . . . thank you a lot. I have a video I want to post. I don't know if I can do that on the comments, but if I can't I will make an extra Christmas Day post. It isn't about Christmas. It is just about being yourself.
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Thanks David, I am glad you got my message. I also enjoyed the musical posting. A long time ago (in college), a professor in English class of all places made a statement that I have heard in my mind over and over when I attempt to write something to a group of people. I think it works for me and maybe it will work for you.
He said, "Write so that whoever reads it is standing next to you all along the path of the story. They see everything, they know everything and then they will experience what you experience." I cant even remember the profs name but it is not important to me...what he said has been, however. I hope it helps you.
Merry Christmas Buddy.
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Another great story, David. The opening lines brought to mind the Robert Frost poem:
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
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Hey dad, this is Whitney. Cameron told me about this website. You are a very good writer. I enjoyed this story a lot. I wish that we could have spent Christmas together and that you could have enjoyed the Christmas lights here in Pampa. Now that I know about this website I will try to make more frequent visits to read your posts.
Love you,
Whitney
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