Struck by Lightning

Big Billy had an Oklahoma oil company during the late 70s, early 80s oil boom. Like many others during that era, his went belly up when the economy flopped and oil prices collapsed. He moved to Texas and started a restaurant, visiting me years later in Oklahoma City after I ran into him in a dark Dallas bar. I had some leases in Noble County along with a geologic idea. I showed it to him and he bought it from me, intent on drilling a well.

The prospect was a reentry of a previously drilled well that had “shows” that were never tested. Big Billy had money but to say that he was cheap would be an understatement. Even though he could easily have afforded a Jaguar, he drove an old Chevy until the wheels practically fell off. Sometimes, when you are drilling, it doesn’t pay to go with the cheapest bid.

Big Billy somehow dug up an old drilling contractor with a cut-rate price and very old rig to drill our well. The wash-down that should have taken three days was only 250 feet deep after a week.

I told him what I thought. “The bit is out of the old hole. You’re drilling a new hole and with this piece of junk you are drilling with, it’ll take forever.”

Big Billy was stubborn but he wasn’t stupid. Taking my advice, he released the dilapidated old drilling rig while we scratched our heads about what to do. We soon decided to perforate a shallow zone already cased behind surface casing. Big Billy’s good luck hadn’t gone far away and we completed the zone for lots of natural gas.

The well turned out to be a prolific producer and spurred the drilling of another ten shallow wells offsetting it. There were numerous, potentially productive sands in the area and I finally talked him into drilling a well to test this possibility. We called it the Big Boy.

We drilled the Big Boy to a depth of about three-thousand feet. Ed G., a friend of mine since Cities Service days, and also a cracker jack well-site geologist, watched the well as it was drilling. Before reaching total depth, we had recorded “shows” of natural gas in two zones. Ed and I both recommended that Big Billy set pipe.

“Do either of these zones produce in offset wells?” he asked us.

I shook my head but explained, “They calculate productive on the electric logs and we had positive shows while drilling through them.”

Big Billy wasn’t convinced.

“I can’t let my investors set pipe on a wildcat zone.”

Ed was irate. “With that kind of logic, there would have never been a productive well ever drilled. Someone has to be the first.”

Argue as we might, Big Billy decided to plug the well. He did so with a temporary plug, thinking someone might come along later in the area and find production in the two zones. He didn’t have to worry about lease expiration because shallow production held them. Everything would have been hunky-dory, except for Old Mother Nature.

A year or so later, Big Billy got a late-night call from the Corporation Commission, Oklahoma’s oil and gas regulatory agency. The temporary plug he had set on the Big Boy was leaking natural gas to the surface. During a spring thunderstorm, lightning had struck the surface plug and set it on fire.

“Plug it or produce it,” the Commission ordered.

Big Billy grumbled, but complied with the Commission’s order by reentering the well and completing in the same shallow zone as all of his offsets, still overlooking the two untested deeper zones.

Natural gas prices languished for several years, during which time Big Billy bought out all of his partners. He called and told me that he intended to sell the little natural gas field, buy a sailboat and retire to Washington with Kathy, his significant other.

“You’re too young to retire,” I said.

Unable to convince him, Ed and I found a buyer for the property.

Because of depressed natural gas prices, Big Billy sold the wells for $100,000. Ed, still enamored with the prospect, bought ten percent of the producing property for ten grand. He shortly had a pleasant surprise.

The price of natural gas, like all commodities, is controlled by supply and demand. When the supply is high, the price is low. When it stays low for a lengthy period, gas operators stop drilling. Since all wells decline, the supply always, sooner or later, drops below the demand. If no new wells are drilled to take their place, a shortage occurs. This is what finally happened the month after Big Billy sold his gas properties, bought his sailboat and moved to Washington. After realizing the imbalance between the supply of available natural gas and the demand for it, marketers began bidding in earnest. The price suddenly soared, returning Ed’s investment in a single month.

Big Billy either didn’t care or else decided not to let it bother him. He and Kathy lived on their boat, docked near Seattle, for several years until they both became bored with retirement. The oil and natural gas boom was still going strong so they sold the boat and moved back to Texas. His luck was still good and he and Kathy managed to amass yet another fortune during the ensuing Texas land boom.

Stubborn to the end, he never acknowledged being wrong about not testing the two deeper zones in Noble County.

Eric'sWeb

Big Billy's Crawfish Fritters with Texas Dipping Sauce - a weekend recipe

My close friend Big Billy was both an oil entrepreneur and a Dallas restauranteur. He was such an interesting character, I could write a book about him. Come to think of it, maybe I will some day.

I once sold him an oil deal in Noble County, Oklahoma. It was a reentry—going into a previously drilled well in hopes of completing in a productive zone the original operator missed. We were unsuccessful in the predicted pay zone but came up roses in a shallow limestone. The well tested nine hundred MCFD (pretty damn good for a six hundred foot well) and Big Billy ultimately drilled ten offsets.

Big Billy, like his name, was a big man—six foot four and three hundred seventy five pounds. He had the mentality of a wildcatter along with the wildly crazy luck that made him successful. He had absolutely no pretense, but could cook some of the tastiest meals imaginable. He also liked Texas music and he, Kathy—his significant other— and I once made a special trip to see Willis Alan Ramsey at the Blue Door in Oklahoma City. But that’s another story.

Yes, Louisiana is the land of Acadia, but there are probably just as many Cajuns living in Texas. Big Billy borrowed a few secrets from his Louisiana neighbors in creating this dish that I guarantee is to die for. Although no longer with us, his legend and recipes will live forever.

Big Billy’s Crawfish Fritters with Texas Dipping Sauce

Ingredients
• 1 cup flour, sifted
• 1 pound crawfish tails, cooked and chopped
• 4 green onions, chopped
• ½ tsp. salt
• ½ tsp. cayenne pepper
• 1 tsp. baking powder
• 2 eggs
• ½ cup milk
• 1 ½ tbsp. melted butter

Texas Dipping Sauce
• ¾ cup mayonnaise
• ¼ lemon, sliced
• ½ cup ketchup
• ¼ tsp. horseradish, prepared
• ¼ tsp. Texas hot sauce

Directions
Combine eggs, crawfish meat, onions, butter, salt and Cayenne in a large mixing bowl. Stir in flour until blended.

Heat cooking oil in a large cast iron skillet until very hot. Drop tablespoonfuls of batter— a few at a time—into hot oil. Fry until golden brown on both sides. Drain on paper towels.

In a small bowl, combine the mayonnaise, ketchup, horseradish, squeezed lemon juice and Texas hot sauce. Serve fritters with Texas dipping sauce.

Eric'sWeb

Wrestling the Devil

I was both single and debt free when I left Texas Oil and Gas in 1978 to pursue a life as an independent geologist. I left a good salary, cushy expense account and company car, hoping to strike it rich as an Oklahoma oil baron. After ninety days had passed, I was wondering if I should go and beg for my job back.

I had no car or house payment, but I had no house, my 1966 Triumph Tr4, a car not known for its reliability. I also had a Triumph 750 Bonneville motorcycle that was also less than reliable. I did have two girlfriends at the time and one of them, Carol, lent me a thousand dollars. That and the thousand I borrowed against my motorcycle were about all I had at the time.

I managed to eke out a living as a consultant, making a few bucks by testifying at the Corporation Commission and writing geological reports. Still, my life was stark compared with the relatively lush existence I had experienced at TXO. As summer approached, I was working at the geological library everyday, trying to develop prospects. Developing prospects was no problem, finding someone to buy them was.

A fellow geologist and his wife asked my girlfriend Gayle and I to spend the weekend with them at their cabin on Lake Murray. After a false start on my motorcycle (Gayle was so frightened of the bike that she remained constantly rigid, trying to stay upright even when I leaned into a curve. Realizing we were both having a stressful trip, I turned around before reaching the city limits and traded the bike for the two-seater.

The Tr4 was unreliable but a dream to drive. With the top down and the wind in your hair, the growl of the little four-banger engine made you feel like an Italian road racer. Gayle and I both had giant smiles on our faces when we pulled into the rest stop just inside the Lake Murray gates.

Coming out of the little geologist’s room, I witnessed an attack. A young man and woman were in a Chevy, the windows up. A very angry young man was kicking in the door and driver’s window with his foot. The attack didn’t last long as park rangers showed up and quickly interceded.
As I stood watching with my mouth agape, one of the rangers asked me if I had witnessed the altercation. He took my name, number and address. A lawsuit resulted and a while later, I got a subpoena to appear as a witness for the defense.

The trial was to take place in the middle of the week. I showed up at the Murray County Courthouse, a scenic and historic old building, and presented myself to the court clerk. I could tell you that an epic court battle ensued, complete with wonderful country lawyers such as Spenser Tracy and Frederic March in Inherit the Wind. It didn’t happen.

The two sides, instead, settled out of court. I got a thank you, was patted on the shoulder and sent on my way. A few week’s later, I received a small witness fee—thirty bucks, as I remember. It wasn’t much but it turned out to be the only money I made that month. About that time, I felt a bit like a schmuck. I was quickly beginning to realize I didn’t have all the answers to life.

The second six months of my independence, all hell broke loose. It was the beginning of the early eighties oil boom, Oklahoma City soon transformed into a boomtown, drunk from the money pouring in from all directions. I cleared almost $400,000 my second six months and it only got better, at least for awhile.

As a young man, I was unaware of the cycles of boom or bust in the oil patch. A wizened veteran now, I have experienced more than my share of both. Would I trade it for what could have been a stable existence, working for a company with wonderful benefits and a good salary? Nah!

Living your life in “Happy Town” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It is, in fact, boring. For me, life is only worth living when you are out there swinging, taking existence by the throat, wrestling with the devil and taking your chances. Whether you are living the good life on top of cloud nine, or waiting for a handout in the welfare line, its better when you don’t know all the answers. Even if you did, they would probably only scare you.

Eric'sWeb

Cruising the OKC Concourse

In writing about life in downtown Oklahoma City during the last oil boom, I mentioned the Concourse. The Concourse was a tunnel system connecting all the major buildings in downtown OKC, originally created to provide workers with a way of avoiding the city’s weather that is often inclement. It grew into much more than just an underground pathway.

During the oil boom, the city leaders decided there was room for retail development underground. Texas Oil and Gas, the company I worked for, had offices in the Midland Center and you could enter the Concourse from a stairway on the ground floor there.

The tunnel system was simply a dimly lit concrete pathway with a colorful carpet on the floor. The system of tunnels snaked in all directions and it was easy to lose your bearings – especially if you had just visited one of the many clubs and partaken of their liquor-by-the-wink. Purchasing alcohol, at the time, was illegal anywhere except a liquor store.

Retail clothing establishments, a jewelry store, a fast food kiosk, two barbershops and other businesses soon began to thrive. Several combination restaurants occupied space in the Concourse, among them the Bull and the Bear, the Brigadoon, and the most notorious underground establishment of them all, the Depot.

The Depot was a dark saloon masquerading as a restaurant and it is true that the place sold as much booze as it did chicken fries. Its main draw was the gorgeous and friendly waitresses dressed in skimpy outfits. The drinks were strong and at any time of the day or night, half the downtown Oklahoma City oil industry congregated there.

My former business partner, John and I had an engineer. Those days preceded the age of cell phones and we began noticing music and noise in the background when Nick called in a report. We soon realized that he was reporting from his “office” in the Depot rather than one of our oil wells out in the sticks.

The Depot was dark and loud and if I told you that I had witnessed a sex act performed on an adjacent table, I would be lying. I actually saw more than one, and I imagine they were a common occurrence in some of the back corner booths.

During the oil boom of the eighties, Oklahoma City emulated the wildest of any past boomtown, and the Oklahoma City Concourse the very epicenter of wildness.

This past oil boom saw none of the excesses of the eighties oil boom and there was no place, at least to my knowledge, as wild and crazy as the Depot. I am glad that I experienced the boom and all its excesses while it existed, but most of all I am glad that I survived the experience.

Eric'sWeb

Holdin' Five Aces

In Oklahoma, there is no rule for naming an oil well. Many companies use the name of the mineral owner but there is no law that says you have to. Because of this, the well name is whatever the operator wants to give it and this has resulted in some whimsical monikers through the years.

Toward the end of the last oil boom there was a Kansas operator named Wild Boys Land Cattle and Oil Company, and they were often more whimsical than most companies when it came to naming their wells. Here are some of their well’s names:

Face the Fire #2
Rock Salt Blues #1
Nose to the Wind #1
Slapping Leather #1
Muddy Streets and Dollar Baths #1
Against a Crooked Sky #1
Rawhide #1
Out on Bail #1
It’s Just Crude #1
Saddle Sores #1
Shotgun Rider #1
Fistful of Dollars #1
Shootout in Lake City #2
Having a Few Beers #1
On the Rocks #8-C
Riding Thunder #1
Whiskey Hills #1
Snake Bite #1
Riding into Hell and Back Again #1
Hell Ain’t Ready for Us Yet 2-2
Eatin’ Dust and Drinkin’ Whiskey #1

And my own personal favorite:

Holdin’ Five Aces #1

Oil drillers are generally a superstitious lot and some say it is bad luck to use any name other than the mineral owner. There may be some truth to this superstition as many of the above wells were completed as dry holes.

Maybe, but what I’ve always heard and believe to be true is never, ever name a well after your wife, your mother, your daughter or your girlfriend. Why? I haven’t a clue.

Eric'sWeb

Kevin's Excellent Adventure

Years ago, when my wife Anne and I had a little oil company, we drilled quite a few wells in Garfield County, Oklahoma with another little oil company from Norman. They had a geologist named Kevin and he was a wild man. We learned as much on a Monday after completing a well the previous Friday.

When a well reaches total depth, most oil companies run an electrical survey into the open hole. The survey records a “picture” of the zones intersected and gives a mathematical portrait of the productive potential of each zone penetrated. That Friday, the log indicated we had found a highly productive zone that could make us all wealthy.

Logging, for some unknown reason, rarely takes place during daylight. This well was no exception and it was ten at night when the last log popped out of the hole and we began celebrating. Kevin had an override in the well, a carried interest, and was in line to make lots of money.

Kevin and Bruce, one of our employees that also had an override, had brought along a cooler filled with ice and beer. Already lubricated, they started in on a bottle of Jack Daniel’s after seeing the log. Anne and I went home to Oklahoma City to celebrate in private. Kevin and Bruce headed for the mean streets of Oklahoma City.

Bruce somehow managed to straggle home before dawn. Not so Kevin. He took a taxi to Will Rogers Airport and bought a ticket for Acapulco in Mexico. He arrived the next morning, beginning to sober up and already feeling much like warmed over death. He only wanted to get a room and sleep for twenty-four hours. It was not to be.

Some dignitary, the Queen of England or some such, was also visiting Mexico and there wasn’t a single empty room in the entire resort. He spent the night at the airport, catching a plane back to Oklahoma City where his anxious wife was waiting for him.

No, Kevin didn’t get a divorce. He did get an earful, though. The well came in like gangbusters and we were all happy, and somewhat assuaging his wife’s ire. The next time we logged a well, she accompanied him to the well and didn’t let him out of her sight.

Eric'sWeb

Black Gold and Stringbeans

Growing up about thirty miles from Shreveport, I attended the Louisiana State Fair every year until I moved out of state. One year, I met a very famous person indeed.

I began collecting rocks at an early age, and decided that I wanted to pursue a career in geology long before graduating from high school. I don’t remember what the year was when the meeting with the famous person occurred, though it was probably the late fifties or early sixties. I was still a boy, not yet in high school.

Visiting the fair with my parents and grandparents, I followed along behind, bored from looking at too many prize roosters and blue ribbon pies. I wanted to be out on the fairway, smelling the hot dogs and cotton candy, and waiting in line for a seat on the roller coaster. Uninterested as I was, my ears picked up when my Grandpa Rood pointed someone out to me.

“See that man over there? It’s H.L. Hunt, the richest man in the world.”

The person my granddad pointed to did not look like the world’s richest man. Dressed in clothes that obviously came off a department store’s cheapest rack, he looked more like a shoe salesman – a mostly unsuccessful shoe salesman at that. At least he was wearing a bowtie. He was standing alone behind a small booth along with a display of canned goods.

Hunt had a little canning company called HLH. It sold beans, carrots and corn. H.L. Hunt was a Texas oil magnate but his passion was selling canned string beans. Every year he would attend the Louisiana State Fair and man the tiny booth displaying his canned goods. I am quite sure that few people there knew that he was the richest man in the world. My Grandpa knew who he was because he had worked in the oil patch all his life, finally retiring with Humble Oil.

“Go introduce yourself to him,” my grandmother said. “Tell him you’re going to be the best oil and gas geologist that ever lived.”

I am not so shy now, but I was painfully so then. Cajoled by my parents and grandparents, I finally sidled over to his booth and introduced myself. I told him that it was an honor meeting him and that I wanted to grow up and become an oilman just like him. I don’t remember much about what he said, but it was something like, “That’s nice, son. Take a can of my string beans to your mama. See how she likes them.”

Yes, he handed me a can of HLH string beans, clasped his hands behind his back and then turned away, tiring of his conversation with an adolescent Louisiana hick. I thanked him though his faraway stare told me he was not listening.

“What did he say?” My Grandpa asked when I returned to my very impressed parents and grandparents.

“Not much. I did most of the talking but he did give me this,” I said, handing my mom the can of string beans.

My meeting with the richest man in the world may have impressed my parents and grandparents though did little to impress me. I am sure he felt likewise. The brief encounter was no more than I just described though I have often thought about the strange man many times. Even though he was one of the most successful oil persons that ever lived, his passion was selling canned string beans that likely never added a nickel to his vast wealth. So many years later, I think that I know the answer why.

I kept my promise to H.L. Hunt, becoming an oilman - albeit not quite as successful - like himself. I also became a competent oil and gas geologist, using that talent to support myself in good stead for many years now. My passion, however, is pecking out words on a keyboard, and regurgitating my thoughts, memories and mysteries for anyone that will read them. I do not possess vast wealth in oil money, but I could not live a month on all that I have made from my writing.

Writing is my passion but, yes, I have a very deep love affair with geology and the study of the earth. I suppose that frumpy man in a bowtie I met so many years ago probably felt the same way about oil and gas. As I think back, I realize what a shame it is that I didn't have him autograph that can of string beans.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Ski Trip From Hell - part 4

To alleviate the tension, I tried to say something light and humorous on the way back to the Saab. They ignored my one-liner. I know that I am not a perfect person, and I can take my fair share of friendly ribbing. What was coming out of Nan and Gail’s mouths wasn’t friendly; it was mean, hateful and meant to hurt.

Already humiliated by my failure as an athlete, I headed back to the condo as Nan and Gail continued verbally attacking everything from the way I walked and talked, to my manhood, or lack thereof. Soon unable to contain my silence, I began returning their verbal jabs with a few well-placed oral slams of my own. As we walked into the front door, the three of us were fairly yelling at each other.

I went to the frig and popped the top on a Coors, slamming it in a gulp or two and then quickly opening another. Nan and Gail followed my lead, each grabbing a beer and drinking them between evil outbursts. By this time, we were all saying, or more precisely shouting, things we should have regretted in the morning. Locked in the heat of verbal battle, it did not matter.

My marriage to Gail would last a few more years, but already strained since we had moved to Oklahoma City. I knew that Gail had issues with me but had not known until that moment how contentious they had become. I do not think that Nan had a clue about the depth of Gail’s dislike for me, but it was obvious that she was enjoying the contest. It was then that the door to Mick and Nan’s bedroom cracked open.

It was Mick, still dressed in his pajamas, his eyes as red as blood, his dark hair a rumpled mess, and his complexion the pale color of someone approaching the River Styx.

“I’m sick as a dog but I’ve been listening to you two bitches attacking Eric. As ill as I am, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you trash my best friend.”

The battle of the sexes was on; with Mick on my side, a weight lifted off my shoulders as the cavalry of his presence charged over the proverbial hill. No longer outnumbered, I began verbally fighting with renewed energy.

We continued arguing until we had gone through every beer in the refrigerator, and the lone bottle of red wine we had bought. I can’t remember too much about the argument except that there was no clear winner.

“Damn it, I’m hungry,” Mick finally said. “At least arguing with you two bitches has cured my flu. Let’s go get something to eat.”

We had our fancy dinner on the town that night, and then danced until closing at the loudest, most garish discothèque we could find. We were all smiling that night when we returned to the condo, and still smiling in the morning. We skied half a day Monday, and then started back to Oklahoma City, the snow on the roads melted and our return trip without incident.

Back at work the next day, I stood in the parking lot, staring at the crumpled hood of my beautiful orange Saab. I still loved it dearly but knew in my heart that no matter how expert its repair, it would never again be - much like my rapidly failing marriage - the car I drove off the showroom floor.

Eric'sWeb

Ski Trip From Hell - part 3

Much as our day of skiing had disappeared, our plan for dinner and a few hours of wild nightlife dissolved along with Mick’s good health. We had stopped at a grocery store and laid in a loaf of bread, some canned food, luncheon meat and a few beers. Lucky for Nan, Gail and I as that was all we had to eat and drink.

The little condominium had two full-sized bedrooms, a living room with a wood-burning fireplace, a small kitchen and one bathroom. We three healthy ones built a fire, had a sandwich and a few beers while we listened to Mick tossing his cookies through the thin walls. Mick’s flu continued through the night. The last time I looked at the clock it was three in the morning. Early-riser Gail shook me awake around six.

“Get up or we’ll miss half a day of skiing.”

Dragging myself out of the warm sack, I washed my face and pulled on my heavy ski apparel. It was only twenty-eight degrees outside as Nan, Gail and I drove up the hill to the ski resort, Mick still too sick to get out of bed. We were soon on the bunny slope, Nan giving Gail and me a few quick instructions.

Nan smiled and nodded when Gail said, “I can do this. Let’s go to the top of the mountain.”

After a quick demonstration of how to get on the ski lift, Nan and Gail mounted the chair in front of me. I slipped and slid but managed to scurry into the next chair beside an older woman that refused to look at me. She was dressed in the finest skiwear, her boots and skis the top of the line. She had a frown on her face and just kept shaking her head. She did not reply when I said, “Nice day.”

Mounting a ski lift is one thing, exiting the first time something altogether different. My heart raced as we approached the dismount area. Having no idea what to do, I pushed my rear off the wooden seat, my boots instantly tangling. It wouldn’t have been so bad to fall off the lift, but the moment I lost my balance, I grabbed the snobby woman beside me. She struggled to release herself from my grasp, but like a drowning swimmer, I held on, refusing to let go.

The stranger and I tumbled off the lift and slid down the hill for at least a dozen feet. When we finally slid to a stop, the woman quickly untangled herself , dusted herself off and skied away, hoping, I suppose, that know one had seen the disgraceful debacle.

Two people had. Nan and Gail were standing about ten feet away, laughing their butts off. The remainder of the day deteriorated from that point. I tried my best, but I could not get the hang of free falling down a mountain on a pair of unwieldy fiberglass slats. By noon, I was bruised, exhausted and completely humiliated.

Gail, on the other hand, was a natural athlete. She skied to the bottom of the mountain, never falling. I should have been so lucky. I made it to the bottom of the mountain, but mostly on my face. When I finally reached the lodge at the base of the mountain, I found Nan and Gail waiting for me.

“You’re a real piece of work,” Gail said. “I don’t even know how to describe how much you embarrassed us, or even what to call you.”

“Super Klutz,” Nan said, laughing. “When it comes to skiing, you just suck.”

Like the mountainside, the day continued downward from that point. Feeling like a complete fool, I followed the two laughing females up the mountain again, dismounting with much the same results as before.

Next time down, I pulled off my skis and went to the bar in the lodge. There I waited until five when Nan and Gail tapped on the picture window to indicate they were ready to go back to the condo. As I plodded to the orange Saab, I was looking forward to a peaceful evening. My humiliation had only just begun.

Eric'sWeb

Ski Trip From Hell - part 2

I had the brakes nailed to the floorboard but the bright orange Saab slowed not a mile-per-hour. The pickup truck in front of us had stopped for a red light, a naked engine block in its truck bed to supply rear-end ballast on the icy roads. The four of us had an eternity to brace ourselves for the ensuing impact. It seemed like forever as we finally experienced the sickening thud that followed.

The very low speed impact had no effect on us physically, or on the truck that we hit. It did peel the hood back on the Saab and bend the radiator backwards. The Texas farmer just smiled and shook his head when we offered to call the police, or at least exchange phone numbers.

“You hit that old engine block. You did not touch my truck. You don’t owe me nothing and it was your fault, so you’ll have to pay for the damages on that orange whats-it of yours. I don’t see any reason to call the police.”

Neither did I. We quickly decided there was no mechanical, only structural damage to the car and continued the final two-hundred-fifty miles to the Red River Ski Resort.

The remainder of the trip went without incident but it was late afternoon when we reached Red River – not enough time to ski so we got the keys to our condo instead and then stopped at a ski shop to rent boots, skis, etc. It was dark when we pulled into the front of the little condo, Mick frowning and less than a happy camper.

“This condo is nice, and at least we can eat dinner at a nice restaurant and catch up on a little nightlife.”

Mick’s frown and silence had accompanied us practically since leaving Dalhart. “I don’t know about dinner,” he said. “I’m feeling a little sick.”

“Don’t be that way, Mick,” I said. “I did the best I could.”

Mick was glancing around for a bathroom, his right hand shaking in time with his head. His other hand was at his mouth. “It’s not you,” he said. “I’m sick and think I’m gonna puke.”

CONTINUED TOMORROW

Eric'sWeb

Ski Trip From Hell - part 1

I skied for the first time with my best friend Mickey. We both worked at Cities Service Oil Company during the middle seventies. Mickey and his wife Nancy were expert skiers. My wife Gail and I had never tried it. They were our friends and convinced us we should take a weekend ski trip to Red River in New Mexico.

“We’ll leave Oklahoma City right after work and drive straight though to Red River,” Mick said. “We’ll get there in time to ski the whole day and then rest up a little before party time begins.”

We were all younger then and the plan sounded plausible. We left OKC before six and headed west on I-40, soon aware our plans had already begun going awry. It started snowing around five, I-40 becoming increasingly impassible by the time we reached Amarillo and stopped for a hamburger. Gail and I are both from Louisiana and not used to snow, much less the amount that had fallen and was continuing to fall.

Gail and I had our first new car, an Oklahoma State University orange 1973 Saab. It had a heated passenger seat and front wheel drive. The salesperson had assured me that no car was better in snow or on ice than that particular automobile. His words gave me little comfort as I had struggled to keep it on the road for the past six hours.

“Let’s get a room here in Amarillo, I said. “The Interstate is a mess.”

“Not in the plan,” Mick said. “We keep moving. Conditions will improve.”

Famous last words. Mick and Nan slept in the back seat, Gail in the passenger seat as I plodded through a blizzard worse than I could have ever imagined. When I finally made it to Dumas, I pulled into the first motel I found. Mick was less than enthralled.

“We can’t stop here. We’ll miss an entire day of skiing.”

Mick, Nan and Gail, having slept most of the distance from Amarillo, had no idea of the weather conditions. On the other hand, my eyes were almost blind from trying to discern the pavement from the ditch – all solid white - for the past two hours.

“I’m stopping,” I said. “If you’re serious about heading on to Red River, I’ll call you a cab to the bus station.”

Mick glared at me but followed me to the office of the motel. There was one room left, thank heavens, and Mick and I flipped a coin for the single bedroom. He won. He and Nan spent the night on a real bed, Gail and me on a lumpy couch. It didn’t much matter because exhausted, I fell asleep almost immediately.

It was no longer snowing when we awoke early the next morning. Mick questioned my manhood as we ate breakfast at a nearby truck stop. I ignored him, all the way to Dalhart. We were in town when he began yelling.

“You’re on a sheet of solid ice and driving way to fast. Slow down, Wildman. You’re going to hit that truck in front of us.”

Driving on ice is one thing. Stopping quickly on ice is something else altogether. We braced ourselves, and held our collective breaths as we plowed into the back of a stationary pickup truck.

CONTINUED TOMORROW

Eric'sWeb

Oil Well From Hell - part 2

You do not open a drill-stem-test tool after dark; at least that was true twenty years ago when standard light bulbs commonly illuminated the drilling rig. This is because an exploding light bulb can easily ignite natural gas. It was not something we were worrying about on this well, but we should have been.

I stood on the drill floor, watching as the drill stem tester opened the tool for the first time, anything that might be in the formation sucked into the drill pipe by hydrostatic pressure. If there were enough pressure, whatever gas or fluid in the pipe would flow to the surface. In anticipation of this, we had a pipe from the test tool protruding out to the reserve pit. I expected to see nothing at all, but I got a big surprise.

The sound of natural gas accelerating up through the pipe soon began stressing everyone’s ears. When the gas hit the surface, it streamed from the relief pipe in a super-charged, jet-like whoosh. My eyes were wide and I was holding my ears when the oil hit, spraying from the pipe in a jet of solid crude, projectile vomiting from the well.

Two minutes passed with the well showing no signs of abating its wild flow of oil and natural gas. James W., the assistant Cities Service field superintendent stood beside me. It took a minute for me to realize how stressed that he had become. James was a big man that looked a little like an over-the-hill professional wrestler. He was not acting like a macho wrestler. There were tears in his eyes and I had the distinct impression that he was on the verge of passing out.

“James,” I said, grabbing his big right shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

Daylight was rapidly disappearing, but even in the flickering luminosity coming from the rig floor, I could see that his face had taken on the ashen expression of someone suffering a near-death experience. A sorrowful moan exited from his open mouth as his upper body rocked back and forth like a strong oak in a whistling gale.

“Are you okay?” I demanded, administering a vigorous shake to his arm.

All he could say was, “Oh God Damn, oh God Damn!”

It was then that I realized we were in trouble and I did not have a clue what it was, or what to do about it even if I did. I am not a small man, but James was six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier. Still, I was becoming quickly agitated by the scream of natural gas, roar of erupting oil and the look of total desperation on my big friend’s face. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I wheeled him around, shook him as hard as I could and screamed in his face.

“You get a grip, James, or I swear I am going to slap the shit out of you. Tell me what the matter is, now!”

James quit shaking and opened his mouth, as if to clear his plugged ears.

He was moaning when he said, “This is how my Daddy died, burned to death on a drill stem test pulled after dark.”

I was still shaking him and screaming in his face. “What do we need to do?” James did not answer me. He just keep wobbling from side to side and shaking his head. I let go of him and grabbed the tester. “Shut in the well, now!”

Heavier than the air, natural gas had pooled around the drilling rig. We were ten feet off the ground, but the liquids-rich gas flooded my nostrils. The drill stem tester quickly shut in the well, instantly stopping the flow of oil and natural gas to the pit.

“Get off the rig!” I shouted, moving from one roughneck to the next. “Get away from the rig! Do it! And don’t crank your cars.”

We were soon all standing a hundred yards from the abandoned drilling rig, the roughnecks and driller looking at me as if I were a crazy man. It was in the days before the cell phone. After threatening the crew, I returned to the location, cautiously starting my company car and driving ten miles to the nearest pay phone.

A company engineer reached the location from Wichita in about an hour. He never told me if I had done the right thing, but he sent the crew home and told me to return to my motel room. Next morning, a knock on my door awoke me. It was Fred, the head geologist and my company supervisor.

“I’m relieving you for the rest of the well,” he said.

Fred and I had breakfast but he dodged every effort I made to try to find out if my rash actions of the previous night were met with agreement or discord. I never learned. No one in management ever gave me an atta boy, or reamed my ass. I did not see James again because I never sat another well in that district.

I left Cities shortly after the incident, never learning from anyone in the company if I was a hero, or an idiot. Looking back, I was probably more of the latter than the former, but it was not my fault. Put in a position of responsibility for which I was sorely incompetent. I could only do the best that I could do. As a Vietnam veteran, I well knew the look of desperation, and had only acted after seeing that expression on James’ big face.

There are few occupations as dangerous as drilling oil and gas wells. I can live with the realization that I am probably a fool because it is better than the possibility, no matter how remote, of attending the funeral of a charred burn victim.

Eric'sWeb

Oil Well From Hell - Part 1

As a geologist, I “sat” many wells during my stint with Cities Service Oil Company. Sitting a well included staying on or near a location during its drilling, usually in a small trailer. The well site work was noisy, often dangerous but usually boring. One of the last wells that I sat was anything but boring and it caused me to think about another line of work.

It was the dead of winter in Harper County, Kansas, twelve feet of snow on the ground. I had a motel room in nearby Anthony where I would go to shower and take an occasional nap. Drilling an oil well is a 24-7 operation that continues without pause until the intended total depth is reached.

The wildcat well was running low (a geologic expression that usually portends bad news) and we had just penetrated the top ten feet of the Viola Dolomite, one of the zones we had thought might be productive. I saw some oil staining in the samples and had a slight “kick” on the gas detector so I called for a drill stem test to evaluate the zone, even though no one had much hope left for the well.

A drill stem test is simply a tool attached to the drill pipe. It is lowered to the formation to be tested. It is a little like putting your finger on the end of a straw and then sticking it into a glass of water. When you remove your finger, the straw fills with water. A DST is a little more complicated than that, but you get the picture.

A complete DST includes pulling the drill pipe, attaching the DST tool and then running it back in the hole. Once the packers are set, the tool is open and shut for a prescribed period to see if anything flows to the surface (e.g. oil, gas or water). After picking the packer seats, I left the location and went to my motel room for a much-needed rest.

A DST can take many hours, so that night I had a good rest. I returned to the location to observe as they opened the tool for the first time. We were running “low” and not looking very good, and I expected to see nothing more than a possible puff of natural gas. What I actually saw came as an almost complete shock.

CONTINUED TOMORROW

Eric'sWeb

Stealing Watermelons

My ex-partner John and I drilled and operated our first well in 1978. The Kelln, located a few miles north of the tiny Major County, Oklahoma town of Cleo Springs is still producing after thirty years. Thirty years ago we weren’t so sure how it would turn out.

John and I are both geologists (he is also now a lawyer) and knew little at the time about drilling and completing wells. We hired a man that did, a geological engineer named Bill A. Bill had engineered hundreds of wells in the area, mostly for Texas operator T.F. Hodge, and there was little he didn’t know.

Much like today, it was hot and dry when we drilled the Kelln well. The area north of Cleo Springs is largely agricultural and Bill knew the location of a nearby watermelon patch.

“We’ll load up the trunk,” he said. “There’s so many out there that the farmers won’t miss a few.”

I was riding shotgun as Bill drove his Chevy field car off the section line road, into the large watermelon patch that stretched as far as we could see. Following a farmer’s trail, he drove into the middle of the patch and parked beneath the sparse shade of a stunted blackjack tree. After watching him pop the trunk lid, I followed him down a row lined with huge watermelons.

Bill was tall and had to really bend to thump each melon to determine its ripeness. We soon chose six prime specimens and loaded them into the Chevy’s deep trunk. So enthralled were we with our search, we never heard two men in a pickup truck pull in behind us.

“What are you boys doing?” a voice behind us said.

Bill and I turned to see two large farmers, both dressed in sweaty overalls. Neither man appeared particularly pleased. I was at a loss for words but not Bill. Reaching for his wallet, he pulled out a twenty and handed it to the older man.

Bill was as tall as the men confronting us but lanky, unlike the two barrel-chested men with huge arms and farmer’s tans. With a big Texas grin on his face Bill never missed a beat.

“We were just coming to look for you two boys,” he said, purposely adopting the local drawl in his speech. “Is twenty enough for these melons we bought?”

The big man nodded and took the twenty without answering or returning Bill’s mile-wide smile. Glancing at me and cocking his head toward the door, he signaled me to get in the car. He slammed the trunk shut and followed me, not bothering to say bye to the two farmers.

They watched us drive away, mopping sweat from their heads with their worn out ball caps and ignoring our dust. Bill didn’t say a word until we were about a mile down the road. That’s when his infectious grin appeared again on his expressive face.

“I’ve been stealing melons from that patch for years. Guess it was about time I got caught.”

By this time he was laughing and I joined him, wondering as I did if stolen watermelons tasted better than ones you purchased. As we continued down the road in a trail of dust I decided that was information I didn’t need to know.

Eric'sWeb

A Trip to the Depot

If you needed to locate someone in the oil business during the last oil boom, the first place to look was the Depot in the Concourse of downtown Oklahoma City. Everyone in the oil patch knew about the Depot, by far the most notorious restaurant in town. Far more than just a restaurant, the Depot was every bit the old west saloon featured in every western ever filmed.

The Depot was a sprawling restaurant at the base of the escalator in the 101 Park Avenue Building. Even deeper than the Concourse, the Depot resided at the bottom of a flight of stairs. The Depot was, in fact, the sunken living room of the Concourse. No matter what time of the day or night, the club was always packed.

A person entering the Depot would first encounter a well lit hallway, on an even elevation with the Concourse that led to several restaurant offices and bathrooms. Beyond the hallway lay a darkened nether world replete with loud voices, laughter and music. The first person a visitor was likely to encounter was a scantily clad waitress sporting a big welcoming smile.

It's a fact that there are many gorgeous women in Oklahoma City and the depot waitresses were no exception. They were always happy, or seemed so, because the service company salesmen that frequented the club all had endless expense accounts. The Depot was always filled with oil company personnel being plied with food, drink and other things (cocaine, pot, women, under the table bribes) to induce them to use their particular service instead of the person holding court at the next table.

A big, circular bar fronted the rectangular shaped room. The entire place was dimly lit, and some of the back booths barely visible. The term bat cave comes to mind and the trysts that went on in these darkened recesses are legend.

Eric'sWeb

Another Log on the Fire

December proved to be the coldest yearend Oklahoma has experienced in many years. Now, with 2009 barely gone, a new blue norther is bearing down on Oklahoma. It is beginning to precipitate as I take my two pugs for a walk in the backyard. Tomorrow morning’s low is predicted with a wind chill of minus fifteen. It reminds me of a winter I experienced some thirty years ago. As a young geologist for Cities Service Oil Company, I spent almost two years watching wildcat wells as they drilled. The state was Kansas but sometimes seemed like total chaos.

I was sitting a well near Anthony, Kansas when a giant snowstorm blew in. The storm lasted two days. When the snow finally quit falling, it had left fourteen foot drifts on the sides of the road. In the days before cell phones I had to drive to the nearest payphone and give my morning report to the powers-that-be in Oklahoma City before eight in the morning.

I left the rig before seven, heading for a service station about fifteen miles away. Growing up in Louisiana, I had never seen much snowfall. I did get a little taste of it when I attended graduate school at the University of Arkansas, but nothing like I experienced that day in Kansas.

It was snowing so hard, that I experienced a total whiteout. How I stayed on the road I will never know. I never made it to the payphone and will also never know how I made it back to the rig without going in the ditch. I remained on location until it finally stopped snowing before driving to town to file a report. What I saw on the way there was as surreal as a scene from a Kafka novel.

Snowplows had cleared the highway, moving the massive amounts of snow to the side of the road. The drilling well was in the country, cattle ranching comprising the primary source of revenue for the locals. In flat central Kansas there are few trees to break the wind and rows of cattle lay dead, frozen to death, all along the fence line.

When the weather finally went back over the freezing mark, the snow began to melt, turning the location into a mud hole. Long before the days when the EPA began requiring portable toilets on all the drilling rigs, your only option if you had to relieve yourself was to seek whatever cover you could find (hard to do on the barren plains of central Kansas) and just go. I remember stepping out the backdoor of the logging trailer and sinking up to my thighs in mud.

The wildcat well was a dry hole and I got very sick, my throat so sore I could barely swallow. When I returned to Oklahoma City, I hung up my Louisiana jacket for good and ordered a goose down coat from the North Face – a coat I still own.

A blue norther approaches as I keyboard this story but I’m not worrying about it. I don’t have to drive twenty miles tomorrow morning to call in a morning report so I think I’ll just finish this story, mix a little whiskey and water, and then put another log on the fire.

Eric'sWeb

Party Naked

During the last oil boom, Christmas parties became monster occasions in downtown Oklahoma City. Schlumberger, Halliburton, Dresser Atlas and all the large service companies rented massive ballrooms and sated every guest there with food, drink and entertainment. The oil companies were not far behind, especially those in constant search of investor money.

Single and still young, I once had three women that I was dating show up at the same party. The ballroom was so large and the crowds so thick, I almost made it without discovery. Well, almost!

A year or so later, I made the break from Texas Oil & Gas, forming a partnership with a geophysicist friend of mine. We had an office on the eighth floor of the Park Harvey Center. The venerable office building had a bank of elevators in the center of the floor. A hallway wrapped around this center square with the offices on the outside, facing the windows.

In addition to John and me, there was a small oil company, a land (oil leases) company, two lawyers and a couple of independent geologists. We all knew each other and decided to go together and have a Christmas party on our floor. We chipped in for the booze and food, and one of the lawyers mentioned that he had a few waitresses as clients that owed him money. He was sure that they would act as waitresses free in exchange for working off some of their indebtedness to him.

About this time, I had just begun dating Anne and wanted desperately to impress her. When the night of the party arrived, John and I had a big shock. The lawyer’s servers were actually strippers and they were dressed only in baby dolls. Since we were not paying them, they were not afraid of us firing them, and they quickly began sampling the hooch as fast as they dispensed it.

Word soon spread. Before long, leering geologists packed the hallways along with landmen and engineers. The girls did not mind, soon doffing their tops, and then their bottoms.

Anne showed up with a friend, a matronly secretary. After practically fainting, the older woman hurried back to the elevators, leaving the increasingly rowdy crowd for safer climes. I do not remember a lot after that, having already consumed too much whiskey.

The party continued until all the whiskey was gone, and the girls dressed and departed. Anne was a good sport about the situation, as was Debbie, John’s future wife that also showed up. Anne remained sober, had a clear head and drove me home safely. I awoke to a massive hangover and a ringing phone. The news of the party had spread and those that had missed it were calling to see if the stories were true.

The following year John and I were drilling oil wells and had several employees. Instead of the previous year’s drunken debacle, we hosted a sedate wine and cheese party that lasted only until seven. It did not matter as hundreds of oil industry voyeurs showed up anyway, just in case.
Those were the go go years of the last oil boom. Even amid the blurred memories, many things that occurred read almost like fiction. The events that occurred during that era were true. Even I couldn’t make this stuff up.

Eric'sWeb

World's Greatest Gamblers

The present economic woes of the world cause me to think of something that happened nearly three decades ago. Despite all my efforts, the company I had formed and fostered had gone “belly up” during the eighties oil bust. It was an awful time in my life - not the worst, but in the top three.

My second wife Anne was my partner in the company and we spent six months trying to find a “white knight” to bail out the company. We were not successful. Everyone - except of course the people that make a living in the industry - hates oil companies. This is because crude oil is the number one commodity in the entire world. No one can live without it. When prices get high, for whatever reason, everyone feels the pinch.

Back in the eighties, oil companies began going “belly up” right and left. Since the main industry in Oklahoma is oil, the state and everyone in it suffered direly. Drilling rigs that had cost millions to build were first stacked (stored) and then cut up for scrap metal when it became apparent the bust would last longer than expected. It lasted for more than a decade.

We are now into yet another recession, and the only good thing about it – for the oil industry, that is – is it signaled an end to President-elect Obama’s proposed windfall profits tax designed to punish the evil oil industry. Well, he was much too young to remember the oil bust of the eighties and the adverse effect it had on thousands of everyday working people, or the fatalist saying, “Last one to leave the State, turn out the lights.”

I digress. Anne and I were looking for a “white knight” to bail out our company. A rich oily from Midland, Texas dropped by to hear my story and see if he could help. He sat across the desk from me, listening to my sad tale when suddenly he got a big grin on his face.

“Did I say something funny?” I asked.

“You’re bringing back memories of when my own oil company went bankrupt. I know it seems like the world has ended and that you will never recover, but you will.” The man began grinning again.

“What?” I implored him.

“This is your first time around,” he said. “You can never really call yourself an oil man until you have been bankrupt at least twice.”

I have yet to go “belly up” a second time but the old oilie informed me of something I probably should already have known. There is no business on earth as risky as the oil business, and those that engage in it are truly the world’s greatest gamblers.

If you are an oilie, you also need to stand on your own two feet because – unlike Wall Street fat cats - you can bet that no matter how many people in your industry lose their jobs, their homes, their cars, and are unable to afford milk for their babies, Congress will NEVER bail you out.

Eric'sWeb

When the Weather Turns Cold

As a young geologist working for Texas Oil & Gas, I generated many prospects and experienced the late seventies oil boom first hand. One prospect a week was the company mantra. We drilled mostly developmental wells – those close to existing production. Texas Oil & Gas was the king of corner shooters, drillers that edged as close as possible to the wells of other operators. Although much reviled, we found lots of oil and gas.

I can’t remember exactly how many geologists we had at the old Midland Center in downtown Oklahoma City, but it is safe to say we had a dozen or so. During this time, Texas Oil & Gas was drilling more wells than any company in the country was. The Oklahoma City office of TXO was drilling the most wells of any TXO office, and I was generating the most wells in the Oklahoma City office.

It worked this way: I would drag into work about nine-fifteen on Monday. After a few cups of coffee, I would stare at a color-coded production map until I focused on a potential prospect. I would then map the geology, or trash the idea and start on another. By Friday, I would have a viable drilling prospect that I would show at the weekly meeting.

About a dozen people sat in on every Friday meeting, chief engineers, geologists and landmen. If they liked my prospect, they would approve it and put it on the drilling agenda. When I left the meeting, I would go to lunch. I rarely returned.

There was a bar in Oklahoma City at the time called Clementine’s. It was located in the basement of the Penn Square Mall. You could walk down a flight of stairs, or slide down via a sliding board. Once there, you felt as if you were in another world. Bill, a salesperson for one of the electric logging companies, would always be at Clementine’s after work on Fridays.

Mixed drinks were three for one at the bar and Bill had a standing tab for TXO geologists. I was always there, as were my fellow geologists, and many of the land, engineering and geological secretaries. After one very hectic week, my good friend and fellow TXO geologist Dave and I parked outside, entered the darkened doorway of Clementine’s and slid down the slide to the loud nightclub. It was a cold winter night.

Dave had curly dark hippie hair with a beard and moustache to match. His lips were always smiling and his dark eyes had a twinkle that somehow masked an ache in his heart he never explained to me.

Clementine’s had a parquet dance floor with a revolving disco ball overhead and vents for mists of steam that arose during every song. The bodies, both male and female, quickly became hot and steamy, and the crowd resembled pagans dancing in a misty Scottish moor. During the days before AIDS, casual sex was rampant, first names often disregarded, last names never discussed. Considering only the moment, we never thought about tomorrow.

How I survived my two years at TXO I will never know. That night, Dave melded into the darkness with some luscious honey he had met on the dance floor. After more Wild Turkey’s than I could count, I was ready to fall on my face. In the days before the cell phone, I somehow managed to find a pay phone and call my geologic secretary Gayle, asking her to join me. Gayle had two young sons - ages five and seven. It was her weekend to keep them.

Gayle was as tall as I am, with black hair that draped to her shoulders. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted with her light complexion. She looked like a goddess but had the gentle touch of a trusted friend.

“Stay there,” she said. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t climb the stairs by myself without falling on my face. I was leaning against the wall when Gayle found me through the crowd. Putting her arms around me, she walked me up the stairs, and then to her car where her two sons awaited.

My ex-wife Gail and I still owned a house that we were trying to sell. Gayle dropped me off, bestowing a wonderful kiss before she and her two boys drove away, leaving me alone in the darkness. She and I soon became a number.

Gayle and I dated for the best part of the next two years. My mother loved her and she kept telling me to marry her. I also loved Gayle and I think she loved me, but it was not to be. Too insecure in my own sexuality, I was too busy pursuing yet another one-night-stand to hook up with just one woman, no matter how gorgeous and intelligent she might be.

Years later, I still remember the go-go years at Texas Oil & Gas. I can’t remember the countless obscure faces of my many drunken one-night-stands, but I do remember Disco Dave and my other fellow geologic toilers, and when the weather is cold, like it is tonight, I remember lovely Miss Gayle.

Gondwana

Lady Gaga Does Enid

I made my exit from the corporate world in 1978, becoming an independent geologist at the age of thirty-two. My first wife Gail had left me with an old Triumph Tr4 and little else. Having saved almost nothing during the two years following the divorce, I began life as an independent with little money.

I left Texas Oil & Gas with only the money in my wallet and a thousand dollars borrowed from my new girlfriend Carol. Carol was a lease broker and as excited about the oil business as I was. When I finally sold a prospect, she drove me in her Ford Pinto to Garfield County to see the well.

Carol was a gorgeous woman with blonde hair, smoky blue eyes and a brain that rivaled her body. During the late seventies, women had abandoned their bras, and often their inhibitions. The day we went to Garfield County to see the well, she wore only a pair of cutoff blue jeans, flip-flops and a little nothing of a white blouse, sans bra.

We bought Coors tall boys when we stopped to fill the Pinto with gas and continued drinking throughout the day. After finally leaving the location, we ended up at a country and Western bar in Enid. This is when the trouble began.

Carol had come hither eyes and knew how to use them. Not long after bellying up to the dark and smoky bar, the cowboys started hitting on her. She loved it as I was eating my heart out.

“What’s your hurry?” she asked when I mentioned we should be getting back to town.

“Who are you, anyway?” a big cowboy asked after poking me in the shoulder.

“I’m not her brother,” I said, hoping he would get the message.

He didn’t, and neither did Carol. We ended up staying at the bar until it closed. She had a penchant for wrapping men around her finger and we somehow made it out of the bar without getting into a fight.

Our relationship lasted about a year. I was gaga over her and I think she liked me (I’m still not real sure) but our personalities were as volatile as fire and gasoline. We finally parted ways, but not until after many similar incidents to the one in the Enid bar.

Fiction South