Well Joe Bob Junior comes a sauntering into the ranch house the other day a looking like a mule done kicked him hard. He parks them saddle worn jeans on a bench and announces, "I'm thinking I'm going to be needing a new job soon." Such a well thought out philosophical statement from Joe Bob Junior is mighty rare so Bubba politely inquires, "Whatcha mean?" Junior explains that business down at the feed store has taken a turn for the worse and in a few months he just might be unemployed. Now this is not necessarily a state of affairs unknown to us members of the saddle bums of the month club so we offer him a bit of sympathy, most in the form of hee haws, armpit noises and other such manly gestures all designed to lift his spirits out of the water trough.

Junior spits on the floor and declares that he just don't think his slow road to unemployment is all that funny. Gonzolo mentions something about running like a scared jack rabbit and Junior comes off the bench frothing at the mouth and hollering that we don't know nothing about being fired. Now it's at this time that the New Mexico Kid, usually known as Wildy, because his name is Wildy, looks out from under his black felt flat rimmed Navajo trappers hat and says, "Please refrain from uncivilized actions Junior and I'll impart upon you the humor of a factual episode of a time past." Wow! Silence descends across the bunkhouse as we try to convert the Kid's words to understandable everyday cowboy language. Yep, a tale is on the way.

So we stash the ropes, pull off them muddy Nocona's, toss them big silver Mexican spurs with little jing a bobs that sound like the bells of Christmas when you walk, loosen up them belt buckles the size of 57 Chevy hubcaps and lean back against the pine knot walls. We pop open a couple of cold Lone Star beers and glue our dusty trail worn eyes on Wildy. I notice that Dirty Ernie has pulled out his trusty Mexican overlaid 51 and intends to take notes. On Sunday no doubt this story will appear under Ernie's name in the Latin news column of the world famous Del Rio Daily. Wildy commences to speak in that soft dry voice developed from years of living up on the high mesa near Shiprock.

Well Junior, it was right after my second year at Harvard (yep folks, Wildy is one educamated some of a buck, a cut above us Parker County grade school graduates). I got me a summer job in Albuquerque at the Aztec cut rate price supermarket, the tribal store down on South Kit Carson Drive. My job was to stuff groceries in a bag for customers and then hold out my hand for a tip. So one day I'm bagging away when this New York tourist lady that was staying at the fake pueblo El Monte Lodge shows up in the checkout line. She was wearing them little skinny bull fighter pants, a big red puffy silk shirt that looked like a hot air balloon, little teeny pink spiked heels with diamond encrusted straps, oversized Polaroid's plopped on top of that 3% peroxided hair and a smacking her lips like a mule as she chomped on about six pieces of Juicy Fruit gum. Now what amazed us about this foreigner amongst us was that she had about 27 pounds of indian jewelry draped about her skinny little body.

Yes sir, she had one of those great big Navajo squash blossom necklaces with chunks of turquoise about the size of golf balls, a genuine leather concho belt, several of them 1940's melted down coin silver jewelry bracelets made for railroad tourists dangling from her wrist, a coral red watch band, five or six big old silver rings covering her fingers, a pair of Zuni earrings, and a little dog on a leash. Now it was a causing a real buzz of chatter right there in the Aztec cut rate price supermarket. I could hear the staccato of Spanish, the low rumble of Navajo, snippets of Mescalero Apache, and something that sounded like the chant of a Ute indian rain dance over near the produce department. You see it was the little dog that got everybody excited.

It was a Chawa, you know, a little teeny Mexican Cha Wha Wa dog. It had on this little old collar with bits of turquoise, lapis lazuli and coral red stones stuck all over it. It was a wearing a little plum red fur coat to ward off the desert chill and it had on little black fur top booties with diamond collars around the top. All of this magical little creature was a firmly tied to that New York tourist ladies hand by a long 14K rolled gold chain firmly held by a hand sporting more turquoise than a pawn shop in Gallup the day before pay day. I'm a telling you the last time we saw this kind of excitement was when it was rumored that Pancho Villa was a heading this way. There was no movement, we were stunned, transfixed, time was standing still, even the overhead fans had quit turning. Then it happened!

The tourist lady looked up from the checkout line and said, "Oh Bag Boy." The race was on, pride was set aside, the price was too high. The smell of the big money tip blew across the store faster than a Sonora desert squall. Instantly every bagger in the Aztec cut rate price supermarket was all a heading to the exact same spot, la tourista lady. I seen Sonny Sweetwater a leaping over the photo counter, Juan Begay was a maneuvering through the shopping carts like a pro halfback a muttering something to himself in code, Maria Benitez came flying down the aisle like a flamenco dancer, and old Charlie Whitewater was coming from the meat department with his head down doing a good imitation of El Toro! However I arrived first due to some superior elbow work, some illegal tripping and a forearm that caused old Charlie to wind up sitting in a magazine rack.

I stuffed all the items in a bag and announced, "After you Senora." Where upon the tourist lady said, "Boy, don't forget the melon." I looked down on the counter and there it was, the melon, THE MELON. This big green thing that must have weighed 50 pounds and was the size of a feed sack. It was all covered with frost, no doubt caused by that Ute indian rain dance. I reached down and lifted that melon up one-handed and started for the door at the same time as the tourist lady and the Chawa dog. I could feel cold black eyes starring at me for capturing such a prize tip. Then I felt the 14K rolled gold chain a wrapping around my ostrich hide Tony Llama boot, I sensed the crash coming. Slowly I could see that big 50 pound wet slippery melon roll off my fingers a heading for the floor. I could also see that right in the middle of the impact zone stood this little jewel encrusted wide eyed Chawa dog. Pilot to crew, bombs away. EEEEeeeee Splat!

That tourist lady looked down at that big pile of red juicy pulp and seen that little Chawa dog a laid out flat like a buffalo herd had run over it and the screaming commenced. It sounded like the wail of a lonely coyote transitioning to an air raid siren then it turned into the screech of a desert Nighthawk. It was eerily like the twilight zone. Now being a gentlemen and a semi educated some of a buck I felt obligated to alleviate the pain being so loudly expressed by this tourist lady. So I looked her right square in the eye and said, "Don't worry about it lady, I'll get you another melon!" At this point for some reason the tourist lady fainted right there in the middle of the Aztec cut rate price supermarket.

I felt the hand on the back of my shirt collar, my boots barely touching the floor, the rush through the door and suddenly standing in the middle of South Kit Carson Drive, still wearing my bag boy apron. The store manager seemed to be hollering something that sounded like, "Don't ever come back." Yep Joe Bob Junior that's how it happened, that's how you get Fired On The Spot!

Keep your cinch tight and don't squat on your spurs buckaroos and buckarettes.

Copyright 2002 by Will Thorpe. All rights reserved. No part of this article may be reprinted in any form without permission of the author except for brief editorial quotes sarcastic or otherwise.