Anthony Roberts's Blog: A Son of the Great Satan

The Complete Persepolis: A Review

Why did it take me so long to get around to reading this book? I've written a novel, 'Sons of the Great Satan' set during the Iranian revolution, and I've read a number of accounts of that time - 'Prisoner of Tehran' and 'Daughter of Persia' - being two excellent memoirs. 'Persepolis' should have been a natural for me. I remember when the movie came out and wanting to see it. My own prejudices, I suppose. 'Persepolis' is a graphic novel and that equated to 'comic book' for me. I've never been a fan of comics, and the few graphic novels I've read didn't light my fire either. Personal prejudice I know, and like all prejudice, it can be very misguided.

I was an American teenager in Tehran at the same time that the author, Marjane Satrapi, was a young girl there. My story ended with a flight out in the fall of '78. In many ways that is when Ms. Satrapi's begins. Her family is well-educated, left-leaning and hungry for the overthrow of the Shah and democratic reform. She and her loved ones embrace the revolution without reservation. When the Shah flees in January 1979, they see this as the hard-won birth of freedom in a country too long held under the thumb of a dictator controlled by Western imperialists.

Then comes the return of the Ayatollah Khomeini and the dream of freedom dies under the iron rule of the mullahs. The people's revolution evolves into a theocratic state, and rather than liberty, the ancient tenants of Islam are imposed upon the masses. Those on the left, including Satrapi's own family members, are rounded-up, intimidated, persecuted... or worse.

Little Marjane tries to hold on to her independence as the State redefines the roles of women and young girls in the new Islamic Republic. It's a battle she cannot win. On top of all this comes the Iran/Iraq war. Sensing a weaken of Iran, their traditional enemy, Iraq, attempts to seize the Iranian oilfields. What Sadaam Hussien believes will be a 'cake walk' turns into one of the longest and bloodiest wars in the 20th century. Fearing for their child's safety, her mother and father send Marjane to Austria where she struggles not only with the fate of her homeland and family, but with her identity as a foreigner born in a nation that is quickly becoming a global pariah.

I'm not going to dwell on the artwork, which is excellent, as I was more interested in the story than the drawings. I enjoyed 'The Complete Persepolis' from cover to cover and am ashamed that I I haven't read this fine work sooner. I highly recommend this book to any one with an interest in the human side of that time and looking for a first hand account of the Islamic revolution. What can be more poignant than the fears and memories of a child?

Musings and Memories of Tehran

http://doorknobsandkeyholes.blogspot.com/2011/07/musings-on-memories-of-tehran.html

Excerpt from Nancy LaTurner's blog post 'Musings and Memories of Tehran'

"... Now, when I look at the photos on the TAS Facebook wall and read the posts of students from the graduating classes of 1975 through 1979, I am carried away by profound emotions. Even though the conditions in Tehran in those days churned with unrest and violence, these young people enjoyed their coming of age and still cherish their memories of high school days. Almost every post demonstrates deep respect for the Iranian people and the Persian culture. Our American youth who grew up in Tehran during the pre-revolutionary days do not come across as ugly – quite the contrary; these young people impress me as solid citizens of the world, compassionate and accepting of differences among nationalities.

The Facebook Tehran American School page introduced me to an outstanding novel that I want to recommend to you. Written by Anthony Roberts, TAS class of '79, Sons of the Great Satan portrays an enthralling story of a boy's coming of age -- and much more. Set in Tehran in the 1970s, this tightly written novel weaves the author's political insights throughout the thrilling action. Well-crafted scenes take the reader straight to the heart of a city on the brink of revolution. Roberts artfully draws three-dimensional characters who eloquently express a multitude of conflicting viewpoints on the place of religion and government in society. "

RATTLERS: A Tale of Bad Lands and Bad Men.

Once upon a time in the dying West. A short story about rednecks, racism and rattlesnakes. Local loser Jimmy Segwick is the manager and sole employee of the GasnGo Service Station in Balmorhea, Texas. He spends his days watching people pump gas and selling smokes and beer to the few remaining town folk. The monotony breaks when a stranger pulls up to Pump #1 and revels in Jimmy's tall tales of rattlesnake hunting. Bad men in bad lands. MATURE SUBJECT MATTER.

Also includes nine chapters of the author's epic novel, SONS OF THE GREAT SATAN, a compelling coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of revolutionary Iran. Rock'n'roll meets real revolution as American teenagers run wild in the streets of Tehran, Iran. Based on the author's years as a student at Tehran American School during the fall of the Shah. Take a ride with the SONS!

Island Wisdom

One of my friends, middle school teacher, Pua Case, invited me to sit in on a classroom lecture at the HOEA gallery here in Waimea. (Hawaiian Ohana for Education in the Arts). The room of 7th and 8th graders had come to see a gallery show of Hawaiian artists. The art ranged from heartfelt amateur to master artisans. Pua told me how important it was for the students to see local artists at all levels – Hawaiian artists. Too often the local youth felt left behind in their own homeland and needed to see the accomplishments of their people.
Here I was back in school again. The bad boy hiding out in the back of the class waiting for the bell to ring. I was ready to go after about ten minutes but stayed out of respect for my friend's kind invitation. After some classroom exercises, Pua invited Hawaiian master artisan, Dean Ka'ahanui, to speak to the students.
Dean was not a great speaker, or so I thought at first. His words came with a quietness that suggested one who didn't speak often and wasn't use to speaking in public. The students all sat as his feet as he explained his art to them. I stood in the back of the room with the teachers and listened.
Dean is a master carver. Give him a shell, a bone, some reeds, a piece of wood and he'll give you back a work of art. When he was a teenager he told his parents that he wanted to learn the ancient ways of carving and weaving. After some discussion with family and friends it was decided that he should go to Tahiti and study with a master artisan. Dean left the Big Island and traveled across the ocean to study. When he arrived in Tahiti the old master gave him a flute. Dean thought, "What does this have to do with learning how to carve?" The old man played him a song from the Marquesas Islands, home of the original Polynesians, then told him, "Learn to play this song of your ancestors, then come back to me when you are ready to learn more."
Dean practiced and practiced. He was terrible at first, but gradually got better. He spent all his time learning the instrument and the song his teacher had shown him. When he felt confident enough in his playing ability, he returned to the old man and played the Marquesas tune. His teacher smiled, took the flute from him and gave him a different flute with a higher pitch. "Now I will play a song from my home, Tahiti. Learn this song then come back when you are ready to learn more."
He learned to play the new song much faster as his skills had improved greatly with the first flute. Returning to the old man he played the Tahitian song. Again the old man smiled, took the flute from him, and gave him another. "This flute I have made as my gift to you. It is yours to keep. Go now and compose your own song. One that tells me of your heart and your love for your home. Come back when you are ready to learn more."
Dean spent many days composing a song that had meaning to him and spoke of his love for the rolling green hills of Waimea. When he played the song for his teacher the old man smiled and said, "Good. You have shown that you have discipline and heart, and that is what you must have to learn. I will teach you all I know. This is my gift to you. I will give you all that I have and hope that you pass my wisdom on to others."
For over a decade Dean studied with his teacher. He learned how to carve wood and bone, weave reads and coconut fiber, and etch beautiful designs on to the delicate surfaces of sea and turtle shells. One day his teacher approached him and simply said, "It is time for you to go home."
Dean then told the students how he spends his days. He rises before dawn to watch the sunrise. After breakfast he carves doing what he called 'the heavy work'. He takes a break for lunch and spends his afternoons doing the 'beautiful work', the intricate carvings and the polishing of shells. He puts his work aside in the late afternoon to watch the sun sink below the ocean's horizon. In this way he communes with nature and God, which are the same. With the final rays of the sun he prays to God and gives thanks for the beauty in his life and all he has learned.
The once chatty students sat silent and mesmerized. His simple story touched us all. He looked down at all the children and spoke to them in a soft and pleading manner, "Look around you when you go home. Look at your family. Talk to your elders. Your grandpa, your grandma. Your uncles and aunties. They have wisdom for you, and you'll miss them when they're gone. This life is short. Cherish it. Take every moment into your heart, always with aloha for those around you."
I found myself tearing up. His simple words struck me as if they were a revelation. I noticed several of the teachers wiping their eyes, and all the students were quiet and still with respect and awe. He finished his talk with this invitation, "You might see me around town at the Farmer's Market sometime. I don't talk much. I might be sitting there weaving or carving, minding my own business, but don't be afraid to come up to me and say aloha. I am here for all of you. And if you want to learn any of this wisdom that was given to me, it would be my gift to share it with you."

Coming Summer 2012: The Will of God

I've had a number of people ask me if there will be a sequel to my novel, Sons of the Great Satan. The answer is YES! I'm currently working on The Will of God which picks up two years after the end of Sons. Back for another ride are Joey Andrews and Farhad Zadeh, along with Robert Gandalphi, Terry Andrews, Javeed Yasmin, and his sister, Lila Yasmin, Ali Hamidi, Imam Rahimi, new characters plus some special and not-so-special guest stars: Ayatollah Khomeini, Saddam Hussein, President Ronald Reagan, and yes, The Grateful Dead.

You wanted to know what happens next? Summer 2012: the SONS ride again!

In the meantime... here's a tease.

THE WILL OF GOD
by Anthony H. Roberts

Part 1: A Sort of Homecoming

"Whenever, in their anguish, they try to escape from hell, back they shall be dragged, and will be told, "Taste the torment of the conflagration."
- The Holy Koran


Chapter 1: Refugee

It was a sunny day in Los Angles; the skies were clear and Arman Zadeh was late for his mother's funeral. On any other day, Farhad would be furious with his older brother, but today he had no energy for such emotions. He would wait patiently for Arman to arrive and together they would commit their mother to the earth, to rest forever beside strangers in a foreign land. Farhad stared at the photograph of his parents, wreathed in flowers and placed beside the casket. There was his father, Colonel Massoud Zadeh, dressed in his SAVAK military uniform, and his mother, Zarina, smiling as she did before the dark days of the revolution stole her happiness.

The wails of the Persian mourners rang out across the cemetery lawn as Farhad's thoughts returned to his homeland. Over two years had passed since his father's death at the hands of Imam Rahimi's men. The Zadeh's were Shah's People and after the King's departure, their fates were sealed. The Ayatollah's men came for his father before they could flee. Colonel Massoud Zadeh was a fiend and a traitor in the eye's of the revolution, his sins so great as to condemn them all. Farhad and his mother were savagely beaten, and they would have been murdered had it not been for the intervention of an American neighbor.

Terry Andrews was the father of Farhad's best friend, Joey; a classmate who lived down the street from the Zadehs. By the time of the Colonel's death, Joey and his mother had already been evacuated from Tehran. Joey's father remained behind having left his wife and son for an Iranian woman. As Terry prepared for his own departure he heard screams from the Zadeh's home and felt compelled to investigate. Somehow he had persuaded the Ayatollah's men to let them go, but not before Imam Rahimi had exacted his revenge against the SAVAK Colonel.

Massoud Zadeh never faced the pantomime of a revolutionary court, or having his corpse photographed and plastered across the back pages of the Tehran Times. His sentence, if not merciful, was quick. Brother Ali, a former taxi driver once thought to be a friend, dragged the Colonel out to the family garden, put a gun to his head and took his life. There was no funeral for Farhad's father. Somewhere in Tehran Massoud Zadeh's body was dumped into an unmarked grave, never to be visited, a traitor to the People and a victim of the Islamic Republic's vigilante justice.

Farhad's mother, Zarina, never fully recovered from the injuries she suffered on their last day in Tehran. The physical damage was great, but insignificant compared with the haunting memories of her husband's murder and the near fatal beating of her youngest son. Since their arrival in Los Angeles, she had complained of headaches and occasional blurred vision but the doctors could find nothing. They said there was no sign of brain damage but Farhad knew better for he had witnessed the blows. When Arman found her unconscious on the floor with a broken vase of flowers next to her, they knew she was yet another casualty of the revolution.

"Farhad, is that your brother's car?"

Farhad looked into the sad face of his American fiance, Christina Campbell, then across the cemetery to the parking lot where a red Mercedes had just arrived.

"Yes, that is Arman and Sami."

"Don't be too hard on him, Far. You know how your brother is. He's not strong like you."

Farhad did know how his brother was, emotional and dramatic, and so very Persian. He put his arm around Christina and spoke to her, "Do not worry, my love. I will save my disappointments with Arman for another day."

As the two men arrived, Farhad knew from their red, swollen eyes that they had been crying, no doubt the cause of their delay from the funeral home to the cemetery. It took little imagination to see Arman collapsed in a state of inconsolable grief while his partner, Sami, tried to sooth his pain and hurry him along to his mother's interment. Farhad watched as his brother and Sami took their rightful places beside the open grave. Arman reached out and laid a hand upon his mother's casket then burst into tears and fell back into Sami's arms.

Many people had come to mourn and honor Zarina Zadeh, most of them fellow countrymen who had fled Iran as the Ayatollah Khomeini seized power. Their cries of despair demonstrated their grief for the Zadehs' loss and for so many others. One of the guests placed a picture of Shah Pahlavi next to that of Farhad's parents, then kissed the photograph of his mother before returning to her place among the mourners.

Farhad noticed a tall American man standing at the back of the crowd. He recognized him as Robert Gandalphi, a friend and business associate of his father who had helped them find passage out of Tehran. Mr. Gandalphi had visited them several times in California and had helped them obtain green cards and transfer the Zadah's family savings from Iran. Farhad secretly doubted that such a transfer was even possible and suspected that the money had come from the American's own pockets. Whatever business Mr. Gandalphi and his father had in Iran, it was clear that he held Baba in high regard, and for that, he would always have Farhad's respect.

Conspicuous in their absence were members of the Zadeh family, uncles, aunts, cousins, and his grandmother, all of whom still remained in Iran. Only Farhad, his mother and two brothers, Navid and Arman, were in America. His father intended to bring the entire family over once they were established, but that dream died in the garden with Baba. Many times Farhad had found his mother in tears thinking of her own Mam, so far away in Iran, living in a little apartment and separated from those she loved. Since their arrival in the United States they had tried to obtain an exit visa for her, but the Islamic Republic of Iran had little desire to assist the family of a traitor.

"I miss her so much already," said Christina, laying her head against Farhad's shoulder. "She was such a kind women, even with all the pain in her life."

"Kindness was her way. She…," Farhad stopped as his throat tightened and tears welled in his eyes.

The lament of the mourners filled his ears as he gazed once more at the photograph of his parents. His Baba was gone. His Mam had died alone, wanting only a mother's love and comfort. It was time that his grandmother joined them in Los Angeles. Bringing her out of Iran would be his lasting tribute to his mother, an act of love that he must undertake.

He could not go as himself; the name 'Zadeh' would attract unwanted attention. He would need a new identity, plus travel documents for himself and his grandmother. Farhad dried his eyes and looked across the crowd to the American standing still and silent behind the wailing Persians. Something told him that this man could help with such matters…and would.

For the first time since the revolution, Farhad Zadeh contemplated going home.

Everything's Still All Right

Every Easter I listen to 'Jesus Christ Superstar'. I've been doing this since I was 13. I'm not a practicing Christian, and as wife my jokes, 'even if he did practice – he wouldn't be any good at it.'
My grandfather was a Church of Christ minister. My mother was his only child. My father was a rock'n'roll, catholic bad boy. Neither family was thrilled when Mom and Dad ran off at 18 and got married, but tempers cooled when I was born. A grandchild has a way of breaching those spiritual divides.
When my sister and I were young my parents split the difference and gave us a little from the protestant menu and a little from the catholic side. The idea was that we'd be free to choose when we were older, but as the 60s progressed, religious services gave way to sleeping in late. By the time we moved to Saudi Arabia in 1971, Vacation Bible School was no longer a requirement in our secular household.
The next eight years were spent in Muslim countries. Five years in Sunni Saudi Arabia and three years in Shia Iran. I heard the prayer call five times a day. I watched our houseboy pray in the backyard while I ate my breakfast, and I saw multitudes of pilgrims make the Haj to Mecca. When I hear the prayer call on television or in a movie, it feels like home to me.
During our time in the Middle East we always came back to the States for Christmas. One holiday season my sister and I received the Jesus Christ Superstar album as a gift from our grandfather, a man who thought of rock'n'roll as the devil's music. That he would go into a record store and buy this album says volumes to me – it was an act of love. I'm certain that he felt my parents were raising 'heathen' children (which they were) and that he feared for our immortal souls. Perhaps by giving us this hippie rock music he could steer us back into the light. My sister and I absolutely loved Jesus Christ Superstar. We set about learning all the words and performing it to each other. She liked to sing the Jesus and Mary parts, and I, of course, wanted to sing the Judas and Pilate roles – boys will be boys.
It didn't work out as my grandfather had hoped. We weren't musically inspired back into the fold, but it did have an impact. I was a preacher's grandson. I'd read the King James Bible by the time I was 10, and I could even quote some scripture and verse, but it didn't touch me. Superstar did. It got me thinking about politics, love, friendship, sacrifice and hypocrisy in ways that nothing from the pulpit had. Rock'n'roll was my religion and Jesus was rockin' with the best of them.
Every Easter I play Jesus Christ Superstar and I think of my grandfather. Thank you, Papa, wherever you are in that great unknown. I always loved you and everything's still all right.

My Passport Says I'm 'Home'.

Follow the link below for an essay I've written, "No Time for Goodbyes' for Denizen Magazine Online. I know that many of you follow my stories of living in Iran in the late 70s as an expatriate 'business brat'. I was going to 'copy and paste' the article here (bad boy), but professional courteous demands that I steer you to their website. If you're interested in the 'third culture kid' phenomenon, Denizen is a great resource. @ Denizen Online Magazine
When I came back to the States in 1978 I was confused, lonely and generally pissed-off at the world. I'd been cheated and there wasn't a single person who understood me. In other words, I was a typical teenager… with some extra baggage.
All of my friends were scattered to the winds by the Islamic Revolution, and life in small town Kansas was more alien to me than anything I experienced in Iran or Saudi Arabia. I acted out, smoked a lot of pot, and wished I was anywhere else than Mulvane Frickin' Kansas. As soon as I graduated from high school, I bought a run-down Toyoto and left.
In college a psychologist diagnosed me with a 'General Anxiety Disorder' couple with feelings of 'unresolved anger'. Edgy and angry after losing everything and coming 'home' from a revolution? OK, I'll buy that.
Looking back now, my behavior was quite common for a 'third culture kid', even for those who return to their home culture without all the drama of my situation. And I don't mean to slag on the psychologist who labeled me with a GAD. The label wasn't important to him, and he provided a situation where we could discuss my rage and frustrations, which was all I needed. A place to vent and a sympathetic ear.
As miserable as I was at times, I wouldn't trade a second of that misery for anything. I know that sounds cliche but it's absolutely true. There's no teacher like experience.
As to the photograph above… this is the 1978 Student Television and Radio group from Tehran American School (the STARs). Our school had all the luxuries of money, which allowed us to have an in-school broadcast facility. Heaven for 70s teens as we blasted the compound with Led Zeppelin, Queen, Boston, Foghat, Bowie, the Stones and all our favorite Gods of Thunder. On the back row center is a young gentleman wearing dark sunglasses. To his right is a boy with a Joker grin on his face and a moptop of hair – that would be me. These were the good times, about six months before it all fell apart. I look at this picture now and smile. 'Good times, bad times, you know I've had my share…"
Aloha y'all,
From the Big Rock, Hawai'i
Anthony
SONS OF THE GREAT SATAN http://bit.ly/hsmp0x

First Review for Four Trails!

Review by: Wen Mur on Apr. 08, 2011 : 
I couldn't stop reading this collection of short "cowboy" stories! Touching, funny and exciting, you will be entertained and surprised by these tales from the "trail"!

Download Four Trials for FREE at http://bit.ly/e2dVHj. As a blog bonus, here's on those tales!

WARNING: IMMATURE SUBJECT MATTER & PLENTY CUSSIN'.

RATTLERS
A man in a dusty Chevy Nova pulled up to the first pump at the Balmorhea GasnGo service station, though it was unlikely he would receive any service from the one employee on duty who was firmly ensconced behind the counter in the air-conditioned GasnGo foodmart.
Jimmy Segwick sat on his stool at the cash register and watched as the man stepped out of his car, stretched and walked over to the pumps. He obviously wasn't a local, and a Nova being your standard rental car, Jimmy decided to throw caution to the wind and reset the pumps rather than have him come in and pay first. Company policy at the GasnGo was for all patrons to pay before they pumped, but Jimmy didn't stand on policy, in fact, he tried to stand as little as possible. He mostly sat on his stool all day long and sold gas, snacks and sodas to the occasional tourists who passed through, or beer and cigarettes to the handful of locals who could pay the inflated prices.
You didn't see many tourists take the scenic loop through Balmorhea these days. Travelers tended to stay on the interstate. Balmorhea in the summer time had little to offer - it was nothin' but hot and dry; hell, there wasn't anything scenic about it unless you liked scrub grass, scorched earth and rattlesnakes.
The man made several trips back and forth to the water bucket and methodically squeegeed all the dirt off his windows. Jimmy could tell he was business man, nobody around these parts dressed like that unless they were gettin' married or buried; he had to be roasting in that monkey suit, the temperature was already 105 degrees. The man topped off his tank and headed into the GasnGo food mart.
"Hot enough for ya, Mister?" asked Jimmy, as the man entered the store.
"If it was any hotter I'd be searching for the devil himself," said the man.
"I reckon you'd find him too. If this ain't hell, it's awful damn close," said Jimmy.
The man walked up to the counter and threw down a fifty for the gas.
"Hope you don't mind, but I'm supposed to check anything over twenty for counterfeit, not that you're a suspect or nothin'. Just doin' my job," said Jimmy, and ran his detection pen over the bill.
"A man's gotta do his job," said the stranger. "Keeps us all honest."
"Well, you'll be glad to know you ain't carrying no funny money," said Jimmy, as the ink on the bill turned to a light amber color.
"Thank heavens. I'd hate to get hauled off to jail way out here," said the man.
"And it would be a haul, friend. The Governor closed down the jail last year. Budget cuts, or so they say. They'd have to take you all the way to Van Horn," said Jimmy.
"You got no police around here anymore?" asked the man.
"Don't got 'em. Don't need 'em. Everyone 'round here takes care of themselves. Law has always been cowboy law out in these parts, and that's the way we like it. Besides, the police are too busy chasin' wetbacks and dope dealers to pay attention to much else," said Jimmy. "Here's your change, thank you for stoppin' in."
"I noticed some beer over in that cooler yonder. Mind if a had one or two before moving on? I've been drivin' all day and wouldn't mind stretchin' my legs before climbin' back into that matchbox," said the man.
"Policy is no alcohol consumption on the premises, but seeing as you're my third customer all day and there ain't no law around anyhow, I suppose there's no harm sellin' a grown man a beer," said Jimmy.
"I appreciate that. Cold one's on me if you don't mind drinkin' on the job, seeing as there's no law around," said the man.
Jimmy never once had a beer while working, wasn't even tempted, but the man was offering so he thought he might as well be sociable.
"All right then, but just one. If anybody drives up I'll have to stash it behind the counter. I don't need any pissy calls from the head office in Dallas 'cause some old biddy got her panties in a bunch seein' me sippin' a Bud," said Jimmy.
"That your flavor then, Budweiser?" asked the man.
"That'll work," said Jimmy.
"Then ring me up a couple them tall boys, son," said the man.
The man popped the tops on the ice cold beers and passed one off to Jimmy, and said, "Name's Harlan, Harlan Robichaud. I work out of San Antone but spent the last couple days down in El Paso."
"Jimmy Segwick," said Jimmy. "Nice to meet ya and thanks for the beer. What line of business you in Harlan, salesman for the oil companies?"
"No, I'm just an glorified accountant. I had to run an audit down in El Paso and the sonsabitches overbooked my flight back to SA. Rather than wait a couple days for the next one, I said, 'Screw it, I'll get a rental.' Bad to worse, all they had was this piece-of-shit Nova. And to top it all off, the AC is on the fritz."
"Wearin' that suit in a car with no AC — I imagine you do need a cold beer or two," said Jimmy.
"Oh, it's not off by a damn sight - it's stuck on full-fuckin'-blast. I'm wearin' my jacket just to keep warm. Freezin' to death in 100 degree temperature. Can you believe that shit? This trip is one for the ages," said Harlan.
Jimmy took a long pull on his beer, "Whole country's goin' to hell in a bucket. Everythang you buy is a piece of shit, most of it Made in China. Jews up in New York are usin' the Stock Market to rob us all blind, and then that Obama - Good Lord, don't even get me started on that boy. No offense now, if you lean the other way. Everybody's got the right to their own opinion."
"No offense taken. I grew up in Texarkana and never thought I'd see the day we'd have a Ubangi President. Just goes to show you how far we've sunk, in my humble opinion," said Harlan.
"You got that right, Mister. This country won't be fit for white people much longer. The niggers and wetbacks have done took over. Unless we do somethin' quick we all better start learnin' to habla the espanol," said Jimmy.
"It'll be a cold day in hell before I do that," said Harlan, taking another drink off his beer. "Not much traffic out here this time of day."
"No sir, most of the traffic comes through in the mornin' and slows way down in the afternoons. I'm usually closed by 5:30 if not earlier. It's a ghost town around here at night," said Jimmy.
Harlan took another large pull off his beer, burped, and took a look around the room. Dozens of pictures of rattlesnakes adorned the walls along with a pair of six foot long rattle snake hides tacked up behind the cashier station.
"Gotta lotta goddamn snake pictures in here. Some real monsters too. What's the deal with all this stuff?" asked Harlan.
"Well sir, one thing Balmorhea has in abundance is rattlers. Rattlesnake huntin' is big sport down here. There's an annual round up but that's mainly for the tourists and university types. They come down here with a big milkin' crew for the venom. Most of the local boys just hunt 'em for the meat and hides, or just out of spite," said Jimmy.
"You ever do that? Hunt the big rattlesnakes?" asked Harlan.
"Hell yeah I do, that's what brought me down here. I saw a hide on sale a couple three years ago in Fort Worth — $120 — and I thought, Hell, man, easy money," said Jimmy.
"You came all the way down here from Fort Worth just to hunt rattlesnakes?" asked Harlan.
"That and to get away from my crazy bitch of an ex-wife," said Jimmy.
"Runnin' from one poisonous snake to another, eh?" said Harlan.
"You might say that, but I prefer the ones that slither on the ground to the ones that bitch and moan, that's for dang sure," said Jimmy.
"Not quite the easy money you imagined though, snakes I mean, you workin' in a gas station and all," said Harlan.
"No, not as easy as I thought. You gotta do a volume business to make any real money with snakes, still, I prefer the company of rattlesnakes to my ex-wife,' said Jimmy.
"Is that you in that picture there?" asked Harlan, and pointed to a photograph of a grinning man in a confederate T-shirt holding up a large rattlesnake.
"Yeah, that's me, alright. That sumbitch was 8 feet long and weighed near 50 lbs. We found a half-eaten rabbit inside him, and not a little bunny neither, a big ol' jackrabbit 'bout the size of a house cat," said Jimmy with pride.
"How in the hell do you catch somethin' that big? I reckon he's longer than a man is tall," said Harlan.
"Very carefully, my friend. I ran across that big bastard not a mile from this store. Summer drought brings 'em in lookin' for water," said Jimmy. "Now the first thing you gotta do when approachin' a big-ass rattler is to gage how pissed off he is. If he's all coiled up and hisssin', then brother, he's ready to strike and you need to back-the-fuck-off."
"Jesus H. Christ, I can't even imagine," said Harlan.
"You gotta keep your eye on him and take your time. I bought me an official snake-stick but you can use anythang that puts a little distance between you and that rattler; a golf club, a piece of rebar with the tip bent over, anythang that'll put his head down in the dirt. The trick is learnin' how to approach him," said Jimmy. "He don't see too well - he gets most of his information from vibrations, so you gotta come up on him slow and pick your spot. Don't be messin' around with a rattler on uneven ground. If he's up against some scrub, or half under a bunch of rocks, hook him and drag him out into the open. Take your time, line it up, and then, quickly pin his fuckin' head to the ground. He ain't gonna like it and a he's strong sumbitch, so you gotta be committed - pin him and keep his head down. And be damn sure when you make your move."
"Good Lord, that calls for another beer," said Harlan. "Ring us up two more, Jimmy."
"Yes sir, two more tall boys," said Jimmy.
"So what do you do when you have that monster pinned to the ground? Sounds like a Mexican stand-off to me," said Harlan.
"You sure as hell don't let him go. It's you or him. Keep him pinned, and slowly, and I mean slowly, reach down with your free hand and grab him hard behind the head. Not close to the head, not an inch behind the head, but right where his head hits his body. Grab his ass tight and don't let go. He'll twist and fight and try to scare ya into lettin' him loose, but you gotta hold on for dear life, 'cause it's your life or his. There ain't no hospital 'round here, and that John Wayne bullshit of suckin' the venom out don't work. You get bit out here and the poison gets in ya… well, friend, your eyes bug out, your throat swells up and you're dead meat," said Jimmy.
"You're a braver soul than I. Now that you got a pissed-off snake by the throat - do you put him in a sack? Or beat him to death?"
"You can use a sack, but make sure it's made of heavy canvas, don't use a pillow case that he can bite right through. A lot of folks like those five gallon plastic buckets with the lids. I just assume kill 'em right off. You can shoot it, kill it with a knife — oh yeah, you might think this is funny — I've heard tell that some people freeze 'em to death."
"No shit? Just throw 'em in the fridge?" asked Harlan. "That might be a way of gettin' rid of the ex-wife too."
"Wish I'd thought of that, but no, you get yourself one of those cheap freezers at the Costco, brang your bucket of snakes home and dump 'em in. Before you know it, you got Rattlersicles," said Jimmy. "Leave 'em for a few days, then thaw 'em out, skin 'em, eat the meat and treat the hides."
"Is that how you do it then?" asked Harlan.
"Nah, freezin' 'em sounds kinda crazy to me. I like the direct approach. I just cut their heads off with my knife."
Jimmy reached down to his side, unbuckled his holster and pulled out a folded hunting knife. He opened the blade and snapped it into place, holding it up for Harlan to see.
"Four inch blade, Damascus steel — sharp as a razor, my friend. It'll take your finger off as easy as a snake's head if you're not careful," said Jimmy, then folded the knife back up and returned it to its holster.
"Not bad for protection either, I imagine," said Harlan.
"Slice through a man's belly as easy as a snakes, but my real back-up is under the counter here, Old Besty. Twelve gage, double-barreled shotgun — sawed off for that can't fuckin' miss advantage," said Jimmy, who brought the shotgun up from beneath the counter. "This is the only security system I'll ever need."
"Between that knife and your shotgun, I'd say you're pretty well covered," said Harlan. "Can I have a look at that gun? Reminds me of one my Grandaddy use to have. He ran a little moonshine back in East Texas in the 40's and 50's, and that was his preferred security system too."
"Mister, I think you're an OK feller, but I'm not in the habit of handin' over a loaded shotgun to a stranger. No offense," said Jimmy.
"None taken, son. Perfectly reasonable. It just reminded me of my old Grandaddy's gun. I do a lot of bird huntin' and I'm always interested in lookin' over a nice shotgun," said Harlan.
"Tell ya what, I'll take the shells out and you can have a quick look. My daddy gave me this shotgun when I was a boy, and his daddy gave it to him. I sawed-off the barrels when I started workin' here. It's a good gun. I wouldn't stay workin' here without it," said Jimmy.
Jimmy pushed back the locking lever, broke open the shotgun and pulled out the two shells and placed them side-by-side on the counter in front of him. He snapped the barrels closed and handed the gun over to Harlan. Harlan sat his beer down next to the shotgun shells and stepped back to admire the old weapon.
"It sure is a beauty, a real beauty. I can see why your father held on to it. I bet it made a great bird huntin' gun before you cut it all down," said Harlan. "Bird huntin' sure is a great sport. I love everything about it, I surely do: being on your own, gettin' out in the wild, flushin' out the birds, the thrill of knockin' them down from the sky. It's the best sport in the whole wide world."
"There's a few ranches down here that dove and quail hunt. I can put you in touch with them if you'd like," said Jimmy.
"I'd like that. Thank you, Jimmy," said Harlan. "You know another sport I really like? Football. America's national pastime. I'm crazy about some football. Do you like football, Bobby?"
"Sure, who doesn't like football? But you called me Bobby there, Mister, my name is Jimmy."
"Did I? I apologize, Jimmy. I must have been thinking about this thieving redneck I heard about up in Fort Worth. He liked football too, and he loved to bet on the games, but he was a loser, Jimmy, a natural born loser. You might not believe this, but he ran up a 40,000 dollar tab, and that's not even counting the vig, and then he just up-and-disappeared. That was about two years ago. His name was Bobby. Bobby Sellers. Now, when did you move down here again, Jimmy?" asked Harlan.
"Now wait a minute, Mister, I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about, but I've lived here for the last ten years of my life, just ask anybody in this town. And I ain't no gambler, and I never heard of no Bobby Sellers," said Jimmy.
"That's not what your ex-wife told me," said Harlan. "Think fast, Bobby!"
Harlan tossed the 12 gauge back to Jimmy who snatched it out of the air and pointed it right back at Harlan's chest. Jimmy smiled for a second until he saw the two shotgun shells sitting on the counter next to Harlan's beer.
"You know, Jimmy… Bobby… Jim Bob, whatever the hell your name is," said Harlan, as he pulled a .357 Colt Python out of his jacket and pointed it directly at Jimmy's head. "It occurs to me, son, that the main thing about dealing with snakes is being smarter than the snake."