Fort Stockton sits in the vast expanse of the Chihuahuan Desert that occupies much of northern Mexico, runs through Texas’ Trans Pecos Region and continues into southeastern New Mexico. The town also lies within the geographically unique Big Bend country of southwest Texas. Back in the early 1970s an all-night diner on the western edge of town was always a welcome sight after hours behind the wheel on the lonely load west across the desert. Mary Ann and I stopped there often as we traveled back and forth between Austin to El Paso.
I remember pulling into that cafe around two o’clock in the morning on a winter night in 1972. It had been raining for the past two hundred miles, and we were tired and cold. The heater fan in our Toyota Corolla had stopped working the week before, and our finances were such that getting it fixed hadn’t been at the top of our priorities. After a night of battling frost formation on the windshield and lost feeling in our frozen toes we were starting to rethink those priorities.
The blast of warm air that struck us when we opened the cafe door told us we were in the right place. We made our way to the booth at the farthest point from the front door, judging it to be the warmest spot in the cafe, and ordered up hot coffee and pancakes. We agreed that pancakes would stay warmer longer on the plate than eggs.
While we waited on our food and sensation began to return to our warming toes, we listened to a loud and spirited conversation taking place in the booth just in front of us and spilling over to several customers seated on stools at the counter. Five men and three women were discussing what we understood to be the unpopular actions of two of the town’s wealthier citizens. The consensus seemed to be that the two local patroons had utilized their wealth to unfairly influence the outcome of some vote or decision on an important public issue. To say that the townspeople engaged in that conversation were irked would be an understatement.
“There ain’t nothin’ right about it,” one small woman sitting directly across from Mary Ann said. “This town is full of nothing but hard working people, and it ain’t right that a few people with a lot of money can turn everything to their advantage.”
“That’s how they’ve got it all set up,” agreed a cowhand type sitting on a counter stool. “The only laws that get passed around here are the ones that make sure they’ll get all the money.”
“They think they’re special, that they’re better than the rest of us. We get treated like we’re nobodies,” the small woman rejoined.
“Yeah, well by God, I’ll tell you what,” added a small, but spunky, fellow in a blue denim work shirt. “EVERYBODY IN FORT STOCKTON IS SOMEBODY!”
For that remark the small fellow all but received a round of applause. Everybody in Fort Stockton, it was heartily agreed by all, was indeed somebody.
At the time, Mary Ann and I were a little amused by the whole conversation, and especially by it’s crowning, defiant declaration. We didn’t think it funny that some rich guys were taking advantage of the townspeople, but the fervor with which the conversation was conducted, and its context, did strike us as humorous. We found it difficult, at our tender ages, to take seriously the political machinations of what we regarded as a ten cent cow town on the outer edge of nowhere.
For years, whenever we’d drive through some little town off the beaten path we’d repeat in unison, “Everybody in Fort Stockton is somebody!” It doesn’t sound funny now, I know. You had to be there.
The pathetic element of that defiant declaration wasn’t lost on us. Maybe that was what made it funny, in the same way that people crack jokes about a tragic event in order to relieve an unbearable tension. The tragedy isn’t funny, but sometimes we laugh to keep from crying.
We both knew that, despite the vigor and vitriol of the conversation, nothing would come of any of it. The people in that cafe were blowing off steam, venting frustration, but we knew they would never do anything more.
We haven’t been back to Fort Stockton in thirty-five years, but I’d think it a safe bet that the political situation is no different today than it was in 1972. No matter where you go, the big dogs (read, the guys with the money) always seem to call the tune to which everyone else dances. It’s no different in Nashville, Los Angeles, Chicago or anywhere else. It’s the American way.
We complain and rail against the order of things, but we continue to dance until our legs hurt and our toes bleed. Then we dance some more.
Hey, sorry… I don’t mean to be maudlin. Let’s talk about something more positive… more cheerful. Want to hear some great news?
Did you read the good news from Wall Street and JPMorgan Chase? Man, did they make money last quarter! 3.9 billion bucks! Yeah, you heard it right. That’s BILLION with a big, busty “B.” The news knocked the Dow up over 10,000.
They were breaking out the party hats over at Goldman Sachs as well where the big boys are bathing in 3.2 billion dollars of profits for the third quarter, and it gets even sweeter. In the news that Goldman executives were most anxious to hear, chief financial officer David Viniar announced that the firm’s 2009 embarrassment of riches is allowing Goldman to earmark… are you ready?… 5.35 BILLION DOLLARS FOR EXECUTIVE COMPENSATION AND BENEFITS!!! Think major league bonuses… Whoooeeee!!!
Things are probably going pretty great for you too, right? Big bonuses, lotsa deals in the works… No? Not yet? Really, you guys are still downsizing? I hate to hear that. Yeah, they say that unemployment number is a lagging indicator.
Geez, yeah… I hear you. I’ve got a friend who lost his home last week. Out of work since last February.
I’ve got a couple of other friends who’ve been out of work for a while too. One of them’s in a real bind. He’s got some serious medical issues, you know, and when he lost his job he lost his health insurance too. I don’t know what he’s doing about that.
I know, man. It’s tough all over. Makes you crazy, doesn’t it, that the government can bail out all the banks and fat cats on Wall Street, while we’re out here treading water. Ain’t nobody throwing us a rope.
There ain’t nothing right about it. The only laws that get passed in this country are the ones that make sure those guys get all the money. The fat cat bankers and money men think they’re better than the rest of us, and we get treated like a bunch of nobodies.
Yeah, well, by God, I’ll tell you what. Everybody in America is somebody!
Photo Credit: Flckr/LonghornDave
