Texas Jack

Prologue: Early 1980s

TEXAS HAS MORE THAN its share of old farm roads. Some of them are used routinely and are well-traveled thoroughfares; some serve as shortcuts for people that live in the area; and believe it or not, some just connect one piece of farmland to another, providing a path for Mr. John Deere to go about his business on an early summer morning.

Other farm roads, however, escape notice. They no longer connect populated areas and they don’t save anyone that ever-so-precious commodity of time. Entire days go by when no shadow falls upon the broken pavement. Four-legged creatures make unfettered excursions back and forth, here and there, without concern for the threats that plague so many other roadways, ending the tiny lives of critters prematurely. Those roads never completely cease to serve their purpose. They’ve just gotten old...like the farmer down the way. Time to get a glass of lemonade, go out to the porch and sit for a spell. After all—everything deserves some peace now and then—even a road!

Sometimes, however, those roads are host to spectacles. Rowdy teenagers always seem to know about the unused spots and take advantage of them on the occasional weekend, leaving behind their telltale calling cards:  an extra hole in the speed limit sign; tire tracks that disappear into the fields; or, a beer can in the knee-high grass along the road. Mostly it’s harmless and expected:  East Texas teenagers plus alcohol equals mild troublemaking.

If you were ever driving some of those East Texas farm roads in the 80s, you may have witnessed a spectacle or two. Like stumbling on a child’s toy in the dark, it was probably under your feet before you knew what happened. If you were lucky, you didn’t have time to figure it out, and you kept on your way.

If you weren’t so lucky, you may have seen an old Dodge pickup truck pulled over on the shoulder of the road. The truck was twenty years old by then, faded yellow, with simulated wood panels running its length. It may have even been sagging downward in the middle. Rust, neglect, and abuse had conspired to cripple the truck. It had seen better days.

Furthermore, you may have seen a young boy in the passenger seat of that downtrodden old truck, that rusty old beast. That boy would be urgently signaling to a man just off the side of the road when he noticed you approaching. Nothing escaped that boy’s notice—he was eager to please his dad—and his mission was to let his dad know when a car was coming.

Now follow the twin, invisible pathways from that boy’s eyes to the object of all of his attention. They lead to a man in blue jeans and an un-tucked button-up. Mr. Blue Jeans would be standing near bushes if there were any, but out in the open if that's how it had to be. Business is business, after all, and when you have to take care of business, there isn’t room for pleasantries. Using bushes is merely being polite.

Anyone listening would have heard these words—the warning—shouted from the seat of the pick-up truck: Dad, there’s a car coming!

A can of beer would be held nonchalantly in the man’s left hand. In his mouth, a lit cigarette, bobbing softly up and down to the rhythm of some classic rock or country song as he sings softly to himself.

And, in his right hand? Why, it’s his most prized possession, dangling out in the open for the world to behold, as he relieves himself very publicly without remorse or shame.

It’s a crazy portrait—the finest of farm road spectacles indeed—a true phenomenon:

Hurry, hurry, hurry...step right up...catch a glimpse of the urinating, drinking, smoking, singing man with no shame! It’s free to see and will stay with you forever!

If you weren’t from around those parts, and you did not personally know my father, the threat of a heart attack might have had you swerving off the road once it really sank in, what you had witnessed. If you were from around those parts, you may have considered all of this normal. Wait...that isn’t completely accurate. If you were from around those parts, and you knew this man, then you might think it was normal.

That man was Bill Leonard. William if you were his mom or his wife. Billy if you were anyone else. That boy hollering a warning through the window was Jack, Billy’s son. He was only trying to penetrate the hundred-proof haze—puncture that invisible membrane of awareness—and alert his inebriated father.

I’m that boy:  Jack Leonard. I apologize if I didn’t warn him in time and you had to see all of that. Sometimes I was successful and other times I was not. Even when I got his attention in time, there was no way to determine whether he would speed up, stop, or seek cover. That was his way and that was how things were.

Now, don’t let that give you the wrong impression of Texas. That behavior isn’t Texas; that behavior is Billy Leonard.

I grew up in Texas and it’s not always what people imagine. It is sometimes, but not all the time. I don’t wear a Stetson, my belt buckle was average in size, and I preferred almost any shoes to boots. My life was absent from the stereotypical horses, manure, and barn. I could see the horses, manure, and barn, but only in the distance when we drove by. I even managed to avoid acquiring an accent.

I do have one Texas confession:  I love guns and football. Not at the same time—separately—but, we’ll talk more about those things later.

We moved from the small town where I was born when I was eight years old and I spent the rest of my formative years in the city of Houston. Keyword:  city. There were still those that chose to make Red Wings and Wranglers part of their wardrobe, but for the most part, in the city of Houston, they were either poseurs or liked that style of clothing. There were real cowboys, sure, but they didn’t grow up with me or live on my block.

I remember my first day of school. As much as an eight-year-old boy can feel cultural differences when moving to a new place, I felt it. The world was concrete and glass and I felt like one of the Beverly Hillbillies. I remember watching reruns of that show when I was young, but in Houston, I felt like I might be starring in a sitcom of the same ilk.

Redneck was one of several nicknames given to me by peers. I didn’t mind it (much); I had a saving grace. I was a natural when it came to sports. Any sport, I could pick it up quickly. For fear of underestimating more than half of the planet, I would wager that most women never understand the unifying power of sports for men and boys. Some men don’t understand it either, and I couldn’t have verbalized it at the time, although I was familiar with what was transpiring. I knew that something was different and I knew it was a product of the proverbial jock strap. My shortcomings disappeared on the fields.

Redneck evaporated my first year in Houston and I became just one of the guys. A few closer friends still messed with me but with a fondness not present before.

My house was large, and we had a pool, which added to my status among my classmates. Billy Leonard had inherited a tidy sum of money when his father, Seth, passed away. Grandpa Seth had been killed in an accident at the Texas City plant he worked at most of his life and I had only a vague memory of him. It was a freak accident—one that shouldn’t have happened. As such, the insurance payout was large.

But, as the saying goes, You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.  For my father, that held true after our change in fortunes. He dressed better, his house was better, and I suppose in some ways, he improved in other areas of his life. But, he was still the same guy underneath. He continued to drive with a beer in his hand, feeling that as a man, it was not only his God-given right but that it was somehow...okay. Steering the vehicle seemed more of an afterthought after his music, beer, and cigarettes.

Something he did abstain from was roadside urination. He no longer pulled over to drop trousers and water grass. He was an upstanding citizen now and couldn’t visibly undermine the sanctity of a densely populated area in society, could he? Well, let’s not go overboard and give Billy that much credit. Houston is the land of a million bathrooms. It’s probably harder to stop on the side of the highway; you’d likely be fined for it. Gas stations, malls, and restaurants were everywhere and had restrooms. Availability and the threat of jail time were effective deterrents for my dad, no doubt.

Moving from rural farmland to the city, I realized for the first time that my dad’s behavior was not only illegal but morally questionable. Drinking and driving weren’t a good match; however, he was my dad so I figured he knew something I didn’t.

My father had trained me well as a tike. Warn him if cars are coming, but make damned sure I get his attention if police cars are coming. I thrived on positive attention from my father. To get this attention, I had to take part in his world. I learned how to open a can of beer and bring it to him at the age of two. I learned how to identify police cars so that I could warn my dad of their approach, as he produced 16 ounces of liquid on the side of the road. My dad was a man on terms with no one else. To be a significant part of his life meant climbing the fence and joining him on his side. And that’s what I did.

Chapter 1

Tuesday Morning, July 31st, 2012

I WALKED OVER TO MY office window and watched the sun rise behind downtown Austin. It appeared bigger today than most days as if it had moved closer to Earth. Or perhaps Earth had moved closer to it, I mused. It was a brilliant yellow—a ball of lemony golden fire—something I had not seen very often.

The view from my window wasn’t the best in the building, but it was good; it was very good. They say it’s good to be the king. Let me tell you:  it’s also good to be the king’s assistant. I was in charge of marketing and public affairs for the company, which had a variety of perks, and a great view of the city was one of them.

I watched the sun for a little while. Calm mornings were pretty critical to me. Some people needed caffeine; I needed Zen time. I cast my eyes down, away from the bright blues and yellows of the celestial dome. Along the street in front of my building, grays and greens were the pervasive hues this morning. They weren’t unpleasant colors. They were calming; they were welcoming. Sidewalks, street signs, and patches of grass lined the building. People were starting to walk up and down the street, each seeking their own relevancy in their way. I began to see small bursts of color here and there:  sunglasses; purses; ladies’ shoes. The occasional suit. Lots of polo-styled shirts. A brilliant red dress that was too striking for morning time and would be better suited for a night on the town in Gotham with Bruce Wayne.

I picked up my bottle of water, twisted off the lid, and took a long drink. I felt completely at ease. Pretty soon the work for the day would start. Unless acted upon by an outside force, my days were good when I started in a relaxed frame of mind. It was the reason I always came to work early.

My phone vibrated a few times from its normal spot on the desk behind me, indicating a new text. I looked down to the street once more and noticed a very large man wearing a very small shirt. Little brother's shirt, I chuckled to myself. All the clothes available in this world and that guy picked a shirt three or four sizes too small. I wonder if that really impresses anyone, I thought and chuckled again. I pulled the curtains closed on my Zen time, and strolled over to my desk. It was time to start working anyway.

My wife’s picture greeted me from my phone. It was a great shot, taken at the base of the Eiffel Tower on our honeymoon. Samantha was laughing and pushing a hand through her hair. It was the best kind of photograph—unplanned and unposed—a truly candid and beautiful moment snatched from time. It was also my favorite picture of her—what I considered the perfect representation of my wife’s life:  energetic and happy.

I read Samantha’s message:

I’ll be home late, I really have to get this medical software done if we are going to Houston next week. Are we still going? Also - Can you pick up Jacob from Ryan’s house? Love you!

We had been talking about this trip to Houston to see my parents. My sister Katie, her husband Mike, and their kids were going to be there for a few days, so it seemed like perfect timing. We were all overdue for some relaxation and we owed Jake another trip to see his grandparents before school started. Plus...I was anxious to see the new Historic Pleasure Pier in Galveston, or G-town as my friends and I had called it back in high school. I had seen pictures on the Galveston Facebook page and thought that it might be a fun place to take Sam for a date night.

It was a pretty normal trip; nothing out of the ordinary. But, it was hard to clear our schedule more than a few times each year. My parents traveled our way, too, but only so often due to my mother’s volunteer activities. She lived to give.

Since it was already Tuesday, I jotted a note to myself to firm up our plans. My parents had plenty of room and I had already requested the vacation days. It seemed like a no-brainer.

Definitely going to Houston, I punched into the phone, and I will grab Jake on my way home. Don’t forget to add that coding we talked about. Love u too.

Even though it bothered me on some level to use shortened words in texts, I had to admit that it made things a little quicker...a little easier...even though I guess it only amounted to a few wasted seconds to spell out words. I only hoped humanity didn’t altogether forget how to spell in the future, after technology had burrowed into our lives for a while.

My wife worked for a software company that created custom business solutions for clients. That translated into writing tailored software applications for those clients. Samantha was the Michelangelo of software creation at her company, consistently sought out by name. She was a technical expert, creative and friendly, and could intuit what people wanted with minimal input.

Her current project was a medical database. She had described it to me a few weeks ago when we were having lunch.

It’s going to be really good, she had said. It’s going to completely marry patients, their medical history, and their billing. Different users will be able to log in, and according to their account permissions, they’ll be able to see what is pertinent, or appropriate, for their position in the practice’s hierarchy.

To help protect privacy act information and that sort of thing? I had asked.

It’s going to safeguard everything. No one will see anything that they shouldn’t. We’re also talking about extending this to patients...giving them access to their records from the Internet. Of course, that gets a little trickier. The Internet isn’t a closed medium.

I think I have an idea that could really be fantastic, I said.

Oh, yeah? she asked, her tone becoming almost playful, but not quite. She was testing the water to see what temperature it was. She knew me very well and suspected a joke in the making. But, she could never be sure.