Occupy Alpine

Most of my friends aren’t totally housebroken, so public gatherings aren’t really our thing.

Don’t get me wrong, there have been times when the magnitude of the occasion demanded showers, haircuts and, on more than one occasion, something other than a relatively clean work shirt.

When Alvin Taylor’s daughter finally got married, most of us took a real shower, brushed whatever teeth we had left, pulled on mostly matching socks, and headed off to the wedding. Al’s daughter had, after all, hauled each of us, at one time or another, home from the tavern, after we’d been stricken with a disconcerting flu or other illness, while visiting and catching up with friends.

She never complained, and was robust enough to just toss us into the back of her F-350, 4x4—the blue one with an extensive lift package. If you were lucky, she’d have already collected a couple other lost souls along the way. It made the landings a little easier.

We owed that girl a lot, and a little soap, toothbrush and after-shave action seemed such a puny price to pay. We agreed, we’re gonna miss her.

We mostly washed up for weddings and funerals. Weddings were pretty much all alike. The subtle, understated differences of wardrobe mainly focused themselves on funerals.

There were two schools of thought concerning funerals. The first said, go ahead and clean up, and try to be presentable. The other was, presentable to who? Not ‘whom’… who. We don’t say ‘whom’. We're 'who-men.'

(Damnit, sometimes, I just crack me up)

The second, or what we came to identify as ‘alternative’ school was initiated when Derby Brown showed up at funeral for his brother’s Blue Tick hound, Elvis. He was more than just a dog, and I ain’t afeared to say that hound was one of us—one of the crew.

Always a man of few words, Derby simply observed, “Elvis is dead. Who wants a beer?”

The minimalist poetry of bereavement.

Brilliant.

But, I digress. This isn’t a dissertation on fashion; it’s a declaration of civil disobedience.

None of us had any experience with protesting. We all missed the Summer of Love. Some of us were being shot at by young Asian gentlemen, the Dabney twins were guests of the state, and, well, a few missed the sixties all together. They were there, they just don’t recall much.

Ever since the Franklin's barn burned, we’ve been convening our weekly meetings on the tailgate of someone’s pickup. In the summer, we just mosey out to a shady place up in the hills. The air is cooler, cleaner and easier to breathe. Come winter, we hole up in someone’s garage, car port or the beneath a blue tarp somewhere. We’ll get a little fire going, and stand around it, drinking beer and spitting into the flames.

Mostly we complain and scratch, but once in a great while, we discuss the heady affairs of the world. The demise of high school football, the cost of beer and who’s being moved into Drooling Acres are normally the lead topics. We cuss whoeverthehell’s in office and have been known to insightful and sometimes sensitive comments about the new checker at Safeway.

Like I said, important stuff.

Well, a few weeks ago, we're standing under a blue tarp, huddled up close to the fire, drinking beer and watching one of the Dabney twins (no one can tell them apart) scratch and spit. All of a sudden, ol’ Dexter announces that he’s ‘all in’ with the Occupy movement. Two things distinguish Dex from the rest of us. First of all, he watches every professional poker show on TV (hence the 'all-in' reference) and, Dex is the only one of us who actually finished high school.

Apparently, he was quite a scholar, because half way through his fifth year--he was almost a Junior-- the Principal stopped him in the hall, handed him a Diploma and told him to get the hell out of the building. He graduated with honors. It says so on the certificate..."Honorary Diploma."

Being responsible citizens, we wanted to know what this Occupy movement was, and awaited the wisdom of our learned colleague.

Dex told us he’d studied on it a bit, and as near as he could figure, the bankers were taking over and planned to put a WALMART and Domino’s Pizza in every town. He even said the guy who runs Domino’s, Mr. Domino hisownself, was running for President.

Well, I can tell you that news got the boys a little excited. The thought of a WALMART within walking distance was more than a couple of the boys could handle. They both drooled a bit and excused themselves to find a tree to stand behind for however long it took their prostate’s to recede far enough for a little relief.

The Domino thing wasn’t all that newsy. None of us had ever eaten pizza, but it did sound neighborly that they’d actually bring supper to your house for you. Right neighborly.

That’s when Dex dropped the hammer.

“They’d have to tear down the Alpine Tavern to make room for the new stuff,” he announced.

A soul-chilling silence stilled all of us. Tear down the Tavern? No way. The loss of both Elvis’ (Elvi?) all those years ago had set us back quite a spell. Even the passing thought of losing our beloved Tavern tended to loosen the bowels and moisten the eye of the strongest amongst us.

“Ain’t but one thing to do, boys,” declared Dex, “We’re gonna Occupy Alpine!”

The gauntlet had been cast.

The date was set for two weeks from Saturday, and when the faithful date arrived, six old pickups, filled with the beer purchased by recently cashed Social Security checks, descended on the tiny, rural town, with the purpose and passion of aged men in danger of losing their watering hole.

The pickups were parked just off the cutoff road, on one of the less muddy parts of Scooter James' field. Tailgates came down. Lawn chairs unfolded, and, as the official record shows, the inaugural beer popped open at 8:32 a.m.

The rest is, as they say, history.

Things were pretty quiet until just before noon, when a county sheriff cruiser rolled to a stop beside the pickups. The young deputy ignited his overhead lights and tapped the siren as he rolled up, made a short radio call, and got out of the vehicle.

“Dex, Al, Mr. Brown, Gentlemen. How are we all doing this sunny day?” he inquired.

“We’re occupying Alpine, Timmy. We’ve had it with corporate greed, and are here to stick it to the man,” Al declared.

The Deputy looked up and down the deserted road. “You boys seem to be holding them at bay. Anything I can do to help the cause?” He cast a stern glance at the semi-mob. "I'm not going to be having any trouble from you guys, am I? Should I alert the SWAT Team?"

“Nope. We’re together on this. Comrades. You just go out there and fight the forces of evil, Timmy. Call us if you need help.”

The Deputy frowned. “Damn good idea. Any of you have a cell phone if I need to call?”

“Don’t believe in the damn things,” Dex declared. “The Man can track you with them. They’re evil.”

“OK, Gentlemen. You’re gonna want to keep those beers out of sight if anyone comes along. Laws against public drinking, you know.” The Deputy, dropped the Crown Victoria in low and prowled slowly away, lights rotating. At the intersection, he goosed the siren once again, and turned left.

The Deputy figured if they were still here at 2:30, he’d call Al’s daughter and have her come and pack them home.

As we watched the Deputy roll out of town, we knew we’d dodged a bullet. Quincy opened another bag of Frito's, and passed it around. “These things give me terrible gas,” observed Derby, taking an enormous handful.

Everyone else took a step backwards.

It was working, at least for today. We’d single-handedly halted the bankers and Republicans corporate raiders from tearing down the Tavern, and except for the Deputy, hadn’t seen any traffic all day. Apparently word had spread, and folks were too scared of us to venture this way.

“It’s almost lunchtime, fellers. I think we’ve made our statement here for today,” announced Dex. “Same time, next Saturday.”

Beer cans were picked up, chairs folded and tailgates raised. Chapter One of Occupy Alpine was in the books.

“All I can say is, cop or not, that’s one good kid," Al observed, with a nod toward me.

“That he is,” I said, thankful that Timmy hadn’t called me ‘Grandpa’ or reminded me to take my pills.

Six pickups drove off in four different directions. Until next Saturday.

Viva la Rebelión !