Not all nights are magical.
Texas nights hold something special. The darkness takes away the heat, and there’s nothing like the stars in the sky. That’s what 17-year-old me thought. 17-year-old me was an idiot. I like him, even now 30 years later. But let’s be honest here, he forgot what else Texas nights hold besides the possibility of adventure. They hold monsters.
I delivered pizza during the last year in high school. Music was at its pinnacle of greatness. Grunge was king and always would be. My 1982 Ford truck with the dented side panels and mismatched bumpers was a chick magnet. And delivering hot pies in a small town was the best job I could ever imagine. I made a whole 2 bucks an hour, plus tips! And any time the local sex shop ordered pizza, I volunteered to be the one to take it. Those were the Texas nights that were good memories of my youth. The excitement of the slightly off, the risky, and the abnormal. I was in my element as I knocked on doors and gave everyone a slice of heaven.
“No one knows where this address is,” my boss said. A lady in her 30’s who made the best decision of her life when she hired me. “Want to give it a shot?”
“I’m on it,” I said because I was at the age where I could never fail. There was nothing that couldn’t be conquered or endured. Life hadn’t kicked me in the teeth yet and it was the ignorance of the young that fueled me, as it should be. Without that, how would we ever get anything really done?
The address was listed by general directions. Out in the country, past the pastures, and turn right after the barbed wire ends. A smarter young man would have thought of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. But I was of the age where I was pretty sure I could kick Leather face in his teeth and come out victorious. This is the fatal mistake all heroes make.
I past a knotty looking tree and took a left, after the barbed wire. I went up and down dirt roads with Kirk Cobain making my busted speakers almost sound great. It was a concert at midnight, and I was the only one in attendance. I knocked on a door. No answer. Coyotes howled.
I found another house. It was dark out and the house was a dark color. This might be the right one. It was not, but the old man that answered was able to give me directions. This is what I like about the rural community out in Texas. So many are willing to help you get into trouble.
The third house had to be the one. As I pulled in, my headlights reflected off the red exterior, just like pizza sauce. A one-story ranch house with a small front porch held together by hope and prayer. Dust was the accessory of choice for this home on the range. I got out of my truck and was already thinking of the accolades my boss would give me. I knocked because I couldn’t see a doorbell. I still don’t know if there was one.
I waited.
I knocked again.
I waited.
Something bit my butt.
There are moments in your life where you realize that the world is not what you think it is. You believe that everyone is kind and has your best interests at heart. That a stranger is just a friend you haven’t made yet. And that when something bites your butt, it’s a young maiden waiting to be rescued. In my case, it was a goat.
Not a small goat that faints that you see all over the internet now-a-days. But a beast of an animal fit to pull sleighs through a frozen tundra. The kind of goat that Satan keeps in his stable for late night delivery boys on a Texas Saturday night.
“Ow!” I yelled at the goat. “Don’t bite me.” At the time, it seemed reasonable to start a conversation. The goat ignored me. I could already see that he had pizza lust in his eyes. He jumped up on my chest and pinned me against a porch pole that was about to come down. He snapped at my warming bag as I held it high. I was in trouble. I may go down, but I would save the pizza. I was my own hero.
I tried to push him off, but he jumped up again and took a swipe at my fingers. He bleated and in those words, I swore I heard the name of the demon that he was.
“How much do I owe you?” the man who opened the door said. He ignored the goat.
“21.37,” was the only response I could give as the goat took a run at my neck. I kneed him but it had no effect.
The man put the EXACT CHANGE in my pocket, reached up, took the pizza out of the warming bag, and shut the door. This is the day that my faith in humanity died. I would like to say that I rolled away like an action movie star. That my best Arnold came out and I gave a great catch phrase. But the only thing I could say was “Get off me, goat!” I ran to my truck.
My truck wasn’t the best, even though it meant to world to me. Something often went wrong so I always parked on a hill. Luckily, goat man’s driveway was just such a hill because as I turned the ignition, nothing happened. No engine. No start. No nothing. But I was young and strong. I pushed my truck down the hill while being chased by a goat. I jumped inside, popped the clutch, and flipped off the goat as I drove away.
But the story does not end there. It’s too clean. To perfect. It’s unalive because real stories never end like this. Real stories get worse.
I felt something flitter across the back of my neck. I slapped at it. Texas mosquitos are legendary pterodactyls. Another flutter. Another slap. Then legs instead of wings went down my shirt. More than one set of wings on more than one set of bugs. I slapped again and was rewarded with a crunch. I slammed on my breaks and opened my door. The dome light revealed that there were things much worse than goats on Texas highways. This was the day that I discovered I had a phobia of June Bugs.
They flew around the cab of my truck. Dive bombing me and the dome light. They didn’t care. They just wanted man flesh and the warm blood that comes with it. They wanted my soul. I swear to you there were a 100 if there was one. Half of them in my truck. Half of them down my shirt and heading to my pants and my 17-year-old loins.
My fight or flight instincts kicked in. It was time to take a stand. To grow up to be the man that is writing this now.
And that man feels no shame at running away from the hoard and screaming like a 5-year-old girl. None at all. I hate June Bugs.
Panic-stricken, I stripped off my shirt and beat myself. I felt crunch after crunch. I saw them fall to the ground, and I stomped on them just to make sure. I tore off my pants and let them fall to my ankles. I danced in the moonlight with the bugs of Texas. There were no winners.
Out of breath, I stood there in my whitey tighties vowing to never let a June Bug live in my presence. I made an oath to God that if he decided to bring them into creation, I would bring them out. An injured bug limped on the battlefield. My foot ended it.
And as a car passed me on that dirt road while I was basically naked, the only thing I thought to do was wave. They waved back, and I think we both subconsciously agreed to never meet again. Some strangers should remain as such.
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