The Mexicans

I spent my freshman year at Montana State Normal College in Dillon, Montana where I studied art, drama, Spanish, and American history. The old college was built well with small ivy covered brick buildings where future teachers were trained.

When school let out in 1948 my buddy Carol Stuckey and I hitch-hiked to see the state of Montana. I ended up trying to sleep in a freezing junked car in a very small town called Hardin. It is east of Billings, Montana. That day Carol and I had worked fourteen hours bucking 150 lb. wet bales of alfalfa six high on a flat bed truck. We didn't mind working hard, but the foreman refused to say how much we were getting paid. I quit and went to town to wait for the boss to get back from Billings. One of the farm workers said the boss spent week-ends in Billings boozing it up.

There were small patches of snow on the ground that Friday. After dark it was so cold in the junked car, I couldn't sleep. At eleven at night I went in a bar where men played pool in a back room. I sat in a corner to hide the fact I couldn't pay for anything. Later everybody went home, and I slept sitting on a bench by a black pot-bellied wood stove. The bar tender didn't give me permission to stay. He just put a little extra wood in the stove and went home. The next day, Saturday, I met a middle aged shepherd who had come to town to spend some money. He wanted someone to talk to, and I was hungry. He paid for my breakfast, and I listened to him talk. He told me to beware of a dapper looking Mexican about 25 years old who was short, dark skinned, and carried a razor in his hat. The shepherd said, "He knows how to use that razor. Don't trust him."

That afternoon I met a friendly Mexican man who worked in the sugar beet fields near Hardin. He was about forty, a little chubby, cleanly dressed in working clothes, and he sat apart from the other Mexicans in the bar. I had studied Spanish so was able to communicate with him. He told me to keep my distance from the dapper little Mexican with the razor in his hat. We sat at the bar sipping beer for quite a while. My new friend paid for the beers and I was grateful to have a new friend who seemed trustworthy and intelligent.

A man sitting in a booth stared at us whenever I glanced his way. He was not dressed as a worker He was Mexican, wearing glasses, and he looked educated. I could not hear what he was saying, but I sensed he was expressing his opinion to the workers sitting close to him. I noticed sneers coming from their faces, and they were looking our way. I heard him use the Spanish word for fighting. I was apprehensive but not frightened. Then my new friend showed me something in his hand. He carried an open pocket knife. He whispered to me, "It's getting too hot for comfort in here. I don't trust these guys. Lets go, but go quietly and stay close to me."

Very slowly we stood to leave. The man at the table addressed us speaking Spanish. I was not able to understand what he said to my friend, but it seemed like he was calling him a traitor. I had a feeling the man sitting in the booth was a communist or a labor leader. Then he spoke to me. He spoke clearly in Spanish I could understand. "You are a smart ass. You think you are better than we are. That is why you wear a white shirt. I know you think you are better than we are because you carry a pen in the pocket of your shirt!"

When I attempted to argue, my friend nudged me into silence and said, "You keep your mouth shut and come with me. Let's get the hell out of here. These guys want to hurt us." We walked slowly out into the dark street, and he was still clutching an open pocket knife in the palm of his hand. He walked into another bar leaving me safe but alone in the street. He saved me from getting my ass kicked or worse.

I have forgotten where I slept that night, but the next day, I met the dapper Mexican man I had been warned to stay away from. He was friendly and I was hungry. He bought me some soup and crackers. During the day we had a few beers, and in the evening, we conversed in Spanish. He paid for my chile and beans supper, and we drank beer in several of the small town western bars in Hardin. I saw very few cowboys, and they were loners. Late that night the Mexican and I walked a mile out of town to the little shacks where the sugar beet field workers slept. There was no plumbing, water, or electricity in the wooden shack. My new friend used moonlight to read a letter to me. He laughed after telling me the letter said his best friend had been killed in a knife fight in Mexico. I guess he laughed because it would not be macho to show his sadness.

The little shack was empty except for a cot with a blanket. The dapper Mexican said in Spanish, "You must show your respect for me as my guest by sleeping on my cot. I will sleep on the floor, and I don't need a blanket because my body is hard and accustomed to the cold floor."

I slept well that night. I will always feel grateful to the dapper little man with the razor in his hat and to the older man who protected me from danger.

Carol Stuckey came into town the next afternoon and told me he had found a good job on a ranch. I said I would hitch-hike to California. I felt homesick for my family and wanted to body surf at Corona Del Mar Beach. The boss showed up after the weekend. He gave me eleven bucks, and I left Montana thumbing my way home to Anaheim, California. I moved in with my mother and brothers, and I enjoyed the warm family life.