Reflections

A Journey not Measured in Miles - Rash
His dusty black Cadillac, its tires caked with the winter mud of many honky-tonk parking lots, stood waiting for him like a chariot at the back of the
building. He loved that car; it had become an extension of himself, a cave to which he could retreat. The front seat was littered with battered books
of philosophy, poetry, history, whatever caught his fancy. The back seat contained a pillow, some stacked shirts from the laundry tightly folded in a
cardboard box, a pair or two of clean trousers, some discarded copies of The Christian Science Monitor, and a bundle of dirty clothes on the
floorboard. Many nights now he never made it home.
The substantial hum of the motor was like the voice of an old friend and he silently thanked his acquisitive father for amassing the fortune that
would at least allow him to decline in comfort and style -- a crooked smile fleeted across his thin lips. He swung the heavy car around and roared
down the alley.
The Barretts drove the only Cadillacs in town -- as if by imperial decree -- and they owned a veritable fleet of them. The four brothers were a mixed
lot, as all princes are. Not one of them had assumed the crown after the old man died, but had divided his vast land holdings amongst themselves
with each holding equal shares in the bank. However, the daily business of running the bank had fallen to Rash, as he was considered the only one
with brains enough to manage it. No one had asked him; it was just assumed that he would do it. The only one to finish college, he would have
been much happier in baggy, professorial tweeds smoking his pipe, delivering philosophy lectures in a small state university, and writing cryptic,
cynical remarks in the margins of freshman papers.
His older brother raised Quarter horses and kept the road hot with his fancy trailer rigs between the ranch and Ruidoso, New Mexico, where he
took his horses to race. Another raised hell, along with cattle and kids, on his ranch outside of town. His hard drinking and womanizing were
legend in the county; but his fiery, red-headed wife had recently slowed him down by unloading a shotgun at close range in his butt when he
arrived home late smelling of cheap perfume and hard liquor. The baby brother played with interior design and young boys in Ft. Worth, coming
home periodically in disgrace from some outlandish escapade. They all wore their crowns at a roguish angle and their various scandals and
adventures were tolerated and awaited with twittering expectation by the local peasantry.
The old man, it was rumored, had made his "pot" by following the old cattle drives and picking up all the unbranded strays, then selling them. He
came to the county before the turn of the century and bought up all the available land by being able to pay a few cents more per acre than anyone
else. As the only locally available source of hard cash, he quickly found it advantageous to go into banking. He further increased his holdings by
purposely loaning money to ranchers whom he knew would not be able to repay him on time, either because of bad management or hard times.
When the note came due unpaid, he wasted no time or sympathy before foreclosing. Thus, he quickly became the most needed, hated, and feared
man in the county. With that came grudging respect and the crown.
˜
20