The Gonzo Wolf

There’s an old guy (well, he’s older than me) in my neighborhood who I refer to as The Fixer. I have no idea who he is or where he comes from, but I know his purpose. If you hail from the rural south like I do, this guy’s infamous.

Every minority “community” has one and, being smack-dab in the middle of the big city, this is still a “community”. You see, my neighborhood is mostly folks from Mexico; maybe even further south. I’m certain a good chunk of them are illegal, and the old man in the beat-up truck is the guy who gets things done. White people don’t have “fixers”. We just ignore things until they either kill us, put us in jail, or eat us alive. Therapists, maybe? It helped me. Some.

He’s the only one who comes around that speaks any English or even nods to my existence. Daily, I see him parked at various houses, and they ALWAYS come outside to see him. By no means is he the Dos Equis spokesman, more like the Marlboro Man, but you can tell he’s done things. I think he only nods at multi-recipe crackers like myself when he sees we’ve done things too. It’s the eyes below the hat-brim. Those soul-sucking, yet somehow gentle, eyes.

When ICE starts shenanigans in Dallas, they’re always in the suburbs. I’ve only seen them down by the river one time, and I don’t think it went well. Dallas (Highland Park Excluded) is a universe all it’s own, mix-matched like a micro New York City; sprinkled with white-washed Ford F350 cos-players who’ve never had a sod to bust. Outsiders pretend to like it here for the sake of workplace lunchroom conversations or to impress that one chick from the trailer park who still has that Hot Topic gift card leftover from two Christmases ago, and we don’t like them much when they do. I can’t tell you the last time I saw someone advertising the opposition in front of their home or on their vehicle. It’s nice. Collectively, I think we, as a city, frighten them. Like a sort-of Southern Detroit, maybe?

Sometimes, I wish the people from my old life could see and comprehend – the most important part – the things I’ve witnessed in this strange, new world. It’s only a cornfield or two away, but you must be willing to buy the ticket/take the ride.

It won’t come find you, unless you owe it money. You must seek the strange, the masterful, and the misunderstood. The sounds of lonely commuter trains and delivery vehicles spotting the clean-ish slate of semi-toxic night air, and it’s home.

The morning sun rose and, through the magic of 4 freaking chains, my bicycles are still in my courtyard. The potential thief may have been a blessing in disguise. I slept without the white noise machine in my ear, hoping to hear the pussy-footing fiend as he jiggled my combination, but I think The Fixer may have intercepted him. I slept like a damned baby.

I could think that this thoughtful Christmas gift was robbing me of precious sleep for months, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s the fault of our neighborhood savior. He doesn’t always drink beer but, when he does, he has to pee. A lot. It gets more difficult to hold as you get older.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. Cowboy hats, sun-faded pick-up trucks, and a Clint Eastwood stare make all the difference in the world.