Have you ever had the urge to kill someone? A few years ago that feeling came over me not once, but twice, within a ten-minute period. And it happened, of all places, at a convention of writers. Actually, now that I think about it, maybe getting the urge to kill while at a writer's convention is not so unusual after all. But not twice in a ten minute period.
The convention was being held by the Western Writers of America. I've been a member of that organization since 1986. It's a great group of writers--historians, novelists, editors, journalists and others--who banded together because of their common love for and devotion to the culture of the Old West. It's members have included such folks as Louis L'Amour, J.T. Edson, Dorothy Johnson, Elmer Kelton, Leon Metz, Don Coldsmith and hundreds of other gifted writers.
One of the nice things about WWA is that we hold our conventions each year at a different city. So we get to see a lot of the western U.S. that we might not otherwise see. And it was at one of those WWA conventions, the one in Oklahoma City in 1990, when something terrible happened that gave me the urge to kill two different people.
We had all been out to the National Cowboy Hall of Fame one evening for an autograph party. It was the year that Michael Blake (author of Dances with Wolves and screenwriter of the movie by the same name) and Glendon Swarthout (author of The Shootist, Old Colts, etc.) were major honorees. It was about 10 p.m. and several of our conventioneers had already returned to the hotel and ventured out of the hotel to nearby restaurants for some late night refreshments.
My wife, Peggy, and I had just walked up to the front door of a certain restaurant when our friend, Doty Tinsley, rushed out. She was obviously upset. She was shaking and almost in tears. Now, Doty is as gentle and friendly a person as you'll ever want to meet, despite being married to Western musicologist and entertainer Jim Bob Tinsley for all these years (Jim Bob's book, He Was Singin' This Song, is the modern definitive work on old cowboy music and was the inspiration for singer Michael Martin Murphy's CD album of classic cowboy tunes).
Anyhow, we asked her what in the world was wrong. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Then she explained what had happened. "I got down here way before anyone else with WWA did. So I got a table and sat down, and I went ahead and ordered a sandwich."
She leaned her head on my shoulder, caught her breath and continued. "I was sitting there waiting for my meal when this tall, rather nicely dressed man walked in. He started to walk by my table, then he stopped and said, 'I see by your badge that you are attending the convention of the Western Writers of America. I have some questions about writing. Would you mind if I join you for a moment?'
"Well, naturally, I said it was okay," Doty said, her chin quivering with emotion. "He immediately ordered a big meal to go. Then he asked me some questions about writing. You know, how to do research, how to get an agent. That kind of thing. Then he said, 'Actually, Mrs. Tinsley, the real reason I wanted to say hello to you is because you remind me of a very dear aunt of mine. When my parents were killed in a car wreck when I was eight, she took me in and raised me. Helped me through college and everything. She died just over a month ago and I sure do miss her. Your face and some of your mannerisms sure remind me of that special lady."
My wife spoke up and said, "And then what happened, Doty?"
"Then he asked me to do him a favor. He said his aunt had a favorite way of waving goodbye. He showed it to me, then he asked if I would wave goodby to him when he got to the door. Just like she used to do. I said I would, and he gathered up his meal in doggie bags and headed toward the door. He stopped at the cash register, looked back at me and waved. So I waved back at him."
At this point I sure couldn't figure out what this should be so upsetting to my friend. But then Doty explained. "Then I got right up to pay my check and the cashier said that I had to pay for his meal, too. The cashier said that the gentleman had told her that I had said I would pay for his meal, then waved at me to confirm it and I had waved back. And now I was going to have to pay over $20 for his meal! And I didn't have that much money on me!"
Now, everyone who knows Doty Tinsley knows she does not have a mean bone in her body. Not one. But she isn't one to trifle with, either. She is not shy about voicing her opinion or standing up for her rights. So it didn't surprise me when she added, "Right then I looked out the window and saw him walking down the street. I just left my purse there with the cashier and I ran out the door to catch him. And I did, too."
You don't ever want to try to outrun Doty. She is a first-class clogger. She loves that strenuous mountain dance, being from North Carolina, and does it whenever she can. So her legs are in real good shape. And it didn't surprise me that she was able to catch up with that jerk. I asked her what happened then.
"I chewed him out, real good," Doty said. "I told him I wasn't about to pay for his meal and that he was going to have to pay me or go back and settle with the cashier. And that's when he hit me with his walking cane."
Doty was shaking, again, and nearly in tears. And as I looked at the distraught face of a dear friend, I had the urge to kill that guy. I was looking around for him and for a stout tree limb to hang the dirty, rotten thief from.
My wife patted Doty on the back, trying to comfort and reassure her. And she asked, "Doty, did that man hurt you?"
"Oh, my, yes!" Doty exclaimed. "He hit me twice across the chest with that big walking stick of his." And then Doty opened her sweater with the sweep of a stage actress, smiled widely and said, "And that's how I came to have these two large bumps on my chest."
We had been snookered by the little lady from North Carolina. And that's when I had the second urge to kill, only this time it was not directed toward the thief.
© 2003 by Stan Paregien, Sr.