Johnny Jones and Bean (again)

Johnny Jones and Bean Part II. If you haven't read Part I yet, you might want to go HERE and read that first.

Cowboy hats. A weird thing to remember somebody by. I can't help myself when it comes to Johnny Jones, though.

It wasn't the styles or that he always wore one (he didn't), it was because he could fuck up a cowboy hat faster than anybody I've ever known, before or since. It's almost like he had an aversion to a clean, factory shaped hat.

Let me tell you how quickly he could 'break in' a hat. He was working out at a farm on the other side of Oakdale one Saturday and stopped by to borrow something or another before he drove out there. He was wearing a brand spanking new straw hat, so clean and bright with the sun reflecting off of it that I was tempted to put sunglasses on. When I was saw him late the next day, he was wearing a dirty, beat to shit lid. "What happened to your new hat, did you lose it or something?"

He looked puzzled and pointed upwards. "This is it."

"No way. Did you get behind a calf that had the skitters or what?" Seriously, it was that bad. It was covered in dirt and speckled with either mud or a little cowshit or both, and it looked like it had gotten knocked off his head and something stomped on the brim, giving Johnny Jones that Festus look.

I am convinced to this day that if we were to both put on brand new hats one morning and hung out with each other all day doing the exact same shit, by the time the sun set his hat would be misshapen, dirty and have sweat stains, while mine would still be clean enough I could get a return on it at the store if I wanted.

Him and Bean stopped by my house and wanted to know if I wanted to drive down to the Stanislaus/Merced county line for the Thursday night livestock auction with them so Johnny Jones could buy a farrier's apron for some of the farm chores he occasionally did on the weekends for cash. Now the first half of the auction was tack, tools and gear, shit like that, and the second half being livestock, starting with rabbits and fowl, sheep and goats, then on to donkeys, mules, horses and finally, cattle.

We got to the auction a little late but one of the first things we saw up for bid was a box of ten Justin straw cowboy hats that were billed as factory seconds because of the sizing. Justin hats were what most of us wore because they were so damned cheap - you could buy one for about 20 bucks retail back then. Hell, they're still cheap; just the other day I saw a Justin felt hat down at the Tractor Supply for all of 55 bucks. At that price who cares if you fucked one up? You could just pick another one up for the price of a steak dinner.

Johnny Jones just had to have those hats and got them for 75 bucks. When we got them home, we found that it was indeed the sizing. They were all over the place even though they were all tagged as size 7 3/8. They ranged from a tight 7 1/4 to a loose 7 1/2 with most them on the smaller end. Other than that, there was nothing wrong with them. The two tightest ones went to a couple neighborhood boys that were always hanging around their place, I bought one from him that fit me for 10 bucks, he kept 5 hats that he could wear with a little stretching, and he put the two largest ones aside for our buddy Rex who was a fat-headed motherfucker anyway. 

Johnny Jones went through every single one those hats within a year. I've still got mine, it's hanging off a set of horns on my wall not 6 feet away from me right now. It's beat to shit, the brim has a couple weird tweaks to it, and there's still California dust, dirt and probably cowshit embedded in the weave of the straw, but 40 years later I still wear it occasionally if I'm working outside.

One of the line workers and a girl that worked in the gauge lab were getting married up at Knight's Ferry along the Stanislaus river, and much to my dismay I was invited, along with a couple dozen other folks that we worked with. I had something to do after the wedding so I drove my own truck, falling in behind Bean's car somewhere along the way, and parking right behind them.

Johnny Jones got out of the car and walked to the back. Bean opened up the trunk and put a Stetson hat box on my hood, opening it up and removing a nice cream colored Stetson hat. Johnny Jones half-bowed to her and she reached up and placed the hat on his head.

I had to laugh in spite of being subjected to a wedding in just a few minutes. "Damn, are you so spoiled that you won't even dress yourself anymore?" 

"That's a 200 dollar Stetson Bean bought me to get married in and I only wear it for special occasions. I'm not allowed to touch it with my own hands. She's afraid I'll ruin it, and rightfully so."

As we were walking towards the venue, Johnny Jones started to reach up and Bean slapped his hand away with a sharp "Uh-uh, oh no you don't, Buster!"

"Dang it Bean, my head itches."

We stopped, Bean reached up and removed his hat, he scratched his head and she put it back on. 

Me and Bean both spent the wedding keeping an eye on Johnny Jones, her making sure he didn't try to touch his hat and me waiting for a resounding crack when she slapped his hand if he tried.

*

Me and Johnny Jones were the opposite when it came to dressing ourselves too.

With me, the only difference between my work clothes and play clothes was the time of day I was wearing them. When I got home from work and showered, I was just as likely to put the same pants back on unless they were dirty or stained, and I'd put on any old T-shirt or button down work shirt. I wasn't out to impress anyone. What you see is what you get.

Johnny Jones, though? He wore 3 different styles of clothing depending on the time of day - he wore absolute rags to work at the plant, then when he got off he'd change into worn jeans, a western style button down, and his comfortable but decent looking cowboy boots. Later that evening, if him and Bean went out to eat or to the movies, he'd change into pressed jeans, a nice ironed shirt and his good boots with a fresh coat of polish on them, the prissy son of a bitch.

I told him once he was the only motherfucker I've ever known that had more closet space than his wife.

Johnny Jones bought all of his work clothes at the Goodwill in Modesto, and was in there so much he got a 10% frequent flyer's discount. I'm not joking, a discount at the Goodwill. Gotta save that buck forty six, you know? Everybody in the store knew him and Bean by name.

Here's how raggedy he looked when it came to his work clothes: his truck was broke down and he had arranged for Real Pancho to swing by and pick him up for work, meeting him at the corner of the main road and the street he lived on. Real Pancho was running just a tad late, so Johnny Jones stood up from the curb he was sitting on to look down the road to check and see if he could spot him coming. Right about that time, a car pulled up and the woman driving motioned him over. Thinking she might need directions or something, Johnny Jones walked up to her car, then to his surprise, she rolled down her window, handed him a ten dollar bill and said, "Here, don't spend it on drugs," then drove off before he could protest and give it back to her, all happy and shit that she could do her Christian duty and make a difference in a homeless person's life.

At breaktime, he was feigning outrage at being taken as a bum until Skidmark pointed out that her assumption was understandable given his appearance. His shirt was too large and the hem line was pretty much in tatters, his pants were 2 inches too short, there were holes in the knees, the suspenders he had to wear to hold those pants up because half the belt loops were torn weren't in much better shape, the steel toes in both boots were exposed, and the bandanna covering his head was just downright nasty.

*

I had just finished cooking my breakfast and was sitting down to eat one fine summer Sunday morning when I heard Johnny Jones' beater truck rattling up my drive.

"Watch out for the dog, he's in an ill mood today," I hollered as soon as he killed the truck but before he got out.

He stuck his head around the corner, having successfully evaded Captain who was pissed off at the world for some reason. "Hey! You're eating? Looks like I'm just in time," he said as he took his hand off of his revolver and got a plate and silverware from the cabinet and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Good, I see you made plenty," he said as he slid half my scrambled eggs off the platter onto his plate. "You planning on eating both those chops?" 

I nodded glumly as he speared one. "Well, you best get to frying you up another one then. No fried taters? See, that's why I don't come over for breakfast more often. I like fried taters with my eggs and chops."

"I'm sure Bean's got a sack full of taters at home and she'd be more than happy to fry you up some," I said as I was watching a pork chop disappear as fast as he could cut it up and cram it in his mouth.

"She does and she did, not more than 2 hours ago," he grinned, cheeks bulging.

"What? You ate breakfast at your house, then you come over and eat mine? What the hell?"

"I grew up poor, you know that. I never miss a chance at a free meal. Hey, I was wondering if you could do me a favor?" he asked as he poured hot sauce on his/my eggs

"You bet. Whatcha need?" I asked between mouthfuls as I was shoveling eggs into my mouth before Johnny Jones started taking food off my plate. So much for a leisurely breakfast.

"I'm going out of town for 5-6 days, out to Texas. I was wondering if you could check up on Bean every couple days after you get off work. Her car's in the shop again and Tuesday's her shopping day, so she might want you to carry her to Oakdale so she can get that that done." Oakdale had a couple chain supermarkets with better selections than Riverbank's one small family owned store.

I nodded. "Sure, I'll check up on her, no problem, but I ain't taking her shopping. I don't even like doing my own grocery shopping. I'll swing by your place Tuesday before work and pick her up before I go in. She can just keep my truck for the day and pick me up at quitting time. You going to visit your mother?" That was the only reason I could think of for him to go to Texas, but he hated his mother. His dad had run out on them when Johnny Jones was just a couple years old and he said his mother took out her anger on him, beating him like a redheaded stepchild. One night he got really drunk and showed me the scars on his back from her whipping him with a coat hanger when he scratched her car with his bike when he was just a little guy. He told me once he hadn't spoken to her since he left home shortly after he turned 17.

"Nope, going to her funeral."

I stopped eating. I knew there was no love lost between them, but still, it was the woman that brought him into this world. I wasn't sure what to say so I went with my old stand-by on the rare occasions I was at a loss for words. "That's fucked up."

"Not as fucked up as you not offering to fry me up some taters after I said I wanted some. You're not a very good host, you know that?

"Forget the fried taters. It's not happening. So why are you even going to her funeral? She hasn't been a part of your life for years now."

"Just to make sure she's dead."

I may not have gotten my leisurely breakfast but I did get my mind blown. I guess that was a fair enough trade-off.

I remember talking about her with him once and telling him he had his shit together pretty good for having such a fucked up childhood, and he said, "Fuck 'er. She could beat me up but I'll be damned if I was going to let her beat me down."

*

Johnny Jones and Bean loved kids. Loved them. Neighborhood kids would come over to their house to play and they both found time to entertain them. If one of our friends was in sudden need of a babysitter during the day for one reason or another, they knew they could count on Bean to keep on eye on them.

I was over at their place one time and was standing at the door getting ready to leave and getting my good-byes said when I heard a knock. I opened the door and there was a boy about 6-7 years old looking up at me with a big smile minus his two front teeth and with ball and glove in hand. "Can Johnny Jones come out and play catch, mister?" 

Wow. That took me back 15 years. Now I knew what his Granny Edna saw when I was a kid coming to her house looking for him.

Throughout the year, anytime they went shopping, they'd always spent a few extra bucks and pick up a small toy or two. At yard sales, if they saw a decent bike, trike, little red wagon or a little girl's toy baby carriage, they'd buy it and Johnny Jones would refurbish it. All this stuff would get stored in their garage, then they'd donate it to our local Volunteer Fire Department for their annual Christmas give-away for poor kids.

I didn't realize how much shit they collected and donated until one December day my pager went off. It was Johnny Jones. I plugged in my phone and called him back.

"Yeah hey, I was wondering if I could borrow you and your truck and little trailer tomorrow?" he asked. I couldn't refuse him as generous as he was with his time if I needed help but my groan must've been audible because he said, "Lighten up, nobody's moving, I just need a little help hauling some things to the firehouse for their Christmas deal tomorrow night."

I went over the next day and when he opened the door to his little one car garage, I about shit. That thing was crammed full of toys, bikes, carriages and wagons. No wonder he wanted help. We must've made 4 trips apiece emptying it out. There was so much shit the FD had to pull one of their trucks out in the drive to make room.

I asked him one time if they loved kids so much, why didn't they have any of their own, and he told me they've tried and tried but Bean never got pregnant. Matter of fact, he told me, they tried three times last Saturday which might explain why nobody answered the phone when I kept calling to see if they wanted to go catfishing with me that night.

"Well, you do realize they have tests for that shit now and you've got 100% insurance. Why don't y'all just go down and get checked to find out what's wrong?" I asked.

"We talked about it but we don't want either one of us feeling any sort of resentment towards the other because of it, you know?"

Man, that was about the most considerate thing I'd ever heard but before I could say so, he continued with, "I'm pretty sure it's her though on account of me being such a fucking stud."

*

I was working outside one Saturday morning and noticed Johnny Jones' truck turning in through the gate. They pulled up to the house and got out, and the first thing I noticed was the way Bean was dressed. Now her normal everyday wear was a pair of jeans, a loose fitting men's button down and cowgirl boots, but today she had on a pair of black slacks, a nice blouse and smart lookin' shoes. Johnny Jones was in his kicking around clothes. "Well, don't you look nice today, Bean! What's the special occasion?" I asked, pulling out my bandanna and wiping the sweat off my face. She stood there on the porch batting her eyes and smiling at me. She was up to something for sure.

"I have a job interview," she announced.

"A job interview? I thought y'all decided you weren't going to work outside of the house. Who's the interview with?"

"You," she said.

I gotta hear this. "Me? I'm hiring?"

"I hope so," she said.

Johnny Jones pushed past me to get a free beer and muttered, "I'm real sorry about this, brother. We don't mean to put you on the spot. If you don't want to do it, we understand."

Fuck it, it was time for a break anyway. "Well, come in and tell me what I'm hiring you for."

She came in and Johnny Jones went back out the door, telling me he was going to visit Royboy and leave us to our interview.

"Okay, so what's this all about?" I asked.

"Well, I want to buy my husband a gift and if we pay for it out of his wages, it'll be him buying himself a gift. If  I earn the money, it'll be from me proper. I was hoping I could talk you into hiring me to clean your house until I earn enough."

"Uh-huh. And may I ask what this gift is?"

"It's a new gun. He saw it down at Gun Country and admires it every time we go in." Gun Country was my favorite gun shop and range in Modesto. "It's a Colt Commando."

"You're hired." She had me at 'new gun'. Never let it be said I stood in the way of a man getting a new gun. "It's Commander, by the way. I've seen the gun you're talking about. So those are drool stains on the slide. Now tell me what I'm going to be paying you." At this point, as soon as the gun came into play, the wily female was in complete control of the alleged interview.

"Well, I figure 100 dollars for the first week is fair, and that's going to get you a completely cleaned house from top to bottom, except for your bedroom. Walls, floors, windows, the works. After that, 50 dollars a week, and I'll come over twice a week just to stay on top of it. Both days I'll leave your dinner in the oven, and once a week I'll do your laundry for you."

Well shit, that sounds like a deal to me. "You're not going to iron my clothes, are you?"

"No, I wouldn't do that to you."

"Will you drink or use drugs on the job?" I was trying to make it official sounding.

"Yes, I enjoy wine while I'm cleaning. No drugs. Does that TV work?" she asked, nodding at it.

"It did last time I turned it on, maybe a couple years ago, why?"

"I like to watch my stories when I take a break from cleaning," she said

I couldn't think of any problems that would hold this up. Trusting her in my house while I was gone was a non-issue seeing as they had a key not only to my gate but the house as well already anyway, and while Ol' Cap only tolerated Johnny Jones, he was Bean's buddy. If anything, he'd be so underfoot he'd get in her way.

We discussed it for a couple more minutes and then I got to thinking that if I was in any way involved in this, something was going to fuck up. The gun would probably get sold and we won't be able to find another one, and Colt will quit shipping or their plant would burn down. Lane Luck and all that. 

I called Royboy's house and talked to Johnny Jones, telling him I was kidnapping his old lady and I'd drop her off at their house after I had my way with her. 

"Okay, bro. If she gets too mouthy, don't hesitate to beat her."

We went to the bank before it closed for the weekend and I raided my account, leaving enough in there for food and gas for the week, then we went down to Gun Country and talked to Gary, the owner, me asking him if I put down a sizable deposit would he take the gun off the shelf after telling him the story. Now, I knew Gary and he knew me due to the fact that I spent a minimum of a couple three hundred bucks a month there between guns, ammo and reloading supplies, so he agreed as long as somebody came down and made a weekly payment, basically a lay-away. I gave up 300 bucks which was about half the price of the gun, then I took Bean home.

After I got back to my shack, I started thinking about the whole deal. It was bad enough having to go through a 10 day waiting period (Fuck you, California) but him having to wait any longer than that until Bean paid it off? I just had a valve job done on my truck the week prior so between that and Bean's up front payment I was tapped out, but I called my dad and asked to borrow the rest for a couple weeks, and he agreed. Pops liked Johnny Jones and felt the same way I did about somebody getting a new gun.

When I went to work the following Tuesday, the first day she was coming by, I left the balance of the purchase price plus tax on the table along with a note telling her when she was done cleaning, to go down to the shop and pay the gun off and do the paperwork and I explained why. She could just work off what she owed me.

I came home that afternoon and walked into the house and smelled..... meatloaf. Nothing else. No stale beer, no dog smell, no tobacco, no gun solvent, nothing. It was almost like a normal person lived there. She'd scrubbed everything. I was running my fingers underneath the window sills, on top of the doors and anyplace else I could think of and they came up clean, She even took my window screens off and sprayed them down. 

Friday, I walked into my shack and found pork chops in the oven, and my laundry was stacked neatly on the couch with a note on it that read, "You don't wear drawers? Yuck." Damn, I thought, I could get used to this involuntary servitude deal, the maid's insolence aside.

The day the waiting period was up they came over, both of them wearing huge grins and Johnny Jones wearing a brand spanking new Colt Commander on his belt. "NOTICE ANYTHING DIFFERENT, BUDDY?"  he hollered, lifting his shirt front and thrusting his pelvis towards me.

"Well, now that you ask I couldn't help but notice you have a rather impressive erection, if you don't mind me saying so," I replied, causing Bean to blush.

"You're goddamned right I do! And a new pistol, too!" he said. I could tell he was excited because he rarely cussed in front of Bean. "Here, check this out!" and reached down before we could protest, then he pulled out the gun, much to mine and Bean's relief.

"There's a full coffee can of ammo on the bench, partner. I'll drive Bean home." 

"Thanks, but maybe later. Right now I have to get my wife home and, uh, you know, express my gratitude."

I have never seen Bean's face so red. "You two kids have fun."

A week or two after that, I dropped an 81mm shell on the top of my foot and broke a bone in it. Doc Hooker, the company doctor, gave me a cane and two weeks off and told me to stay off of it. I swung by the plant and dropped the doctor's note off, then went home, forgetting it was a Bean day.

I walked in and the first thing I saw was Bean sprawled out in my easy chair with her bare feet propped up and wads of toilet paper between her toes, painting her toenails while she drank wine straight out of the bottle and watched General Hospital.

"Well, don't you look comfortable," I said as I limped to the couch. She obviously wasn't getting out of my chair.

"Are you paying me by the hour?"

"No."

"Are you happy with the job I'm doing?" she asked.

"No complaints at all."

She held her hand up at arm's length and palm outward, the universal signal for shut the fuck up. "Then shush. My story's on. You're not supposed to be home for another two hours."

Yes ma'am. Whatever you say, ma'am.

I politely waited until a commercial break and then begged forgiveness for coming home early and explained why, then self-exiled myself to the front porch to seethe until the next commercial, wondering in bewilderment how she managed to seize operational control of my own fucking house?

Then her stories were over with and I was informed in as many words that broke foot or not, I needed to be someplace else on Tuesdays and Fridays between 11am and 3pm. She didn't clean Johnny Jones' house when he was around and she wasn't going to clean mine when I was around. She didn't care where I went, but I damned sure wasn't going to be sitting here getting in her way and distracting her from her stories.

"Now wait a cotton-pickin' minute! I'm supposed to stay off of my foot," I protested. "Doctor's orders."

"I suggest you plan out some long rides, then. You can sit on your butt in your truck as easily as you can in my way." She wasn't giving in.

Wow. This was not the sweet innocent Bean we all knew and loved. This Bean's a meanie.

I was whining about it to Johnny Jones later that evening when everybody was over.

"You didn't know that about her? Why do you think I don't work nights? No way do I want to be around her in the afternoons as adamant as she is about her girl time. Especially when her stories are on. Do not fuck with her story time." He finished his beer. "Come, let us go worship at the feet of John Moses Browning. I'll grab some ammo from my truck."