Gruene Hall
29.73833°N 98.10389°W
The night I met “Bulljack” John Hollis I’d’ve never thunk it’d’ve led me to a rehabilitated ghost-town on the edge of New Braunfels, Texas. Gruene. (No, not “Gruene”, but Gruene… like the color of the currency in your garter.) Howdy g’damn, I muttered as the first of my footheels fell in the town of Gruene, what the blazes have I got myself into this time? I’m anxious as all get-out. Hands’re damp. Gut’s squirrelly. Twice already I’ve made a courtesy visit to the latrines. I arrived early enough to scout the location and formulate an exit strategy. I even backed my rental car into a parking spot; reversing-now to forward-later should I require a quick hightailing. Even so, as I walk these dusty streets of a ghost-town, I half-expect Bulljack to reveal himself from behind the old water-tower with a six-gun revolver pointed at my heart. Shoulda never come back to Texas, Victor snarling from his lips. And in Texas, it’s just as likely as not to be legal for Bulljack to gun me down in the streets. Like a dawg. Y’know, considering trespasses & all…
And every other damn truck moseying-down main street looks like it might be Bulljack’s ominous Dodge.
Ages ago, Gruene was a vibrant town: a settlement of German immigrants along the Guadalupe River. Last century fires burned all the shit down, bo weevils ate the crops and the new highway of interstate commerce did not so much as sniff at Gruene. The town fell into ruin and was nearly abandoned. Gruene Hall, however, still stands. Texas’ oldest dance hall. A rite of passage for Texan musicians. Former stomping grounds of George Strait. Site of a legendary visit by Willie. A historic venue, yet I’dn’t heard of Gruene Hall until this week. Not until I was summoned here.
It’s been quite the long way ‘round to find my way here. I hope it was worth it.
Yeh. A month ago, I was on-assignment in Houston. I needed a break, a Saturday night anywhere but there. I sure as shit wasn’t going to fly home to Chicago where my girlfriend’s next boyfriend had issued a Southside Polish fatwa demanding my head on a charcuterie board. Sure as shit: nope, I ain’t fucking with that. Instead, I kept my ass in Texas, driving west out of Houston to Austin, booking a room at the Holiday Inn on Lady Bird Lake before I hit the streets, exploring the vibrant nightlife and, once hungry, cutting into a thick slice of brisket at Stubb’s Bar-B-Q. The restaurant was packed for the band setting-up downstairs, yet I managed a stool at the bar with the intention of feasting beneath a televised football game. Watching an on-field tackle with admiration, I laughed, ha!, shit. This reaction of mine drew the ire of my barstool neighbor.
You ain’t an Aggie fan, are ya?, the sodbuster asked. He was young, but wizened like the leather holding up his pants. I may be more worldly than he, what with me having pissed in most corners of the globe, but this fella was of the world. His hands have planted more fence posts than mine have held slices of pizza. Which is considerable. Cos if you are an Aggies fan, he said, you better buy me a beer if you want to keep sittin’ on that stool & not layin’ under it. He was old German stock. Blonde, blue-eyed, sunburnt. No cowboy hat or spurs, but he would’ve looked natural in such accessories. He was scrawny & smaller than me, yet mean & sinewy like a rattlesnake. I was not intimidated; I could see the bouncers from where I sat and reckoned: if push-come-to-shove?, I can protect the continuity of my chompers for 8 seconds of rodeoing this bronco before the doormen interject on my behalf. Unintimidated and, to be honest, a bit lonesome, I fatefully decided to engage the cowpunch with a bit of conversation.
Not an Aggies fan, I said, but I will buy you that beer. He took my offer as an offense and asked, what are ya queer? I spit-laughed, nope. His face winced at my laughter. As if in pain. The sodbuster said, cos I ain’t queer!, but I would suck a dick. Oh?, I said and lowered the hand I rose for the bartender’s attention. After a mildly discomforting pause in dialogue, the hatless cowboy laughed & smacked my back hard enough to knock the dust off my coat. Hey!, my new pal said with a smile wide enough to reveal the noticeable void of a missing canine tooth, hey!, I am just fucking with ya, mister. Jay-sus the look on your face!, he said. Nah, I am just fucking with ya. My name’s John Hollis, he said with a hand out to shake. My friends call me “Buuuuulljack”.
For the next quarter hour, I heard all of the unsolicited life story I could want out of Bulljack John Hollis. He’s not in the rodeo, but his brother Ansel is. No, Bulljack is an agriculturist. And a successful one. Trips to Montana, Canada and even Argentina. An international cowboy, he says with a wink. Rich as Croesus for it. He specializes in A.I. No shit?, I said, I shouldn’t be surprised, artificial Intelligence is everywhere.
Shit no, brother!, Bulljack hollered and rose from his stool as if power-pedaling a bicycle while farting-out chili-peppers. Artificial Intelligence is the devil, he said. Realizing Bulljack’s luddite position, I gave him a sympathetic smile and played along. I asked him, bedeviling?, or you think A.I. is literally the-capital-D “Devil”? Ain’t shittin’ ya, Victor, Bulljack said with a head-shake, A.I. is truly the Devil. The way I see it, he says, A.I. only knows what you tell it through your words & actions. Same as the Devil. The Devil doesn’t know your thoughts. Only God knows your thoughts. But the Devil, same as artificial intelligence, he needs you to supply the rope for your own hanging. Devil don’t damn us. We damn ourselves, Victor.
Ahh, I said, I never quite made that connection.
Bulljack was yapping further until he became distracted with something overshoulder. Someone. Jay-sus!, he exclaimed, what took you so long to park, Emby? Following his eyes, I looked for his valet to find a stern young woman with her light-brown hair pulled-back tight in a ponytail, hoop earrings dangling like magnifying glasses drawing attention to the slope of her neck, stone-wash blue-jeans, black heels and a white dress-shirt unbuttoned enough to hint at the red lace of an underlying bra. I wasn’t smitten. Nope. I have more resolve than that. If I was so easily stunned by a woman of this caliber, I wouldn’t be able to walk down the streets of Austin. Not with proper posture.
Emby, this is my old pal, Victor, Bulljack said. Vic, scoot down to the next barstool, pal… Don’t, Emby said and placed a halting hand on my shoulder. With no more greeting than that, she took the vacant seat beside me which meant my half-finished plate of brisket was on the bar between Bulljack’s Redbull & vanilla vodka and Emby’s purse. Bulljack leaned forward to look past me at Emby, asking her, where’d ya park?, Ama-rillo? Without looking up from her phone, Emby said, I had to circle the block until something opened-up. Jay-sus!, Bulljack said, I almost had to take Victor here as my date to the show. Emby put down the phone to look at me for the first time. Her hazel eyes reflected the green grass televised from above. Emby told me, if you want to see the show I can get you in.
Right around then: yeah maybe possibly I became a little smitten.
Before I remembered how to speak, Bulljack decided to control the conversation for all of us. He told Emby I was doing business in Houston, …what line of work was it? FinTech?, he said, shit you’d be two-peas with Emby. She’s in the predictions market. She’s practically a war-profiteer. Ain’t that right, Emby? She puts the “ass” back into “capitalist”, Bulljack said.
Technically, there is only one “s” in capitalist…, I say before Emby interrupted me. Don’t, she said. I wisely discontinued my thought (an alternative: she puts the “tail” back into “capitalist” would have worked) and felt the sudden shade of shame fall across me. I quickly learned my shame was misplaced when Emby advised me further, saying, never attempt to correct the spelling of a cowboy.
Yuuup, Bulljack said through a clenched jaw, them would be shooting words. Bulljack was incensed. Not at me, but her. He explained, I like my grammar like I like my women. Loose. Ain’t that right, Emby?
Ignoring him, I asked Emby about the life of a futures market day-trader. As she spoke, my peripheral vision noticed Bulljack crush the Redbull can-in-hand before pouring its sputtering remains into his highball glass. Emby said, the key phrase is “monitoring the situation…”. Bulljack was quick to interrupt. Don’t let her fool ya!, Victor, he said, she’s just the coffee-fetcher for the braintrust of devils gooning over their keyboards as they make wagers over nuclear war timelines. It’s the Devil’s playground, Bulljack said, capitalizing on the misery of others. She’s probably estimating your day of death right now. Ain’t that right, Emby?
Emby’s focus was on her phone as she spoke to Bulljack, asking, and your brother isn’t a capitalist? She turned to me to describe Ansel Hollis: a failed rodeo clown chasing Walmart trucks with cheap used-cars to intentionally crash into and collect insurance payouts & pain-killer prescriptions. Bulljack waved his finger around and said, don’t bring Ans into this!
Victor, Emby said, did John tell you why his friends call him “bulljack”? He calls himself an agriculturist, but he is more specifically an expert at artificial insemination. Very hands-on, if you catch my drift…
Ahh, I said as Bulljack’s earlier references to working with “A.I.” suddenly made more sense. Well, I said in defense of my new buddy Bulljack, somebody’s got to help put the steak on my plate. Bulljack patted my back as his pouty face nodded at my comments. With the pat, I wondered which of his hands he makes his living with. Maybe both. What do I know of bull?
Y’know, Victor, Bulljack said, you & me gonna be buds. Ansel & I could use a fella with your deep understanding of how the world works. Gumption is in short supply these days, but you & me, Victor, we’ve got it in droves. Call me next time you’re in Texas. We’ll get up to shenanigans, Bulljack said and slid me his business card before leaning forward to tell his date, we need get downstairs.
Emby put her phone into her purse, unsaddled from her barstool and, placing a hand on my mine, asked if my tab was settled-up. My tab?, no… She insisted on getting me into the show. Who am I to decline her hospitality? Even with the huffing & braying & kicking-up dirt coming from the agriculturist, I accepted the offer. Emby took each of us boys by the crooks of our arms and together we descended to the music venue basement of Stubb’s.
All I can remember of the band’s performance was Emby throwing some ass to the clank of cowbell. Godbless capitalism. She even withdrew her hair from its bindings and let it flow. I was tempted to join her, my feet couldn’t keep from shuffling, but I chose the more diplomatic position of hanging back with Bulljack as he barely flinched to the music. When he left to use the lavatory, he gave me his empty beer bottle with instructions to brain any fool who dances up on his woman. Sure, bud…
By the end of the show, I felt I had worn-out my welcome. I’d’ve preferred leaving the Texans wanting more but at that point it was too late to get out while the getting was good. As if to validate my sentiment, Emby ghosted, departing Stubb’s without any hint of a goodbye. A mighty bit crestfallen, I decided my future midnight hours should be spent traipsing around 6th Street crying into a couple Shiner Bocks. Which… if we’re being honest, had been my original Saturday night plan.
Outside Stubb’s, Bulljack waved me down from the curb where he sucked on his vape. I long for the days when cowboys died smoking Marlboro Reds.
Did Emby tell you I stole Ansel’s buckle?, Bulljack asked me. It’s bullshit. I earned this, he said as he groped the hood ornament of his belt. Won it fair, Bulljack said with a shake of his head, not at a fair!, he clarified, but at 4H. Thing is, Bulljack said, she thinks her shit don’t stink, but it does and I can testify. Did you know the biblical root of the word “testify” is “swearing by your own testicles”? True story. Which is why only menfolk can testify. Y’see, Victor, Emby’s problem, he said, she still thinks she’s prom queen back in Temple. But Austin is a bigger pond and she hasn’t adjusted her ego for inflation. I do fear she’s gonna drag me down to hell with her… Hell-with-a-capital-H, Victor… The people she works for: they been making bets on the timing of the Second Coming, Victor, when the Lord already told us only He knows when He’s gonna return. Devil’s playground, bud. I’ll be damned, just you watch. If I stick with her I’ll be damned, he said. But I do love her, damnit.
I confided in him a brief overview of my Chicago trouble. This made him cheerful. We ain’t too dissimilar, Victor! Damn son, I am glad to have made a friend tonight. We’re gonna make our own… what the shit? Bulljack’s smile faded as a monstrously oversized Dodge Ram double-parked on Red River Street. The driver’s door opened and Emby exited, hurrying quickly-yet-deliberately in her heels around the hood of the truck towards Stubb’s. She tossed Bulljack the keys and said she had to pee. The fuck I’m supposed to do?, he asked with slackjaw bewilderment. Circle the block or pay the illegal parking fine…, Emby said, it’s your fucking truck. Jay-sus!, he yelled and rushed to jump into his cab and drive away.
Emby’s emergency urination was farce. She remained next to me on the curb waiting for the truck to round the corner out-of-site. If it is his truck?, I asked her, why are you driving? His license is suspended. DUIs, she said phonetically (“dooeys”) with a joyless laugh as she & I both knew Bulljack should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery. I wondered what predictive market bets she’s made on the cowboy’s demise. Or the pedestrians of Austin for that matter…
Do you have your phone?, Emby asked while she people-watched the crowd outside Stubb’s. Yeah, I took it out of my pocket. Unlock it, she said. I obeyed. My phone in-hand, she created contact information under “Maisie Bane”. Maisie?, Bane? “Emby”. Oh… ha, I said, Maisie, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. When I think of all the times we haven’t met before…
I spoke this wistfully and let my sentiment trail-off into vagary. She tilted her head at my odd little words and for the first time I saw her smile. Maisie Bane said, let me know when you are back in hollering distance of Austin.
The warm & tingly sensation I felt all-over was squashed by the engine roar of Bulljack’s return. Maisie approached the Dodge & resumed control of the truck. From the passenger seat, Bulljack tilted an invisible hat in my direction. I waved. With a skip in my step, I walked down Red River to 6th Street to giggle into a couple Shiner Bocks.
After my Houston project was over, I went back to Chicago briefly! to collect some clean underwear and seek refuge at my Milwaukee hideout. Over the next week, I finagled an assignment to a project in San Antonio. Texas. Arranging my trip, I debated between my gray suit & my olive green suit. And I debated between Bulljack John Hollis’s business card and Maisie Bane’s contact information. It was a brief debate. I packed the olive green suit, tossed Bulljack’s business card into the snowdrift and reached-out to Maisie. Within the hour, she made us 6:15 pm Thursday night reservations at the Gristmill, a steakhouse built out of the ruins of a cotton gin in Gruene; a perfect I-35 rendezvous between my San Antonio Holiday Inn and her Austin studio apartment.
Maisie arrives on-time in a black shoulder-strapped blouse, blue jeans, red heels, light-brown hair pulled back. She apologizes for being sweaty. It’s Texas, I say with a shrug. And I’m nervous, she admits. Because of John Hollis?, I ask and check the parking lot for Bulljack’s truck again. Ha!, she laughs. You’re stupid, she says with a delighted smile. No, she says, not because of John Hollis.
We order steaks & beer. Following her lead, I ask for my meat rare.
The only thing remaining of Gristmill’s old cotton gin is the boiler room. Rather than raze it all down & begin again, the restaurant was built within the ruins of the former mill. Overlooking the Guadalupe River, it is a peaceful scene if you don’t get hung-up over what once was.
Have you run my profile through your prediction machine?, I ask. Maisie pauses in thought, perhaps calculating how much data she should reveal. She admits she knows my expiration date with 93% accuracy. Oh?, I ask with great skepticism, and when would that be? She shakes her head and says, not tonight Neverman. I laugh like a goof.
My demise has never sounded sexier.
The steak melts upon the tongue. Its bloodiness has me feeling carnal. The baked potato is rich & earthy. The bottle of wine I selected happens to be a nice pairing. The open sky above our table is clear with stars glistening like Maisie’s skin. As our feast winds down, she rests her fork & knife on her plate and announces, I am going to freshen-up. When I get back you should take me dancing.
It’s a short walk to the old dance hall. As dusk fell, the honky-tonk crowd came out of hiding. Gruene Hall is packed with blue-jeaned bodies. I’ve a sense of destiny. And the air has the scents of perspiration & spilt beer & jasmine. Maisie’s hand is in mine as she guides us through the crowd to the bar. A little whiskey to loosen-up the hips and a cold Lone Star to keep us from overheating on the dance floor. The country crooner on-stage plays fast & plays hard. He admits he’s too drunk to fuck so might as well play another set and the crowd screams with approval. The howling lyrics of each heartsick song seem lifted from my last few months and with that nostalgia played onstage, I feel freed from my past & remain present in the swinging & stomping & kicking & heehawing. Nothing’s better than Maisie’s throaty laugh as I surprise dip her at the climax of each country-western song.
It’s not until I’m left to my own devices at the urinal trough of the men’s lavatory before the doubt & paranoia begins seeping in and I cannot help but look overshoulder for any signs of Bulljack creeping with an empty beer bottle looking to brain any fool who would dance up on his woman.
Where:
Gruene Hall, Texas’s oldest dance hall.
From San Antonio: head North on I-35 for half-an-hour.
From Austin: head South on I-35 for an hour.
Take exit 187. Pass the Jack in the Box. Look for the water-tower.
What to Drink:
A cold bottle of $1 Lone Star, son
How to make a quick getaway:
Willie Nelson famously avoided the crowds outfront by sneaking into Gruene Hall crawling through the bathroom window. Should double as a nice exit strategy!
