Nov. 19, 1997
The fondest memories I carry of my teenage years revolve around
a battered lime-green Ford pickup truck, with shag carpet on the cieling,
glass packs and mag wheels, rodeo gear stuffed behind the seat and Chris
LeDoux blaring from an 8-track player through two speakers we'd adapted
from a turntable which no longer functioned.
We were the original Urban Cowboys — hitting every rodeo and
all-ages honky-tonks we could find every weekend, putting in a full 40
hours or more a week shoveling grain dust for a salvage feed company, and
still managing to make some passable grades in a tough (at the time) school
district, Deer Park.
I remember the names of the crew: David Sipe, Carl Whaley, Rickey
Weaver, David Carroll, Marshall Taylor, myself and Mike Mireles. We were
tight; we were fearless; we were immortal. In the parlance of the mid-to-late
70s, we were the "kickers" in a school full of yuppies.
Of all the crew, though, my closest friend was Mike. We'd chummed
along since first bumping into one another on the football field at Deer
Park Junior High, and by the time Mike finagled his dad into buying that
lime-green truck, we were pretty much inseparable.
I was a skinny, scrawny kid until Mike — a good bit brawnier
— took me under his wing. He got me my first full-time job, lugging heavy
sacks of salvage grain around until I could throw them around like they
weighed nothing.
Mike and I shared growing up: adventures, "firsts" and heartbreaks.
I can't claim we were saints — and certainly some of our adventures would
be scandalous in today's Politically-Correct times — but all in all, we
were fairly good kids. I might've had the brains in our outfit, but Mike
was the natural leader.
We became Urban Cowboys, hitting the rinky-dink rodeos in Deer
Park, Aldine, Simonton, Crosby and wherever else we could find a ride.
"Just set your spurs, get a good grip, and rock with 'im!" was
Mike's ready-made advice on every occasion. I think I set a record for
most consecutive times bucked off, but it was still an adventure.
I remember learning to two-step, my first dip of snuff, my first
multi-person fistfight when we made a wrong turn in Houston one night (certain
clothes are kinda gaudy for certain neighborhoods), and I remember a long
quasi-intellectual debate over the definition of the word "gross" one night
while listening to Alice Cooper in the eerily-lit, half-completed second-floor
bedroom of Mike's parents' house.
After graduation, Mike married the girl I'd once chased, and
joined the Coast Guard. We continued our adventures during a couple of
summer visits over the next two years, but adulthood rapidly separated
us. By the time I'd landed a job in Lubbock, I no longer knew where Mike
and Gina were stationed.
As the years went by, I often wondered what had happened to my
friends, and occasionally heard a snippet passed on from Deer Park town
gossip (relayed faithfully by my mom). But we could never make contact.
Last June, I attended our 20-year class reunion, full of hopes
that I'd see my closest friend. He didn't make it.
My mom called me at the office early last Wednesday, calling
my attention to the obituary section of the Houston newspaper. Mike Mireles
died Nov. 8 in Houston, at the age of 38. By the time I'd seen the obit,
they'd already held the funeral.
Time has ripped a part of my heart out.
That night, while listening to an old Chris LeDoux tape, I cried
my eyes out while lifting a glass in memory of my best friend.