DURWOOD

  One of the calls I always dreaded getting was one that had "Durwood" in the message. It usually mean that Durwood was drunk and fighting in one of the bars. And Durwood, a big, strong, block-layer, was an all-day-sucker when it came to fighting. The irony was when sober he was a soft-spoken guy you'd never expect could punch you in the head and make it ring like the cathedral bells at St. Patrick's on Christmas Eve.

 Once, when he was sober, I inquired as to why he turned into Mr. Hyde when tanked on liquid stupid. He said, "I just can't stand someone putting their hands on me when I'm drunk. Or giving me orders, bossing me around. If you have to arrest me again, just tell me 'Durwood, you have to leave' and I'll go with you. Long as you don't lay hands on me."

 I engraved that advice in bold letters in my Golden Book On Staying Alive. And it wan't long before I got to use it. The call was like this: "Durwood is over at the Anchor. He's done throwed one guy through the back-bar mirror and's workin' on two more." Unfortunately, I was just two-blocks away and couldn't hide.

 When I arrived, Durwood was taking a breather, chugging a beer, while several other combatants, their shirts ripped and heads lumped, staggered for the door. I tried out the magic words.

 "Durwood," I said, with due respect, "it's time to go."

 Durwood looked at me and said, "Okay if I finish my beer first?"

 "Certainly," I said with a sigh of relief. Hell, he coulda had two long as I didn't have to rassle him.

 We were just exiting the side door, I behind Durwood, when things turned bad. He couldn've added to the advice he gave me about coming peacefully, "This don't apply to Jack Bliss." He and Jack hated each other. Anyway, guess who was just outside the door, having hurried to the scene, alway eager for a brawl: Jack Bliss. "Get your ass in that police car," he said, grabbing him.

 Durwood roared, and cocked his right. I locked my arms around his chest from behind. He stomped down on my toes, making my foot hurt so badly it still throbs when I drive by the Anchor's old site on US 41. And the fight was on.

 We finally got him out to the palm tree beside the street and, so we could take a breather, handcuffed his arms around it. He began to charge around it like Little Black Sambo, until finally, and mercifully for us, he collapsed and we were able to haul him down to the City Jail. Normally, serenity would've returned to The Elephant's Graveyard. Not so, tonight.

  It wasn't an hour until a frantic call went out, "Durwood's back at the Anchor." When I got there--thank The Almighty--he'd already gone home after inflicting only minor damage to property and customers.

  Turns out, we had a Sergeant on duty who was in a religious phase and thought that all living things were noble and of some worth. Right. He'd turned Durwood loose. Later, when I asked him why he said, "Oh, I talked with him, prayed over him and I was assured he'd seen the error of his ways."

  My only comment was, "Next time he gets drunk and tears up the Anchor and half its customers, you go get him. And you'd better bring Jesus with ya."