Good Night, Austin

It's good to be back in Austin, and this is one of the reasons why.

This dish is where it all started. I lived in southeast Austin with an apartment full of guys. Three or four at any given time. I'm a little unclear, looking back on it. I'm a little unclear on a lot of things when I look back on them.

I paid rent there, but I didn't sleep there much, because there was this girl, see. That'd be Kelli, aka MOBB.

I sort of semi-lived with her at that point. On the nights when she didn't boot me out, saying she'd rather hang out with her cat than with yours truly.

It's true.

Where were we? Where am I? Well, I'm in a La Quinta in Austin, obsessively hammering away at this bloody machine when I should be sleeping.

I don't do boredom well. Was a time when I'd have found something else to do.

But yeah, this dish, this mighty fine plate of green enchiladas, this has something to do with the point I meant to make.

And it's this: Our long-standing tradition of going out for Tex Mex pretty much every Friday night started at El Jacalito in Austin. My dish: enchiladas verdes de pollo, aka green chicken enchiladas.

No one does a tomatillo sauce like El Jacalito. And being there tonight was a little like going back in time. Have the prices even increased? It was reasonable for sure. Chips were good, the decor was identical. Could those still be the same chairs 16 years later?

***

This is the city where:

In November of 1991 I watched a red fireball shoot across the sky. I got so wrapped up in it that I walked into the middle of the blind curve on Rundberg. I'm lucky I didn't get killed.

Tonight, I stood in the swimming pool, staring at the clouds above me, red from the city lights. And a flock of ducks few overhead.

I set out on my own on October 13, 1990 (MOBB's birthday, not that I knew it at the time). Dad dropped me off in my apartment. As I tried to sleep that night, excited to be on my own, the ceiling fan in my room broke, sending a blade crashing into the blinds. It must have been an omen for something, but what?

In all the clouds I saw and on all the streets we drove and the food we ate and landmarks we passed, and the air and the water and the smells and the old footprints I crossed, I was looking for something that I couldn't find. I simply couldn't.

***

I used to come here in high school. Young journalist that I was, I managed to attend a couple of UIL conferences here when I was 16 and 17. The UT campus was alive with excitement and activity and possibility. We attended workshops, stayed up too late, stole a keg of beer, gave it back, drank some other stuff, lied about girls and generally found magic in this place.

***

In 1986, fresh out of high school, I could hear it. I was into Tones by Eric Johnson. WAY into it. And I could hear Austin in those tones, in the exotic percussion infused into the intro to "Friends" and the soaring melody of "Bristol Shore." I could hear Austin, feel it.

I came up here a lot, often dragging my sister and other friends, making uninformed pilgrimages to Antone's to see whoever the hell happened to be on the bill. The folks who came with me had varying degrees of interest in the music, but I was ecstatic to hear, see, and occasionally bump into the likes of Buddy Guy, James Cotton, Hubert Sumlin, Eddie Taylor, Willie "Big Eyes" Smith, Otis Rush, Kim Wilson, Angela Strehli, Doug Sahm...

***

So I moved up here. I got hammered every day for six weeks, then set about finding a job.

I got one in a record store, but my car broke down. So on my first day I took the city bus. A black man standing in the aisle fell down and turned a lot of different colors. They summoned and ambulance and put us on another bus. I was late to work, and the boss said he didn't believe my story.

That boss and I had a few words once in a while.

***

I have a girl to thank for the night I met Buddy Guy. I'd tried to date this little brunette named Laura, but it didn't work out. As I left a Buddy Guy show at Antone's and headed for Taco Bell one night, I almost bumped into her. I didn't want to talk to her, so I headed back to my car at the club. Buddy was leaving, and a line of employees and other folks stood in a line to shake his hand. I got in line like I belonged. Stevie Ray Vaughan had been dead only a few months at that point. I shook Buddy's hand and said, "Take care of yourself." What I wanted to tell him was not to fly in any damn helicopters.

***

His hand felt like a sandpaper-covered vice.

***

I didn't intend to go to school here. I intended to party, to live the good life, whatever that is. But along came this girl, see... that'd be MOBB... suddenly I felt the need to, you know, MAKE something of myself in order to have a chance of keeping her.

So I got my degree.

It was a tough damn town to make a living in, though, so after six years we high-tailed it for the DFW area. I haven't regretted it much, if ever, though Austin has always held a special place in my heart.

***

And I guess my heart is where it'll remain. I just keep waiting for some fleeting glimpse or sensation, some piece of the magic that used to ooze out of the very air here for me. And I can't find it.

Time for bed. Good night.