Category: random

It was jus’ another overnight shift at country radio station KIIQ, but that quickly changed. I answered the studio line and was told by the male voice on the other end that he had me in his sights at that moment.

Being a smart-aleck, I asked, “What sort of weapon is your sight affixed too?”

Chillingly, he answered, “A 30-06 rifle.”

Our on-air studio, located on in a secured business office on Neil Road, had a large glass window that overlooked a parking lot. Since it was dark, I couldn’t see anything beyond my own reflection in the glass.

My reaction was to drop to the floor and crawl out of the control room, into the production room next door. Once there I called Reno police, who told me that they were sending a unit over right away.

Next I called the program director, Tony Thomas. He talked me through the steps I needed to take in order to switch our operations from the control room to the production room.

Several police officers arrived and started looking around the outside of the building for anyone they thought looked suspicious. One officer took my statement, but told me there wasn’t much they could do unless the caller actually did something to me.

It was very long morning and I was happy to have my replacement show up, A Sparks police officer, (whose name escapes me at the moment.)  He had me transfer the on-air operations back to the studio as he started work.

As I did this, he placed his .357 magnum service revolver on the counter next to him. Then he looked at me with a mischievous grin.

I waited for the sun to throw some light on the ground before I headed out to my car to drive home.

It’s obvious I bit off more than I could chew emotionally. My day started with a little research project by looking through a box of old letters from 1979 to mid-1980.

What I found there left me hurt. I think it’s safe to share this as anyone who knew me when I was 19-20 years old will attest to what I’m about to say about myself.

I was immature, self-centered, and ignorant of others feelings. Ouch!

The letters I read, I had not picked up since I first found the majority tossed in the trash when my parents split the bed-sheet. Others were letters that I had saved since they were sent to me.

Through a period of a year and a half, I can read the painfully honest thoughts my mother was laying down about how life was changing for her, my siblings and my father. I didn’t grasp the seriousness and hurt she was expressing to me.

She was worrying about her children, (me in the service) her marriage falling apart and the possible loss of the house. My response was to whine, bitch and complain about how rough I was having it. 

In yet another set of letters from the same period, I discovered how shallow my ability to communicate was at the time. My friend, Nancy Jessop (now Williams) tried to point out how shut-down I was towards her and everyone else around me.

She also told me to learn to tell my own stories, not my fathers. I didn’t realize I had been doing that until she put it in my ear.

So how did I respond? I shutdown and I shut her out, like I appear to have done to many people over the years.

About 9-years ago I had a crisis that opened nearly every wound I had in my emotionally scarred frame. Since that time I’ve been a work-in-progress, which is what I should have been all along.

That’s why I felt hurt after I re-read all those letters. Fortunately, old dogs can learn new tricks and I’m able now to share how depressing it is to learn that I’m really not perfect and that I never will be.

It was jus’ before the concert in our parking lot was scheduled to start. I was working for country music station KHIT.

My request line flashed in the studio. And as I had always done, I pushed record on the reel-to-reel tape machine as I answered the telephone.

On the phone was a voice I recognized right away: Clint Black. I was excited that he had decided to call the station as let us know he was in town to attend the concert we were holding.

The conversation continued for a couple more minutes when suddenly the voice changed. It was at that moment I knew I had been taken in on a practical joke.

Instead of Clint Black, it was our headliner Neal McCoy. I could hear several radio station staffers laughing in the background.

I was a little embarrassed over it but as soon as I got past that, I decided it would make good radio.

So I edited the tape, to make the call move quicker and a little smoother and played it back on air. Every once in a while I’ll be out somewhere and somebody will ask: “Do you remember the time you thought you were talking to Clint Black?”

Thanks to Neal McCoy’s sense of humor, I’ll always have that great radio memory.

Not even two-minutes into my shift and I got one of those telephone calls every reporter has to weary about. It was a man claiming he had been at an accident, trying and save a life, but was unsuccessful.

His information seemed credible enough. He said he was on his way from Burning Man and was on Pyramid Highway when a speeding driver attempted to pass him and four or five other of vehicles at one time, lost control and rolled his car.

The driver’s arms were traumatically amputated as his body was half in and out of the car as it flipped. He said the man died at the scene after bleeding to death.

After hanging up with him, I called the Nevada Highway Patrol. They had no record of a vehicle fatality on Pyramid Highway, however it was suggested I call the Washoe County Sheriff’s office.

I did and ended up with the same results — no fatal vehicle roll-overs listed in their fives.

On a hunch I decided to “google,” moon-phases. We have a waning moon overhead and not a full-moon, so I don’t know where the weirdness comes from in this case.

We had been in our new home a little more than a year and I felt it was becoming cluttered and in need of some mid-Fall cleaning. I decided to start in the back bedroom that we used as a sort of office.

After filling two garbage cans and a large plastic bag, I felt I was making a dent in the mess. I was on a roll and in search of getting rid of more stuff.

Without really putting it to reason, I decided to toss out a box marked, “Journals.” It was jus’ sitting in one of the corners collecting dust and it seemed reasonable at the time to throw out the fifty composite-style books.

The following day was garbage collection day for the neighborhood and I set everything out near the sidewalk for pickup. I went to bed that night feeling better for having done some something about the perceived junk in the backroom.

A couple of days after the garbage had been collected, I found myself feeling remorseful over having tossed out all my personal journals. For the life of me, I couldn’t think why I would have done such a thing.

The next garbage collection day I was trying to do anything possible not to hear the garbage truck pull up out front of the house. I didn’t want to be reminded of my stupidity.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. When I answered, I found our garbage man standing on the porch hold.

“Here,” he said, “I think you might have thrown these away by accident.”

It was all of my journals. He got a nice Christmas bonus that year.

What is it that our pit bull terrier has against me? In the time that we’ve had her, she has chewed on or swallowed or destroyed several items of mine.

The latest in this long line is my favorite hat; a gray Stetson Tuscarora felt topper. I left it sitting on my old kack, jus’ as I have for years.

My love for my “Tusky” caused me to place a hat-stretcher in it every time I took it off my head. Hat-stretchers help good covers like an expensive Stetson retain their shape.

After being gone for a few hours, I came home and found the wooden hat-stretcher on the floor at the foot of the saddle, where the hat had been positioned. It was a moment of volcanic-anger as I rushed out back of the house.

There it was, completely torn to pieces. I’d say more like shredded, but that doesn’t even begin to fully describe what Roxy had done to the hat.

She’s so affectionate towards me. She even lies at my feet as I sit and write, but she has what appears to be a terrible grudge against my belongings.

Thank goodness it’s jus’ stuff—but G-D dog anyway!

Yesterday didn’t end until I laid my head on my pillow at eight this morning. In fact I had jus’ laid down when the telephone rang.

I’ve learned that when the phone sounds off in the earliest hours of the morning, it’s never some guy saying he’s trying to find my home because he has a million-dollar check for me.

Instead, it was the alarm company for the bride. They had an alarm signal saying our building interior perimeter had been violate, meaning it could or could not be a burglary or simply a mouse.

Since the bride was scheduled to get up in half-an-hour, I told her I’d go down to the store and have a look-see. That way she could get ready for work and maybe even have a small breakfast before leaving the house.

When I got down to the store on First Street in Reno, I saw we had neither a mouse nor a burglar. Instead, someone had either shot out one of the windows or thrown something through it.

The bride arrived about 45 minutes later and we started cleaning up the scattered glass inside the store. I also set about with the help of another employee to secure the busted out window.

With that done, I headed to the computer system so I could review our security. It took me a while but I actually saw the man walk by the window carrying a white plastic  grocery bag, then return about seven seconds later to smash a baseball sized rock through the glass.

Unfortunately for me and lucky for him, I couldn’t get a clear picture of his face. Had I been able to see his face, I’d spent a couple early morning hours hanging around corner of First and Roff Way looking for him.

He’d end up with that rock in a place certain to cause a severe bowl obstruction.

“Looking through this old scrapbook,” Charlie said, “sure brings back memories.”

He was sitting in the middle of the room with a large box at his side. Coming through the door was his wife, Maggie, carrying two cups of coffee as Charlie flipped through page after page of old photographs.

Suddenly he paused and smiled. This was followed by a roar of laughter.

Maggie, who had seated herself beside Charlie, smiled and asked, “What’s so funny?”

Charlie laughed some more, then pointed to a picture and answered, “This one.”

Maggie looked at it and frowned because she saw nothing funny in it at all. It was a picture of Charlie kissing another woman.

Maggie exclaimed, “You had another girlfriend!”

“No I didn’t,” he responded, still laughing.

“Yes you did! You kissed another woman. Look at that picture,” she countered, adding, “and don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying…” Charlie started to say to her.

However Maggie wasn’t listening, as she quickly got up and rushed from the room. Charlie jus’ sat there with the scrapbook in his lap.

He had stopped laughing and shouted after her, “At the time, Maggie—you were the other woman!”

The echo of the helicopter blades were only a faint memory as the fifteen of us worked deeper into the canyon. It had been less than 10-hours since the three teams had been dropped near the canyons entrance.

Slowly we picked our way through the dense vegetation on the ground. We stayed in the lush green foliage and avoided the open terrain including the river named Rio Coco that wound its way through the jungle.

The Rio Coco was at least half of the demarcation line between the countries of Honduras and El Salvador. It was not known to be a very large body of water in the area that we were operating.

“L-T,” a Lance Corporal said, “I think we’re being trailed.”

The lieutenant had been in the middle of taking a sip of water from his canteen. He quickly replaced in the green holder and got up to talk with the Lance Corporal.

“What makes you think that, Jones?” he asked.

“Its too quiet back there,” Jones replied.

The lieutenant looked in the direction that they had just spent the few hours hiking through. He knew that guerrilla insurgents and drug mules used the same path we were working. He lifted his cover and mopped the sweat from his forehead and cheeks.

“Okay, take Sanchez with you and set up a listening post back around the bend,” he said. “Make certain you have the high ground just in case.”

“Aye-aye,” Jones answered.

I looked on as the pair climbed along the tumbled stones that littered the river’s edge and watched them disappear beyond the bend which moved to the left.

“Saddle up,” the Gunny Sergeant called out.

Some of the men groaned slightly as they hoisted their gear back onto themselves and continued the march into the canyon. I knew it would be a long while before they stopped for another rest.

It was about 90 minutes later when a faint noise came slowly rolling from the sides of the canyon. Though the walls were lined with a think growth of wild shrubbery, underneath it laid a limestone bed. The noise grew closer and quickly.

The radio crackled as Sanchez said, “Bird on your six.”

Within two minutes a small white and red Bell and Howell helicopter raced between the lips of the gorge. It flashed in the sun, which was just to the right of our position. The commercial-looking craft did not slow or stop and if we had been spotted it gave no sign.

The lieutenant signaled for everyone to hold steady in their positions. No one moved knowing that the helicopter might return.

Five minutes later it came speeding by and the lieutenant called for the radio.

“Get command on the horn,” he demanded. A second later he was speaking quietly into the handset.

“It just buzzed us, what do you want us to do?” I over heard him say.

“Roger that,” and the lieutenant handed the handset back to the radio operator.

Then he called out, “Gunny, Doc, Hammer.” Each of us came from different direction at the sound of our names.

Once we were assembled, he said, “We’re heading back to the rendezvous point as soon as the sun sets,” then he added, “We’ll rest here, so set up security.”

Immediately four bodies were sent out to establish make shift listening post behind the unit. Another four were directed to the front of the teams. I double checked that they had enough water in their canteens and gave each an extra salt tablet.

We had another five hours to remain in our present location before the sun went down. I hoped to use some of that time to catch a nap, but only after I checked everyone’s feet for blisters and giving attention to those who had them.

I had just finished lancing and draining the last blister when I heard Sanchez’ voice whispering harshly from the radio set.

“About 30-strong headed your way,” he said.

Suddenly the area was alive with activity as men moved to get to their feet and get their equipment on. It was less than an hour when the listening post in the rear of the unit was engaged in a fire-fight.

Saunders, Williamson and myself, were sent to assist the two men already under fire. I was sent because there could be wounds needing tended too. However we found very little of the two men who had been there.

Using hand gestures, I suggested we fall back into the bushes and find cover. That’s when the rocket-propelled grenade exploded above my head, shattering the trees from the impact, raining wood and leaves down on me.

A thick log had pinned me to the earth and I couldn’t escape, even thought I tried.  I ended up pulling my M-16 close to my body, aiming it at anything I saw moving.

Small arms fire was bursting from my right. I recognized the sound of the M-16 as my two team mates fired into the greenery ahead of them. I also knew the sound of the AK-47 as it chattered and it was coming from my left, very close to my position.

As I struggled to free my lower back and legs from the downed tree, I also took steady aim on the star burst being emitted from the muzzle of the AK-47. I knew that if I fired into the jungle at the muzzle flash and missed, I would give away my position and without any means to escape I concluded I would die.

The AK-47 chattered again, so I squeezed off three rounds. The weapon fell silent. I knew I wasn’t out of harm’s way as there was larger force of soldiers moving all around us.

Laying my rifle down and reached back, I started clawing at the dirt in order to free myself. Meanwhile my two team mates had managed to move towards higher ground and gain a tactical advantage.

Below me was the sound of another fire-fight. I knew from the sound that the rest of the unit was now engaging the 30-man force along the Rio Coco’s edge.

The sound of the battle caused me struggle even harder to get free. I knew that wounded men would soon need my help.

The undergrowth gave away the movements of someone slowly creeping my way. I stopped scooping at the ground and picked up my rifle, aiming in the direction of the sound.

I lowered it when Saunders crashed through the growth and dived next to me.

“You okay?” he asked in a breathless fashion.

“This tree’s got me pinned down,” I answered.

Saunders rolled over and looked the situation over.

“Holy crap!” he exclaimed.

I felt a chill roll through my body at the sound of his voice.

“What’s wrong,” I asked in a near panic.

Saunders lifted on a branch and snapped it off. “Another inch and that would have skewered like a pig on a spit.”

He rocked the log over and it slipped off me and crashed through the underbrush. I was finally free

Now I needed to make my way back to the main fire-fight and where the bulk of the wounded would be. I could hear the sound of rapid fire weapons and the shouts of men in a foreign language I didn’t understand.

They were very close to my position of concealment. So I decided to stop and listen for a minute before heading on.

As soon as they moved away, I weaved my way back up the hillside from where I had just come. Seconds later both Williamson and Saunders came moving into my sight.

When we were together again I said, “I think were behind their main body. Should we jump them or wait?”

“I think we should waste them all,” said Saunders.

Williamson had a look of thoughtfulness on his face, “Let’s scout it out and get closer.”

The three of us split up just far enough from each other to keep one another in sight. We slowly moved down the hillside, towards the sound of men voices.

It took us nearly 10 minutes to scale down the side of the hill. We moved as cautiously as possible to prevent any loose rocks or other debris from rolling down the hillside and giving away our positions.

In the middle position, I found myself stuck about 60 feet above the riverbed and with no safe way to the large rocks below. Saunders and Williamson had ample safety to the riverbed.

Since I was stuck, I looked for a place from which to lay down cover fire. I found a jagged outcropping of rock about eight inches deep in which to hide.

Both Saunders and Williamson were down and moving through the rocky riverbed. Without warning Saunders started firing point-blank at the soldiers firing on their team mates. They were joined by Jones and Sanchez who had double timed it over the rough terrain to help the unit in the fire fight.

Taking a seated position, I fired a burst into a group of men close to where I had last seen the lieutenant. I saw a sudden spray of red leap into the air and I knew I had hit my target.

The battle raged for nearly 45 desperate minutes. It took command that long to send in helicopters to evacuate the three teams. The helicopters door mounted machine guns were a welcomed sight to us.

It was soon discovered that the soldiers, though uniformly dressed, worked for one of the many drug cartels. And the two Marines, who were sent to establish the listening post, were found a week later.

They had been tortured to death and after seeing their fleshless bodies, I decided to always save a bullet for myself.

It was about a mile between the apartment I live in on Sutro Street and my workplace, ATC/CitiLift. I walked the distance nearly every morning and evening.

One night I was on my way home when a young woman got out of a car and ran up to me, asking for help. She said she needed protection from her ex-boyfriend who was driving the car.

I had jus’ gotten my first-ever cellular phone, so I dialed 9-1-1 as the man in the car turned the vehicle around and was driving the wrong way on the street.

As he pulled the car to a stop, the woman stepped behind me. It was obvious she was afraid of this guy and soon I was afraid of him too.

The ex-boyfriend got out of the car. He was Samoan, well over six-and-a-half feet tall and easily weighed more than 300 muscular pound.

I said, “Sir, you don’t want to do this—besides I’ve called the cops and they’ll be here in a few seconds.”

He was facing south, so he must have seen the police cruiser as it approached. However he didn’t care what happened as he rushed us.

As ungentlemanly as it may sound, I pushed the woman into the bushes. I then side-stepped his attack, jumping on the back of his right knee, with the hopes of breaking the joint.

It didn’t work. Instead he grabbed my shirt as I passed him.

Luckily, I was able to pop out of it and spin around on him. I tried my best to wrap my left forearm around his neck and lock him in a sleeper-hold, but his neck was too large.

Instead I kicked off his lower back, pushing myself about 15 feet away from where we first made physical contact. He turned around and sped at me like a charging bull.

All I could do was drop down and slam my body into his feet, tripping him to the ground. About that time, three Reno Policemen joined in the fight and subdued him.

After they had him cuffed and in a car, the lead officer came up and berated me saying, “That was a stupid act. He could have seriously hurt you!”

My response was, “Yeah and standing still — could’ve got me killed!”