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, Ojinaga is a small Mexican village of
perhaps one thousand inhabitants. The
homes are small three or four room 1
adobe shacks by our standard of meas
urement, and the main part of town is a
succession of cantinas (saloons) and pr
ostitute houses under license by the Mex
ican government.
Young girls (fourteen or fifteen years
of age) inhabit the houses of ill repute in
side a high-walled compound of approxim
ately forty rooms--annexed to the walls of
a fortlike condominium. From there they
make the rounds of many bars and solicit
business from suckers who have drifted
over the border from nearby Texas for a
few days or hours of fun, frolic and fool
ishness.
During daylight hours the girls parade
the streets, scantily clad in panties and
nothing more than raven tresses and ex
tremely high five-inch heels to comple
ment their budding figures. Competition
ran high among the kids of the suburbs
who accosted state-siders in their juvenile
attempts to encourage business for their
sister and mother—or both. Quite often
a picture was produced for the encourage
ment it might lend to “the beholder."
At night the red light areas became alive
with prowling parasites of the lower order
and hundreds of piccolos and competing
guitars played by roving combos that freq
uented the bar tables to play and sing for
the eating andimbibingguestsfrom border
areas across the Rio Grande, whom they
called “sight-seeing amigos.”
The more affluent and older “prosties”
plied their trade at more commodious
accomodations in a separate section of
town. Their prices were usually higher
than that of the younger sisters in the same
occupation, and they kept tabs given them
by the management of the bars when they
were responsible for a well-heeled cus
tomer lavishing beer, tequila or food on
the object of his affections and himself.
The girl would stash these ticket-like
tabs in the cleavage between ample breasts
after having tightly bound them with a
rubber band. When numbers of them had
been accumulated, she would cash them in
for the bonus represented by the coupons.
In some of the lower grade bistros
were men who had been “passed out” for
hours-upon-end. The hot sweltering heat
had caused them to sweat upon the floor
and their body’s outline was perfectly
delineated thereon for days afterwards
until soap-and-water and a mop obscured
the image from the cement foundation.
On this excursion into Old Mexico was
found the most unusual character to be en
countered any place—anywhere. I’ll call
him “Lance Nye” because that is not his
name. Nevertheless he is, or “was” a
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A Lost Man ... South of The Border
BY: JOHN A. REYNOLDS
real person from Oklahoma who, like the
little lamb, had gone astray. Years before
he had “matriculated” to absolute oblivion
that untenable place beyond the hazv
blue atmosphere of the Klo Grande.
Lance was a highly regarded Professor
of high mathematics at one of Oklahoma’s
leading universities until a series of trag
edies sent him reeling toward the point of
no return. At first it was an incident of
unrequited love. A stubborn parent had
refused his daughter’s hand in marriage,
although she was deeply in love with Nye.
To Lance, she was the one and only great
love of his life up to that moment. Plans
were made for an elopement. Lance had
his car waiting up the street. The girl,
suitcase in her hand, slipped from her
bedroom in the late hours of night. As
she hastily ran across the street to Nye’s
automobile, a car loomed from out of
nowhere to strike her down and send her
hurtling through the air to land on top of
car in which Nye was waiting.
Broken in heart and soul, Lance attemp
ted to regain his mental equilibrim—only
to lose it in a bottle of hopeful forget
fulness. His bouts with the bourbon failed
him, however, and in the process he
barely managed to retain his professor
ship through sheer ability as a mathe
matical genius.
When it seemed that the hours had grown
darkest, a glimmer of light protruded to
obliterate the mist and he beheld another
girl to repair in part the scars of the de
scending years. He won her love and they
were wed in a tiny chapel on the college
campus. Fate and blessed fortune gave
them two tiny bundles of blondes—twin
baby girls. The home became replete
with happiness, and the wounds of the
unpleasant episode known before were
being healed- -except for flashes of the ter
rible scene he had witnessed several
years before. Even so, time had inter
vened to soothe the hurt and vividness he
once had known when the sight was fresh
in his memory.
But, then, it happened. Another tragedy
struck which downed Lance Nye into such
terrible dregs of loneliness as to almost
blot his name from among the living. For
as it actually happened, Lance Nye forsook
his calling, his friends and his family
and disappeared from sight as surely as if
the earth had swallowed him to its inner
most bowels. Notwithstanding, he did not
join the French Legion as some had done
before him. He sought rather to be ab
sorbed within a nation and a town where
his name and mission would become an
onymous. He succeeded well, because no
one knew the true story until this writer,
wheedled it from hoover a fifth of green
poison—known as ‘tequila.”
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That late afternoon in Oklahoma, Lance
Nye awaited the return of his lovely wife
and beautiful look-alive daughters. He saw
them approach the driveway leading to
their home. As they turned to enter it, a
rollicking drunken driver smashed into
their car—killing all instantly. From the
time the minister spoke the last rites at
the graveside, Lance Nye forsook God;
because, as he said, “I felt that God had
forsaken me.”
Making the rounds of the bars, one had
only a few moments to wait before Lance
made an .appearance. His daily routine
was accomplished when he gained a glass
of wine from a friendly barfly. He lived
on wine—it was his only food or drink.
Should one casually offer him some food, he
would turn sick at the stomach. He was
strictly a “wino” of the lowest caliber.
He looked at you with a patented stare
which seemed to say “if you don’t give me
a swig of wine I’m gonna die right at your
feet.” And, he could have—too.
It was real late early in the morning
when I first decided that this decrepid
man in the tattered shirt and threadbare
breeches might have a story to tell. Ask
all you might, nobody knew one iota about
Lance Nye.
This night old Lance came into his fav
orite bar and prepared to retire. His
accomodations consisted of a wooden bench
which he turned around against the wall
so that the backrest would keep him from
rolling onto the floor on one side, while
at the same time the wall protected him
from falling off the other side. He laid
himself down on the hard bench but got
in a position to fix that pleading stare
right at me. I succumbed to it and invited
him to the bar. He plopped down on the
stool beside me so fast until it was almost
unbelievable.
I said, “Bartender, give him a bottle of
tequila, one-for-him-and-one-for -me.”
That - -and a few swigs and questions begat
the revelation of the story given above. The
times since 1957 have seen other New
Year’s Days, but not another has had such
Impact upon myself.
That bleak night in Old Mexico I tried to
lend a helping hand. It was refused. Off
ering to buy the man a ticket back to
Oklahoma and an only living sister, some
decent clothes and“eatin’ money, met with
a polite but definite refusal. Lance said,
“My sister doesn’t know I’m alive. Let’s
keep it that way. It is better that she
remember me as before. It would only
kill her to know the truth--the whole
truth.”
Nye was content to remain as he was,
a man with no hope nor desire to better
his condition. Re lived only for another day
and another swiggerofwine. As the tequila
had its effect on loosening a tight-lipped
silence of long standing, I can yet near th
ese Words: “Some day, Johnny, I will need
a drink and nobody will offer me one. That
is the day I will die. Because, you see,
I’ve gone too far and too long to stop now.
The nearness of death is ever present.
It could c.ome today, day after tomorrow
or the day after that. I don’t know—l
simply don’t know.”
The sun was about to rise when I
walked from the scene, but I turned to
wave goodbye. Old Lance lifted a weak
hand in feeble response, and said, “so
long, Johnny— and thanks for the mem
ory.” As I looked through the plate glass
window, Lance got up and was heading to
ward the bench up against the wall, firmly
clutching the bottle and the contents which
were* left for another day’s eye-opener.
As I left the little town of Ojinaga, I
looked upon the barren mountainside to see
the unkempt cemetery and unmarked gr-’
aves. There, thought I, is Lance Nye’s
final resting place. An alien in another
country—unknown and unwanted. A lost
man—south of the border.
Prediction For 1972
LOOKING AHEAD: With 1971 coming to a
conclusion, not only do we try to assess
what has happened during the past year,
but our thoughts also turn to what kind
of year ’72 will be. Higher unemployment?
Just not in the cards. With the controls
on price increases and bank and mortage
rates coming down, 1972 will be a year
of improvement in the general economy
and more jobs, but it will also be a year
of confrontation in the international eco
nomic sphere. Because of controls, infla
tion will be slowed.
VIETNAM . . . look for all U. S. ground
combat troops to come home in 1972.
ENVIRONMENT . . . will continue to be
an active issue. Implementation will be
more responsible in 1972.
TAXES . . . local taxes will continue
to rise; look for more cuts in federal
taxes.
FORCED BUSING . . . look for Emanuel
Celler, chairman of the Judiciary Comm
ittee, to hold hearings on this question.. .
more support from the North as President
Nixon insists they be treated the same as
the South on school matters.
SUPREME COURT, >72 . . . Nixon’s
appointed Justices will begin to swing the
Court to a more conservative stance.
SOCIAL SECURITY'. . .look for benefits
to increase in 1972.
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THE FORSYTH COUNTY NEWS, JANUARY 6. 1972-
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