Chapter Two

Cover Design by Jeffrey Linthicum

     Lang College's catalog boasts an intimate, modern campus nestled in the quaint town of Mecca, Texas. I had learned from my job-seeking peers not to trust the glossy booklets that America's colleges and universities publish to promote themselves, so I wasn't expecting much. But, arriving there on a sweltering August afternoon in 1990, I was pleasantly surprised.
     Preston Lang, one of Mecca's early Mayors, created the liberal arts school in the 1950's as an alternative to Texas A&M University. At that time, you were not welcome at A&M unless you were a white male interested in learning mechanics and farming taught in a strict, military environment. In stark contrast, aesthetics were the main course of study at Lang and I loved the idea of being submerged in a culture that appreciated beauty for beauty's sake. I was eager to settle in and see the city, so on the first Monday after my arrival, I accepted an offer to tour the town.

     My 'tour guide' was a student named Jill Garrison, a gorgeous 22-year-old Senior at Lang, who was majoring in architecture. Her small stature, elfin features and lilting, West Texas accent belied an aggressive, good-ole'-boy persona that made me feel like a failure as a man. After fiddling with the wires beneath the hood of her well-worn, topless, white Jeep, the engine roared to life. She climbed into the driver's seat, reapplied a coat of pearly-pink Chanel lip gloss, tied her wheat-colored mane of hair into a messy knot and patted the passenger's seat - by way of inviting me to join her. I had barely fastened the seat belt before we rocketed into traffic.

     "So, what do I call you?" She asked, her hair whipping across her face as the thick, humid Summer air assaulted us from every angle.

     "Jack. Jack Wescott... well... Professor Wescott," I stammered, having never considered how I might be addressed by students that were, essentially, my age. I reconsidered using such a professional title. "Jack." I finally offered.

  "Where you from?" She half-yelled over a loud, passing truck.
     "Ohio!" I yelled back a little too loudly while casually glancing into the open, rear bed of the Jeep. An impressive collection of discarded paper coffee cups, a greasy toolbox, a pair of mud-crusted Timberland boots and a decimated Neiman-Marcus shopping bag, containing what I surmised to be a carburetor, littered the floor.

     "Well... keep that to yourself," she said. "Folks 'round here don't take too kindly to Yankees takin' a job in these parts."

  My eyes bugged a little at the notion that I might not be welcomed in this pleasant place. I immediately envisioned a mob of angry townspeople, wielding torches, picketing my duplex and waking each morning to discover 'YANKEE GO HOME' and 'PANSIES AIN'T WELCOME' spray-painted on my front door. Jill grinned, as though she could hear what I was thinking.

     "I'm teasing you!" She managed to mutter through gales of laughter. "Oh man! You should have seen your face!" With that, she cranked the volume on the Jeep's radio and drove, at break-neck speeds, toward the center of town. Janet Jackson's 'Escapade' blared the soundtrack of my dizzying introduction to Mecca, TX.

     Had I been giving the tour, I might have stopped to point out features of interest - impressive statuary, bronze plaques marking notable historic sites and century-old buildings. Not Jill. We shot through downtown Mecca like a runaway train. I had been gripping the Jeep's roll bar so fiercely that when we finally came to a stop in the gravel parking lot of a shabby restaurant on the West side of town, my hand was reluctant to let go and my forearm ached.

     "Here we are," she said, "the social hub of Mecca."

This 'hub' was a restaurant called Ruiz's Famous Mexican Grill and Bakery. I was not enthused. From our parking space at the rear of the building, I could see directly into the kitchen through a rotting screen door that was propped open by a broken, cinder block. As I clumsily climbed out of the Jeep, a kitchen employee - carrying an enormous stock pot - came to the door and nonchalantly dumped the green-ish, steaming contents of the pot onto the ground. I was not successful at masking my horror.

     "Come on Mister Fancy Pants," Jill said mockingly. "I promise you their tacos are to-die-for."

     I looked at my watch and then at her. "Tacos at nine in the morning?" I thought.

     She rolled her eyes at me and headed around the building to the front door. I followed, reluctantly.

     Ruiz's had seen better days, for sure. The expansive front windows, yellowed by grease and smoke, were covered with fliers, handbills and business cards - some dating as far back as 1987. The hand-painted sign above the front door was faded and peeling and streaks of rust, trailing from the bolts that precariously anchored the sign into place, ran down the building's facade and onto the sidewalk. Jill pulled open the front door and I was encouraged immediately by two things. The place was packed to the rafters with noisy diners and the aromas were intoxicating - familiar and exotic at the same time. I was suddenly starving. We took the only two remaining seats at a long, diner-style counter.

      "Two carne guisada tacos and two coffees!" Jill hollered to a waitress at the far end of the counter. The coffees materialized almost instantly, followed quickly by two red, plastic, woven baskets, lined with waxed paper. Each contained a tinfoil-wrapped log the size of my foot. I watched as Jill opened the foil and a puff of steam wafted out. I followed suit. Inside, I found a flour tortilla filled with a foul-looking, brown gravy and large chunks of unrecognizable meat.

     "Just eat it," Jill said, noting my disgust and rolling her eyes again.

  I picked the taco up tentatively. It was heavy, blazing hot and dripping from both ends and I had no idea how to approach the first bite. I watched as Jill turned her head to the side and attacked the behemoth as a shark might attack an unsuspecting swimmer. My graceless attempt to mimic her technique failed miserably and searing, hot gravy dribbled through my fingers and down my arm. I didn't care. I would have happily bathed in the savory, stew-like concoction after that first bite. I closed my eyes, oblivious to the velvety-smooth mess running down my chin, and devoured the remainder as if I hadn't eaten in weeks.

    "I told you." Jill said smugly.

I decided at that moment that I adored her.

For the next hour, we sat at the counter at Ruiz's, drinking coffee, gossiping and laughing with an endless stream of customers who stopped to chat with Jill. She seemed to know everyone and, incredulously, introduced each of them to me by name. With each encounter, a new tidbit of Mecca's past, present or future revealed itself. After an hour, I felt as though I had pieced together a better portrait of this intriguing little town than any scenic car ride ever could have.

     I learned that Mecca's 60,000 residents are largely descendants of migrant laborers that flooded the area in the 1870's, when the Texas Legislature approved funding for the construction of the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas - now known as Texas A&M University. Hundreds of impoverished and desperate families relocated here to serve as the tireless workforce that would help construct one of the first, and arguably finest, institutions of higher education in the state. Determined to build their own community and put down roots near a continued source of employment, the migrant workers ensconced themselves in a tent city near a fast-moving section of the Brazos River - a comfortable distance from the watchful eyes of their employers.

     As it became clear that the college would continue to grow and provide steady work, the residents began to form a concept for a permanent city. Using their newly acquired skills as stone masons, bricklayers, wood carvers, glass cutters and iron workers, the laborers created Mecca - from scratch. Each early building, regardless of it's utilitarian use, was designed to showcase the craftsmanship and artistry that these proud people had learned while toiling in the blazing Texas sun. The pride in this achievement is evident to this day. In the older downtown area, every tile, brick, window and archway, every sidewalk, lamppost and flowerbed - is a masterpiece. Which is why they decided to call it Mecca - an important place for people to convene and pay homage to the beauty of arts and crafts.

      I also learned that my own neighborhood on the East side of Mecca, where I had rented half of a duplex house, features homes that were built in the 1970's by a builder who swindled the school and the city out of millions of dollars. And that Mecca natives refer to the area as 'Ciudad de Jovenes' or 'City of the Young'. One local even told me that Mecca-ites prefer corralling the artistically inclined students in that area, as they consider the majority of them to be, "a bunch of potheads and crazies." I made a mental note to review my lease and the cost of breaking it.

     I was also told to avoid the South side of Mecca entirely. Actually, a waitress offered this advice with some authority - as she lived there. She was vague about the details, but Jill later underscored the warning by regaling me with stories of gang violence, drug-smuggling rings, prostitution and murder. I was somewhat relieved to learn that since the Brazos River bisects the city just South of the downtown, there is a clear line of demarcation where the South side begins - a two hundred yard long structure called 'The Long Walk'. The bridge is actually named after a former founder, but has always been referred to as 'The Long Walk' by the poorer blue-collar workers that hiked across it every day. One old-timer told us that in the 1950's, 'The Long Walk' collapsed and a busload of school children perished there. Another claimed that while many have jumped from it in an attempt to end their own lives, amazingly, none have ever done so successfully.
    After our hour at Ruiz's, Jill and I made a wide loop through the West side of Mecca, which is largely industrial and dominated by businesses that service the oil and gas industry. We stopped only once there - to see Jill's favorite example of architecture in Mecca. Where the Brazos River hugs the West side of town, an eccentric member of the wealthy, local Lang family had tried, in vain, to harness the fast-moving water for the purpose of generating hydro-electric power for the city. The Art Deco-inspired design of the plant, the adjacent offices and the out-buildings was impressive. Dormant for over three decades, it was sad to see the beautiful place crumbling behind locked fences. Jill claimed the eccentric owner still lived inside, not unlike Willy Wonka, hermited away from the town that called him crazy. 

     We sped Northeast from there, through the upper class 'Heights' neighborhood. Jill pointed out the home of the Dean of Lang, the beautiful estates of several prominent local families and the glorious Lang Mansion on Live Oak Boulevard - a continuous assault of lush lawns, wide verandas and sparkling fountains that made me a bit jealous.

     Finally, we entered Lang College campus - and my heart skipped a beat. I felt perfectly at home almost instantly. The funky blend of mid-century modern structures, dotted with public art and the electric buzz that only a college campus can generate, made me excited and eager. I originally chose Lang College not for it's outstanding liberal arts program or beautiful setting, but rather for its distance from the hateful Winters of Ohio. Of the schools that were interested in hiring me, despite my lackluster grades and perfunctory letters of recommendation, Lang College was, simply, the furthest South. But being there, I knew that some divine connection had been made. That I would be a part of something special, during a special time and in a very special place.

     Late in the afternoon, Jill deposited me back at my home, dizzy with anticipation and feeling slightly euphoric.

     "Thank you so much Jill. It was - and you were - such a pleasure," I gushed.

     "The pleasure was all mine," she said. "You know, Mrs. Carlisle, the lady with the blue hair at Ruiz's this morning, said she thinks we'd make a cute couple."

     "Well, as sickeningly adorable as it would be for a couple to be named Jack and Jill, I have some bad news for you. I like boys."

     Jill giggled a little and gave me a wink. "It wasn't an invitation Professor Jack, I just thought it was cute."

     I blushed with embarrassment. But since the ice had been broken and Jill seemed unbothered by my confession, I couldn't help but ask a question that had been burning in my mind all day.

     "There wouldn't happen to be a gay bar in Mecca, would there?" I stage whispered 'gay bar' for no apparent reason.

     "There is actually," she said plainly, "but I have some bad news for you."

     "What? It's closed? It's off limits to teachers? They play polka music?"

     "No. Well... they may play polka music, I've never been," she joked. "The bad news is... you'll have to cross 'The Long Walk' to get there."

     With that, she peeled out, leaving long black rubber burns on the pavement - Guns N Roses' "Paradise City" blaring loudly enough to be heard long after her Jeep was out of sight.