The Yellow Rose Of Texas

If you were a college football fan in the 1970s you might remember me if I used my real name, so I'll go by Mark in this story. When I walked into a bar in a middle-sized Texas town, I had just one agenda: to get blind drunk. If that happened to be a down payment on drinking myself to death, I was alright with that. The bartender was an older fellow who looked like a cowboy. He brought me my first whiskey, and said "Mark, you can call me Red". The bar wasn't too busy yet, so we talked for a bit while I was working on my whiskey. He remembered my football career, and he told me "life really dealt you a shitty hand. I'm so damned sorry."

I wasn't ready to talk about that yet, so I asked about him. I was right, he had been a cowboy earlier in his life. At one time he'd been about as well-known on the rodeo circuit as I was in football. But he got old, and he was having some heart problems, so he retired and used his savings to buy the bar. He had saved a decent amount since he never married or had kids. He probably could have gotten by on his savings, but he loved running the bar. The crowd was starting to come in so Red went back to serving the other customers. When I raised my glass to order another whiskey, this young woman (young but about two years older than me) served me.

She said "my name's Rose, pleased to meet you Mark. I was two years ahead of you in college, and I was and still am a big football fan. There is a warm place in hell for those bastards who did that to you." She wasn't the kind of drop dead gorgeous cheerleader type I had gotten used to. She was blonde, but not platinum or golden, more dishwater blonde. She had a pretty face but was a bit on the chubby side. She did however bear a strong resemblance to Dolly Parton in the chest area. I really like large tits, but it isn't a deal breaker one way or the other. What was striking about her was her attitude. She came across flirtatious and sexy (but not cheap) on the one hand, but more than a little motherly on the other. Or maybe more like a big sister.

I wasn't really interested the way I was feeling, and wouldn't be if she was a flaming hot fox, either -- that wasn't where my head was at, though a man never fails to notice what a woman has to offer, that's how we are wired. But I felt safe with her, and we talked quite a bit while she brought me more whiskeys. At one point, my inner comedian went for the obvious joke "so you're the Yellow Rose of Texas?" She laughed a bit and answered me "you are only the tenth or twelfth guy that's asked me that this week. Wish you boys would come up with something original." She stormed off in an obvious imitation of being angry.

After I downed a couple more whiskeys, she said, "cowboy, you've had enough for the night, I'm cutting you off, but I'll bring you a big pot of coffee." She went behind the bar and brewed some. Then when it was ready, she asked one of the regulars to cover the bar for a while, since Red had gone to bed in the back room a long while ago, and she didn't want to go wake him. She brought the pot to my table and sat down, saying "Mark, I can tell you're hurting bad and I have a general idea why, but I think it would help you to tell me the whole tale. I'm all ears for as long as you need." I started in telling my story, in a much more drunk and disorderly fashion than I'm doing here. She listened and asked questions that made it clear she was listening well, and cared.

I was born in California. My mom and dad were killed by a drunk driver when I was three. I don't remember much about them, but I was very aware of how much they loved me and one another. Still hurts every once in a while, but I'd come to terms with that grief by the time I got to college. I had no relatives nearby who could take me in, so Child Protective Services sent me to my mother's parents in Texas. The lived on a ranch not far from town. Grandpa was the stereotypical strong silent type, but when he spoke he made it obvious that raising me was a joy not a chore, and he loved doing it, and he loved me. Grandma wasn't a bit quiet about it at all -- she felt the same.

Being that football is the Texas state religion, grandpa got me started in Pop Warner football the minute I was old enough. It turned out I not only loved the game but had a real gift for it. I grew up big and strong and surprisingly fast for a big man. My college coach said I was the fastest big man he'd ever seen. In high school our opponents feared me. I was versatile and could handle any position except quarterback and place kicker. That came in handy because we were a small school, and we were often left short-handed by injuries. My senior year we went undefeated and won the state championship in our division.

My college won the bidding war to recruit me. I got everything the NCAA allowed (and quite a bit that wasn't allowed), including of course a full ride scholarship for four years. I wasn't aware enough to get my scholarship guaranteed. That failure bit me in the ass big time. One of under the table things they did I'm still grateful for: by the time I got to college, Grandma was getting feeble and grandpa was getting senile. The college paid for extensive home health for them, while they arranged to have the ranch sold and kicked in enough extra money to set up a trust to pay for lifetime care at the best nursing home in Texas, which catered to rich people and accordingly had excellent quality care and a very comfortable environment. That bought the college more than a little forgiveness for what they did to me later.

The team was pretty strong already in most areas, but they needed another running back who also had good blocking skills. We had a good quarterback and a some wide receivers who could get the job done well when passing was needed, but we were primarily a run oriented offense. The fact I also had good hands and was a capable receiver was a plus, but the focus was my running skills. In my freshman year I surprised opponents who just saw a big man and didn't realize how fast I was. If they left an opening (and I was strong enough to force one), I could run like the wind. My freshman year we had a good team, and we beat almost everybody, one game I scored so many times that the scoreboard operator stopped waiting till I crossed the goal line to put the six on the board once I broke loose and really started running. By then end of the year, pro scouts were giving me the eye. We beat our traditional rivals and cruised to the conference championship. It was a close game and I scored the winning touchdown.

Off the field I was living the high life. I had money and was into partying and exploring the sexual proclivities of cheerleaders and other sexy ladies. One thing I'd like say up front: I'm not particularly moral, but Grandpa taught me honor and Grandma taught me to respect women. Other players at my school and elsewhere did some very wrong things up to and including what is nowadays quite properly regarded as rape. I never laid a hand on a woman who didn't say straight out she wanted me to, and who was a good enough approximation of sober that she knew what she was doing. Guys who play the game a different way are welcome to burn in hell. With the memory of my parents' death, I also never drove drunk, no matter who deeply I explored the bottom of a bottle (or more likely the bottoms of a shitload of bottles). People who play that game differently are equally welcome to join the drunk who killed my parents in hell.

My sophomore year was another great season, and our annual game with our rivals was their homecoming, and we beat the living shit out of them. I scored four of our seven touchdowns. They vowed revenge on our team and on me in particular, and next year they would get it. Another conference championship. By now, it was obvious that after college I'd be a high pick in the NFL draft, likely first round. I had the world by the tail. I still did a lot of drinking and screwing, but I was beginning to settle down. By the start of the next season, I was going steady with Linda the head cheerleader, a stone fox with flaming red hair who was deeply into kink. That isn't really my thing, but I don't mind at all doing anything that makes a woman happy. I did also learn some more vanilla skills that were quite useful, such as how to eat pussy like a pro. She said I'd be a first round pick in the National Sex League draft. I really cared about her and believed she cared for me. We had talked about getting married after graduation.

That season was off to a great start, we were undefeated for our first six games and had a shot at the National Championship, the papers were saying that I had a pretty good shot at winning the Heisman. I was at the top of the world. Our seventh game was at home against our rivals who had vowed revenge. In the first half that wasn't going too well for them, we were drubbing them again. They struck gold in the third quarter. Five minutes in to the third, I got outside and was streaking down the field on the sidelines for another sure TD. Their players on the field hand no chance to catch me. Their defensive captain yelled "now" and the other player players were yelling "get him". One booming voice screamed out "kill him." Two guys from their bench came on the field and blocked my path, forcing me further outside. Then one dove low in front of me and the other hit me high in the back, harder than anyone had ever hit me before. Last I remember, I was flying through the air towards their bench, and all the other players had moved out of the way. The bench was a permanent fixture, stainless steel mounted on steel poles set in concrete. It wasn't going anywhere. I hit the bench hard and blacked out.

I woke up a day later in the hospital. The doc told me I had a concussion, but my prognosis was good, and he didn't detect any signs of brain damage after a butt load of tests. He said "you were lucky, if you had hit that steel monstrosity head first, you very likely would have died, probably before the ambulance arrived. But I have bad news, you hit the bench with your right knee first, and the impact completely shattered it. We will do our damnedest to repair it, but the outlook is uncertain."

The rival college paid for all the surgeries and rehab for the next four months (or rather their insurance did), and at the end I could walk with a cane. The doc said that if everything healed well, I might be able to stop using the cane at some point, but I'd always have a limp, and running was out of the question: my football career was definitely over. Linda dumped me the day I woke up in the hospital and hooked up with another star player, a guy I thought was my friend.

God, I felt like I had been hit between the eyes with a pole ax, in truth I kinda wish I had been, it would have been kinder. Then when I got back to my room at college, they had another surprise for me. A bill for tuition, books, and room and board, retroactive to the day I woke up in the hospital. So that ended my education as well. I had a bit of money put aside, so I could live off it for a little while. Then the State of Texas put me on disability. I hadn't been much of a student in high school, and my college classes were a joke. They had me majoring in some bullshit subject, I don't even remember which. I couldn't do much physical work, and I didn't have the education for other types of work. I dropped out of college and got a crappy apartment in another part of town. I stayed in the apartment and drank a bit, but I did my rehab exercises faithfully just in case they did any good.

The doctor was right, after about six months I could walk without a cane, though I still had a noticeable limp, and probably always will. I was trying to drown my sorrows in whiskey, but I wasn't accomplishing it fast enough, so I hobbled over to the neighborhood bar down the street intent on drinking until I passed out. The bar was Red's place, of course. I finished my tale with "so that's how you ended up across the table from a sorry ass drunk spilling his guts to you."

At this point, I was crying my eyes out. Rose didn't say a word, but her eyes were wet too. She crossed over to my side and just held me like she was holding a motherless child for the next half hour. Then she let go and said "I need to close the bar. Don't go anywhere, it'll take about fifteen minutes." So instead of stumbling off home, I waited for her.

When she finished, she came back to me and said "Mark, hurting like you are, you really need not be alone tonight." She took me be the hand and half led me, half carried me to her small one bedroom house on the back lot. When we got there, I started to lay down on her couch. She said "I said you need not be alone tonight, and I meant it. Come with me." She led me to her bedroom. She had a double bed. She instructed me to go in the bathroom, use the toilet and do anything else I needed, then strip to my underwear and come lay down on the left side of the bed. I wasn't sure what her intentions were, but she hadn't made anything I could read as a move, and that wasn't where my head was at that night, anyway.

I took care of business in the bathroom and came back and laid down on the bed and Rose went in the bathroom and took care of her own business. She came out wearing a sheer nightie that I would have found sexy if my head were in better place. She joined me in bed and snuggled up next to me. We talked a bit, I cried a bit, and she held me like she had in the bar until I drifted off to sleep. I woke up at ten the next morning, the first peaceful night's sleep I had since my injury. She brought me breakfast in bed, then sat down next to me, and we talked. My first concern was whether I had acted like a gentleman under the unusual circumstances, and she assured me I had. She said "you never made a move on me, and never acted like you were dying to. With the pain you were in last night, I wouldn't have minded if you had... and I wouldn't have said no."

Rose continued, "your mind will start healing and you begin to find life worth living again, and I aim to help you any way I can. You need to cut down on drinking or stop altogether. But you are always welcome in the bar, and I will comp you as much coffee as you want. Along the way you'll have bad nights and if you need to be held like last night, you are welcome in my bed. There will be times you need sex, and aren't ready to try one of the type of women you prefer or you are having bad luck with them. If that happens, you are also welcome in my bed. I don't have any silly romantic notions, I know I'm not your type and I know your have been a player and will want to be again at least for a while. Truthfully, I am too, but I'm selective. I won't just jump in the sack with just any random cowboy, I insist on a man who approaches me with honesty and respect. Mark, you meet that requirement and you are right easy on the eyes to boot. I like you, and I want to be your friend whether sex is part of that or not, but if sex does happen, I will give you the time of your life, and I'm pretty sure you'll want to return the favor."

I was rather surprised, but in no way disappointed, quite the contrary. I answered "Rose, I'm not ready for sex yet, but when I am, I believe will be taking you up on that. Your aren't the cheerleader type that I usually go for, but you've got a heart like none of them have and you are easy on the eyes as well. Meanwhile, you will be seeing a lot of me, I aim to be as good a friend to you as you have been to me, and not just because I think I owe you, though I do. I really enjoy your company, and I want to get to know you better. Let me know if you need any help at the bar. I can't get around fast, but I still have a strong back and I learn quick, though I never did much in school."

She said "I will be taking you up on that. Why don't you head on home right now and get some more rest while I go open up the bar, then come see me after supper, and we'll talk. May the Lord God hold you in the palm of his hand till we meet again." I returned her blessing, got dressed and ambled on home. A part of me wants to write that I fell in love with her then and there and maybe a small part of me did, but that's not how it happened. I did go home with the knowledge I'd made a friend, likely as not with benefits somewhere along the way, and a feeling of gratitude that I've never been able to fully put into words, a gratitude which would stay with me until my dying day even if (God forbid!) I never saw Rose again. I had been joking when I'd called her the Yellow Rose of Texas, but the truth is she did save my soul from the hell I'd been living in.

I came around that evening, and we discussed some things I could do around the bar. She would give me some money and store it in the safe for me in a big manila envelope with MARK written on it, so I could save up for a car and other things I needed. Rose said "You can have any of your money any time you want, but you I don't want you to put it in a bank and have the State take away your disability before you can earn enough that you don't need it." The rules were strict in those days, and there was no program to let you keep your money while you got back into the work force (or as in my case, got into the work force for the first time) gradually, like you can nowadays.

Red enthusiastically agreed to the idea: "You need a helping hand, and we aim to give it to you, and those fat cat bastard politicians and bureaucrats in Austin ain't gonna stop us. I'm much obliged to Rose for thinking of it. That girl really has a head for business, she won't steer you wrong in that or anything else. I love her like the daughter I never had, and I'd come after the man who did her wrong with my 10-gauge that I keep under the bar. But I don't expect I'll need to come after you. I want to get to know you better, but I think I already know you well enough to be sure of that. I'd advise you not to prove me wrong."

Over the next few weeks, I stopped by every day and helped out quite a bit, at first mainly moving heavy stuff Red couldn't lift anymore and helping clean up. Rose taught me some things, like how to mix drinks, so I could help out behind the bar when it was busy. I got to know Red and our regulars, and I really got to know Rose. She had put herself through college with her earnings at the bar and got a degree in Business Administration. She could have got an office job somewhere and climbed the corporate ladder as far as a woman could go in those days. But she made enough money at the bar to get by comfortably, and she had come to love her work there. She also wanted to stick close to Red as he aged, because she had come to love him like a father. Hardly surprising, considering I was also starting to love him that way too. He was that kind of man. He loved people and drew them to him. When he died, I ended up crying harder than I did the night I met Rose, and that's saying something.

I cut way back on my drinking and stopped drinking whiskey altogether. I limited my self to a couple of beers a day at the bar and an occasional cocktail if a pretty lady bought me one. I never drank alone and never got seriously drunk again in my life. That's another thing I'll be grateful to Rose for until the day I die.

I learned a lot about Rose along the way. She had been a surprise baby when her mom had mistakenly thought she had finished going through the change and couldn't get pregnant. Unlike a lot of folks nowadays, her parents weren't all upset at their golden years being ruined and didn't at best resent her big time and at worst haul mom's ass to an abortion clinic. This was well before Roe v. Wade, and abortion was highly illegal in Texas, though it was always easy for a rich woman to arrange one and poor women had the back alley. But her parents never wanted that anyway. Rather, they loved her extra special and treasured her as a wonderful surprise from God.