Mr. Write's Page

A memoir of Christmas 1966.

Chapter 5 – A Ticket to Ride

Back in those days, Dad was Director of Aviation for C&S Banks. His little empire included a fleet of helicopters, which were used to haul bank checks around, and a couple of Beechcraft King Air prop jets, which were used to haul bank executives around. By the time my vacation was over, Dad had worked out a plan to get me most of the way back to New Mexico aboard one of his King Airs.

Originally, I had planned to stay in Georgia until December 31st, then take the train back to Clovis. But that year, the fourth-ranked Georgia Bulldogs were in the Cotton Bowl, and the bank had volunteered one of Dad’s King Airs to fly a planeload of well-connected alums from Athens to Dallas for the game.

Dad not only got me on board the flight, he also got me a ticket to the Cotton Bowl game. That’s my Pop!

On December 30th, the King Air crew and I flew to Athens to pick up the distinguished passengers. The King Air had room for me because it had a jumpseat that folded out between the pilot and copilot. No one among the revelers we transported would EVER perch on that sawed-off little barstool, so it was vacant for somebody like me, who had no shame.

The Cotton Bowl that year featured Georgia and SMU. The stadium also was hosting an NFL playoff game the following day, and of course there was the Cotton Bowl Parade. As a result, Dallas that weekend was a beehive of activity. And, as I soon found out, every room in town was booked.

Chapter 6 – The Softer Side of Dallas

The flight from Athens to Dallas lasted six hours, plus 30 minutes spent circling Love Field in a rather scary storm. During that roller-coaster half-hour, one of the alums – oh, never mind.

Having accepted all offers of food and drink from the UGA revelers during the flight from Athens, I was reluctant to impose further when we got to Dallas. I was, of course, invited to go with them to their hotel, as they were sure they could find lodging for me there. Had Dad not worked for C&S, I might have gone with them. But I departed by cab for downtown Dallas as soon as I could make my goodbyes.

Sure enough, no rooms were available in any of the hotels. Believe me, I looked. First, I checked the moderate places. Then I canvassed the pricey joints.

Finally, late in the evening, when I was exhausted and hopeless, I lowered my standards utterly. And I found one lone room at a place called the Hotel Maurice.

What a dump! I am convinced the word “seedy” originated there. The decor was like Norman Bates’ house. The place was ancient, musty, and dilapidated. Probably, it was home base to most of the hookers, dope dealers, itinerant sheetrock contractors, and starving artists in the central city.

In the entire structure, not a single painted surface was unfaded. Anything originally white no longer was. The carpets had been reduced to nothing by a million footsteps.

When I opened the window curtains in my room, the view was of a brick wall two feet away. I retired and slept fitfully. The sounds of traffic, inebriated people and occasional gunfire accented the night.

To be continued…