It was the school year 1967-68. The place: a mid-sized city in Texas. The times they were indeed changing. But this high school was filled with traditionalists who, in many cases meant no harm. They were only "following orders." A student who'd formed a bond with several like-minded rebels started an underground newspaper ~ The Red Umbrella. Copies were quietly handed out. Rumors began to spread. More copies were left in school lockers. More rumors spread. A second issue of TRU came out soon thereafter. By this time the principal of the school had discovered that that someone was leaving "subversive" literature on school grounds. Apparently he became alarmed. Rumors were rampant. Students were questioned. It was feared that we had a communist in our ranks. Then I was questioned. I saw nothing. I knew nothing. I was no one. Retreating behind the Ag building I had a quiet smoke with the other outcasts - a mix of hot rod enthusiasts, farm boys, and neighborhood toughs, with a sprinkling of jocks who hadn't made the varsity squad. They nodded as I lit up and stood in the shade against the wall. We hardly spoke but just being there, in that company, provided membership in a small group of nobodies. It was later that year when a varsity athlete challenged one of the smokers who hung out at the club. The whole school knew that a big fight was on for that day. More than fifty students gathered to watch the two young men do battle. And the battleground was behind the Ag building.
As the two pugilists came closer to each other we formed a natural ring around them. The jock was bellowing. The smoker said very little. The jock tried to bull rush the smoker, who stepped aside. Then the athlete made a fateful decision. He decided to use his fists. Before he'd finished throwing a huge roundhouse right, the smoker hit him flush on the chin with a powerful right cross that came out of nowhere. The jock fell in a heap on the grass. The crowd gasped. He was down for the count, and the smoker stood back, waiting to see if the fight was ended. It was.
The jock rose and put his hands out, palms forward, and tried to save face while the smoker said nothing. The jock retreated. The crowd began to disperse. And I stood there and smiled. I'd been holding the smoker's jacket.
Nobody ever bothered me after that. Certainly no one ever picked a fight with my new friend either. And things slowly went back to a normal rhythm. It was close to graduation and I forgot about my newspaper. I was writing songs and beginning to see what one or two friends already saw in a "matchbox" of Mexican dirt weed. I had other things on my mind.
When my old friend Zag dredged this memory up from my muddled mind he asked if he could claim the rights to "The Red Umbrella." I assumed he was joking until I looked back at him. Zag was serious. I said yes, but under two conditions. That he drop "The," and use a lower case "r" in the word "red." He agreed, and we went back to our burgers. Now it's Zag's venture, not mine. And Zag is an honest broker who may not say a lot, but he always knows what to do in a crisis, and he still smokes.
[name withheld by request]
