the government selected it as proving ground for their early nukes. Had my father really spent thirty years in the Army and fought in two wars so we could settle down in a skillet and spend a lifetime being sandblasted?
Moving to the desert was one of the big traumas of my young life. Jack Stricklin was a bright spot in that early transition. It was my older sisters, of course, who brought him into my orbit. I was just the kid brother—an irritating little wart all but ignored by the Sisters from Hell. But to Jack, I was someone worth getting to know. When he called the house and I answered the phone (a rare occurrence), it was as if he had called just to talk to me. I could always make him laugh. He could always make me feel a little less invisible.
Though Jack Stricklin was a good friend of both my sisters, he hoped to be better friends with one or two of the girls with whom they frequently hung out. Our home on Fort Blvd. was the preferred gathering place, so I became Jack’s pipeline to the late-night gabfests that accompanied many a sleepless slumber party. It was our first conspiracy. And the beginning of a connection that would last a lifetime.
Jack Stricklin wasn’t known for his common sense, but for his uncommon sense of humor. The purpose of his life was to be amused, and he chased his fun at a full gallop. Though he had little use for details, Jack processed information at warp speed. He was a cut-to-the-chase guy who relied on his own intuition and ignored conventional wisdom.
Physically, Jack was a presence you could hardly fail to notice, with a larger-than-life personality and a body to match. At 6′ 3″ he appeared a bit on the wiry side, carrying about 180 pounds, most of which was lean muscle and raw energy. Many of his friends called him Flaco, Spanish for skinny. But Jack worked out three or four times a week and ate like a sumo wrestler. He took vitamins and supplements and drank milkshakes for breakfast. Nevertheless, he was forever Flaco. And Flaco burned calories like a greyhound in training.
A shaggy crop of sandy blonde hair fell straight to his shoulders, framing an avian beak that presided over a drooping mustache—an appropriate counterweight for a man who laughed at life with the hair trigger of a cap gun. To Jack, there was no such thing as a bad joke. From the darkest satire to the most ridiculous slapstick, he was a human spasm, erupting in laughter at the slightest provocation.
Jack himself wasn’t all that funny. He enabled funny. And in the process attracted friends like fungus to a toenail. If you so much as served him breakfast, you’d be on a first-name basis by the second cup of coffee. There was nothing phony or unnatural about his openness. Jack genuinely liked people, and most people couldn’t help but like him back. He was totally free with his friendship. On the flip side, you had to earn his trust.
If you were a friend of Jack Stricklin, you could ask of him nearly any favor. If it were in his power, he was likely to comply. But tell Jack what to do and he would chomp the bit so hard, sparks would fly out his ass as he applied the emergency brake with urgent force. Authority was not his friend. He had no time for rules, no patience for structure, and no need for motivation. Jack seized the wheel and hung on for the ride, not caring where it ended up but only what it offered along the way. Most of the time it offered trouble, but even that was something Jack Stricklin never took seriously.
JACK STRICKLIN
You might say I had issues with authority. It probably started with the Mormon Church and all their ridiculous rules and regulations. I was thirteen years old and the Bishop of the Mormon Church was telling me who I could and couldn’t be friends with. He wasn’t going to tell me I couldn’t hang out with all my non-Mormon friends. All that religious stuff was just silly. I don’t like being told what to do. And I can be a stubborn son of a bitch.
High school was a joke. We’d cut class and go to Juarez or down to the river. There was too much fun to be had to sit in a classroom and pretend to be interested. My father and I decided that military school might be a good idea. As much as I hated authority, he and I both knew I would never graduate without a little discipline. And there were way too many distractions in El Paso. I actually kind of liked the idea of going away to school.
Allen Military Academy was a prep school for Texas A&M. Once I got there, I figured out what made the place work. It was so fucking boring you had to study just to break the monotony. It took me two and a half years to make second lieutenant. Usually you made colonel by the time you were a senior. But I raised the art of underachieving to new heights.
I actually graduated on the Dean’s List in 1963. That was the last Dean’s List I ever saw. After graduation, I came back to El Paso expecting to work for El Paso Natural Gas before I started college in the fall. My father was the vice president. So I’m thinking he’s going to get me a cushy job parking cars, and I can hang out and chase girls all summer. But instead he says, “Pack your bags, Jack. You’re leaving.”
“What?”
“You’re going to Farmington.”
“Farmington? What am I going to do in Farmington?”
“You’re going to work on the pipeline.”
The minute he said work, I kind of sat up and took notice. “What am I going to do on the pipeline?”
He said, “Oh, there’s all kinds of things you can do on the pipeline. I’m sure they’ll think of something.”
So the next thing I know, my sister Bonnie has got me packed and away we go to Farmington, New Mexico. She helps me find a little apartment and a restaurant that makes lunches for you. She knew I’d starve to death if I didn’t have that. So she got it all taken care of, and she left.
The next day I went to jail. That was my first time in jail. A friend had gone with me to Farmington, and we were having a beer party that got a little out of hand. I actually went to jail three times that summer for public intoxication and disorderly conduct. It was ridiculous.
Anyway, I went to work on the pipeline digging ditches with a pick and shovel. It was probably one of the most enjoyable three months I ever spent in my life. I had a girlfriend in Farmington, a car, and a steady paycheck. What more could you want?
Toward the end of that summer, we were in Utah, laying the pipeline across the river, and I was in a ditch, digging out a dogleg. My foreman was working the backhoe with me. It was just the two of us, and he said, “Jack, did you ever hear what your father did after you came up here?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The second week you were here?”
“No. What did he do?”
“He came up here on Thursday, when all you guys were still in the field. He called in all the foremen and told us that if you didn’t do your job, we should fire you. And then he said, “If I hear that Jack isn’t doing his job and you don’t fire him, I will fire him myself. And then I will fire you.”
Well, God almighty, no wonder they worked me like a rented mule. They were more worried about me fucking up than I was. But it was a great summer. I learned a lot about work ethic, and I learned a lot about the pipeline—mainly that I didn’t ever want to work on one.
1968
Mike Halliday, ca. 1970
Mike Halliday grew up playing with the big kids. He was the pebble in their shoe. The longer they tried to ignore him, the more irritating he became. Mike ran on a hi-octane blend of perpetual energy, with mind and body constantly colliding in a non-stop demolition derby. It was as if all the shiny objects were put on the earth just to distract him. He bounced off his life like a rubber ball.
Mike Halliday was determined to run with the big dogs, even if it meant suffering