When a Major American Airline (MAA) built the DFW airport, they needed people to staff it. MAA told her employees that if they would transfer to the DFW area, she would pay the moving expenses. DFW opened January 13, 1974, 38 years ago.
Meanwhile, back at LaGuardia airport, the bag busters were sullen after yet another long, bitter East Coast winter. Richie, Red, Mike Stolz and a bunch of other guys all decided that Texas would be better. This was a major concession on their parts because traditionally, New Yorkers and Texans each hate the other. At the newly-opened DFW, you would hear muttered asides, such as "Stupid cowboys!" or "Damn Yankees" if you listened closely.
Mike, in particular, was the most alarmed and would tell his mates, "They're gonna get us! You
know they're gonna get us!" It may have been the opening salvo of what would become raging paranoia.
Richie only lasted three years at DFW; no one had bothered to tell them about the searing summer heat or the sudden Blue Northers that could drop the temperature as much as 40 degrees in an hour. He high-tailed it to LAX (and paid for the move himself. Any price to get out of Texas.)
The rest of the gang stayed where they were. They were married or getting married; they had kids or were expecting them. Mike married, had a kid, divorced. He had bought a house and had begun collecting weapons of mass warfare against "Them" -- pistols and rifles, antique and new; a bullwhip, sword canes, knives and dogs he named after gun manufacturers. I remember "Lugar" and "Beretta." The only time we visited the house, he showed me a prized possession: the head (and some of the neck) of a rattlesnake in a plastic cube. I am terrified of snakes so you can imagine my reaction.
I remember this, too, about our only visit to the house, maybe 20-24 years ago. He had told us to come in via the alley and park in the driveway at the back of the house. We dutifully did and out of the open garage door came Mike with a huge, black Doberman on a lead and his second wife, Bernice. The humans greeted each other and I bent to look into the dog's face, murmuring, "What a beautiful dog!"
Mike yanked the leash back and screamed, "Don't look in his eyes! He'll attack you!" Suitably chastised, I drew back and we all went into the house. We went through the kitchen, around to the right and into the dining room which was about one step above the living room next to it. A short, white, wrought-iron fence separated the two areas. The other end of the living room was blocked by a baby gate and the dog was put in there.
We sat around the dining room table, drinking cold ones and visiting. I was closest to the railing and all of a sudden, I felt something warm and wet on my right forearm. It was Beretta, who had gently clasped my arm in his mouth to get my attention. I immediately began to talk to him and stroke his head; he instantly let go and stretched his neck toward me in appreciation of the attention.
Bernice had freaked out and was screaming, "Let go of that! Let go! Come here! Don't make me have to get the belt!" I couldn't let that go, so I whispered to the dog, "Stay" and turned back to the table.
Seemingly casually, I remarked, "Can you believe anyone would teach their dog to come -- and then beat the dog? How confusing is that to the poor dog?" and gave a little fake society laugh. I didn't know Bernice all that well and I didn't want to be rude to either of them in their own home. Bernice got it. She even said, "That makes sense."
We never saw them again. After the third time Mike cancelled a trip to LA at the last minute by a phone call in the dead of night or at dawn the day of arrival, we distanced ourselves. He always had an excuse, but the truth was he could not bring himself to get on a plane.
We'd send the odd birthday or Christmas card, but finally even those minor contacts vanished. Most of the other MAA guys said they never heard from him or sought him out either. It was just too difficult to deal with Mike.
Red said that over the past 14 years, after his retirement from MAA thatMike had become a recluse. Friendly visits, quick lunches never happened and calls were not returned. Bernice, 27 years younger, worked for a computer company. Red told Richie that Mike's son had died (alcoholism) and Richie sent a condolence card. Mike called Richie to thank him and contact was lost again after that. More time passed.
Then at 7:30 a.m. Wednesday, March 28th, Red called, unusually early for him. I answered the phone. His voice was taut, he was abrupt. "Is Richie up yet?"
"Sure! He's on his second cup of coffee!"
"Let me talk to him and then he can tell you."
As I handed Richie the phone, I mouthed, "I bet Mike is dead." I was very wrong. Mike had gone down the rabbit hole. He killed Bernice.
If you want the full story, Google "Man Kills Wife After Dog Defecates in Home." It was a fairly gaudy story; you may have already read it; it made The Drudge Report. Additional details: she died Saturday of a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Bodies were not discovered until approximately 5 p.m. on Tuesday. Mike was at home (as far as is known) all of that time.
We've all read bizarre news stories, but it really smacks you across the face when you know one or more of the parties involved. The moral is: Even distant events can reach out and bite you. Or as Mike would no doubt say, "They're gonna get us! You know they're gonna get us!"
