Prince Charles & the Texans

Granddaddy — Primo as he was known — always told me: “There are two types of oilies: crude and refined.” Myself, I’m a highly refined oilie aristocrat with roots going all the way back to the ’20s. That’s when Primo, one hell of a visionary who combined insight with awfully good lawyers, started building our family’s fortune on mud — drilling mud.

Primo knew that, thanks to Henry Ford, oil wells would have to go much deeper to fuel all those cars that Ford Motor Company would be making into the next century. You see, an oil well of any depth at all requires drilling muds to control the pressure and lubricate the drills and drilling pipe. Without the proper mud, pressures and heat get out of control causing humongous blow-outs. When I was a little guy, Primo told me, “Son, after a blow-out, the land’s shot to hell; can’t even run sheep on it.” Granddaddy was one of the first environmentalists in Texas.

Primo’s foresight was something else too. Take the name of our family’s company; he couldn’t have picked a better one — Armadillo International. Our company is just like an armadillo, that prehistoric looking animal that loves burrowing in the mud. And those bony plates protecting the critter are, business-wise, just like the patents our attorneys put up around our products. So when the oil business goes bust — as it so often does — Armadillo International curls up in its patents and waits for the storm to blow over.

Primo created a dynasty, and he took care to remind me that I had an obligation to conserve and nurture Armadillo for future generations while stomping the competition into the mud. But there was one problem — Daddy. Primo was an entrepreneur who happened to have an engineering degree; Daddy was an engineer pure and simple, an introspective guy who loved screwing around with hydraulic problems. Boldness certainly skipped a generation because I take after Primo so much that family and friends have always called me “Primo-J” or “Junior” for short.

Fresh out of college back in the ’70s with a business degree — emphasis on marketing, of course — I wanted to start out in sales to get the experience I’d need to run Armadillo when I took over. Daddy wasn’t buying it and started me off in production and design — in other words, engineering. After a month or so of pressure ratios and density factors, that technical bullshit just wasn’t cutting it.

So I plunked myself down in Daddy’s office to explain the obvious: “If you need engineers, go out and shake the trees.” I cranked up the heat, “Look, I don’t have the temperament for engineering. Know why? Because I’m a natural-born rain-maker, like Primo was.” Daddy always got antsy when I compared myself to the great man and moved me to sales where I belonged in the first place.

After a couple of years fine tuning my skills around the Gulf, it was same-ol’ same-ol’. So I had another sit-down with Daddy who suggested rounding myself out management-wise in the international arena and handed me the numbers coming out of Armadillo’s foreign operations. Singapore’s stunk; the management out there was a bunch of big-hat-no-cattle types who spent their afternoons at the Petroleum Club bar. I told Daddy that I should sky over there, can the “management” and fire-up those sales. That Daddy came around in a New York minute really tipped his hand: Singapore would get me out of Armadillo World Headquarters; more importantly, off his back.

Next to the equator, Singapore’s weather reminded me of Houston’s in August; the air outdoors was like warm guacamole. But plenty of air conditioning made it livable, the high-rise apartments were slick, most people spoke English, and the eats were incredible. Not that any of that mattered during the first six months when I was selling like I’d never sold before.

Sure there were the introductory barbecues and cocktail parties, and I worked those occasions like an indicted Congressman three weeks before the court date and two weeks before the election. When I’m in sales mode, the prospect might just as well write a check. My double-barreled approach never fails: after I sell Primo-J himself, closing the sale is easier than falling off a horse.

Around month seven, sales had turned the corner. At month nine it was: “Daddy, breaking news from Singapore: I’ve set a match to this sucker; sales out here are smoking. Oh, this just in: after his latest triumph, Junior has once again confirmed that he is Armadillo’s future.” Now he’s my Daddy, and I do love him, but he was afflicted with the-empty-beer-can-on-the-interstate-waiting-for-the-eighteen-wheeler syndrome. Dutiful son that I am, I cut Daddy some slack and stayed put for the time being.

Besides, after single handedly putting Armadillo-Singapore on top of the Asian mud market, it was time for socializing, which led me to the Singapore Polo Club. In spite of the enormous fortune Primo amassed, he went for understatement, like I do. The understatement that brought Primo to the polo fields was: add up the money for a string of ponies and an Argentine trainer/coach; then compare that outlay to the glitzy Cadillacs and fur coats that Texas oil people are famous for. No contest; polo goes through money faster that a Houston divorce lawyer. Off and on, I’ve played polo since I could sit a horse.

I wrote the Polo Club telling them that I wanted to join up. I got a letter back saying I should get acquainted while using the enclosed chits at the bar. The club was terribly British: warm beer, no ice in the drinks, crappy food, and some affected Americans trying like hell to be English. Frankly, I don’t think there’s anything more sickening than watching an American sucking up to an Englishman. I mean, why?

Anyway, during my look-see, I noticed the polo was piss-poor — like a lawn party with horses. When I pointed that out to the English people sitting on the side lines, they rolled their eyes and kind of sneered at me. The Brits don’t take criticism very well, especially when it comes from Americans. Tired of the la-di-da polo, I checked out the stabled horses — mostly plugs lucky not to be in dog food cans. As the last match was ending, I moseyed over to the club’s patio, traded a chit for a bourbon and branch, and found a strategic table close to the bar when a hopping mad English lady came my way.

“Excuse me, are you a member of this club?” she asked in that snotty way Brits talk when they’re pissed off. I got up, showed her the chits and was about to introduce myself when she said, “Oh, those are for membership candidates.” I tried to explain, but she cut me off, “This table is my husband’s and mine; you should stand at the bar.” I turned to leave when she asked, “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

“And damned proud of it.”

She looked to heaven, “Lord, spare us from the Texans.” The other Brits snickered.

Money talks and shit walks, and I’ve never been one for walking. Nevertheless, I walked back to the bar, had another drink and regrouped. For one thing, that English lady had spent altogether too much time around horses, kind of like people who start looking like their dogs. She and her friends gave me over-the-shoulder glances; I clicked on my high beams and smiled back at them. They thought I was a hick; but that was okay because I was going to crash my way into that club of theirs.

The following Saturday morning, I posted a notice on the club’s bulletin board: “Polo ponies for sale? Interested parties, please contact the undersigned.” Horse owners always want to upgrade, usually at someone’s expense. And who better to unload a nag on than an American with more money than brains. My office was flooded with callers, Brits dying to get acquainted and sell me a horse or two. Sounding like one of the stars of that idiotic TV show, Hee-Haw, I joked around before I told them that I would start buying when I had a place to play polo. When you get down to it, Texas is pretty much like everywhere else; if you’ve got the money, there’s nothing much you can’t buy.

The Brits and the Brit-wannabes coaxed the ball around the field, but that’s not the way the game is played. Polo’s like sales; you’ve got to be totally focused and give a hundred-and-ten percent. All set to liven up those polo matches, my social radar did a sweep. Something was wrong: Texans behaving like bad boys who’d been stood in the corner. Instead of cocktails at the patio bar, they stood around the parking lot drinking Lone Star long-necks from a cooler in some guy’s car trunk.

After introductions and pounding down several long-necks myself, I got my mind around the problem. The Texans went overboard being polite, but the Brits turned persnickety with snippy comments just shy of contempt. Those guys needed an infusion of Texas grit; luckily I was there to administer it. By the time the last Lone Star bit the dust, we’d formed a new team — the Mustangs. Thanks to me, their blood was up; pay-back time — time to kick some Brit fanny.

Chauncey Devereaux was a kindred spirit and we hit it off from the get-go. The Devereauxs got their start in New Orleans supplying Mississippi River boats and later expanded into the Gulf with oil field supply business — the rope, soap and dope business as Chauncey called it. Once after a few drinks, I wasn’t all that surprised when Chauncey told me his family had been pirates before going legit some years after the Battle of New Orleans; that’s when Andy Jackson teamed up with French pirates and whooped the British army.

Within a month or so under my guidance with Chauncey assisting, the Mustangs were playing pedal-to-the-metal Texas polo, complete with rebel yells. We were swaggering — so were our horses — and we rode over any Brit who got in our way. And the patio bar became a little bit of Houston: tequila shooters and high-stakes liar’s poker. Chauncey said we had élan — that’s French for cajones.

We were driving the Brits stark-raving apeshit (twisted their knickers, as they’d say) especially Colonel Anderly, the club’s president. A strange guy, Anderly’s eyebrows were growing like weeds, but instead of trimming them, he combed them up toward his forehead. When they get old, Brits kind of let their body hair go hog wild. Anderly looked down his long nose at us, but the Mustangs paid him no attention until he sat us down for our etiquette lesson.

Prince Charles was going to play in an exhibition match between teams of the club’s best players when he blew through Singapore on a tour of the colonies the Brits used to own. Anderly decided to instruct the Mustangs on how to behave around British royalty and started with American royalty.

“Sorry, Colonel, we don’t have royalty,” Chauncey said. “As you may know, we got rid of King George and his toadies a couple of hundred years ago.” The Mustangs were chuckling.

Anderly stuttered, stopped and started again, “I meant the important American families, the Kennedys, for example.”

“Hey, guys; he’s talking about Ted Kennedy, the Duke of Cape Cod,” Chauncey said. “Hell, Colonel, he’s just a politician. At home we buy and sell politicians, easier than trading horses.” The Mustangs were howling.

Anderly started lecturing us like we were the slow kids in the fourth grade. “Now, for you compulsively friendly Americans, I realize that this may be difficult to comprehend — grasp, that is. The point I’m attempting to make is that royals are not to be touched. When you are introduced, a bow is expected.” Anderly demonstrated. “You’d look foolish extending your hand if the Prince declines to shake it, now wouldn’t you? However, should Prince Charles offer his hand, by all means take it.” He went on while I sat there wondering why the men Colonel Anderly had once commanded hadn’t shot him.

When our lesson ended, Chauncey was furious, “Anderly thinks Americans are stupid; Southerners even stupider.” His face in mine, “If my granddaddy had been talked down to like that, he’d have fought Anderly.” Grabbing my shirt, “You know, pistols at dawn, comprende?”

The Star Spangled Banner, Dixie, and The Eyes of Texas went off in my head at the same time. But something wasn’t right. The Mustangs were looking at Chauncey. The Mustangs were my idea; while there hadn’t been an election, no one doubted that I was the captain. Now I’m not paranoid — no need to be — but it was clearly time to employ my management skills.

I put my arm around Chauncey’s shoulders and said to the Mustangs, “This is like at the Alamo when Colonel Travis — a real fighting colonel — drew that line in the sand and asked those with him to step across.” For Texans, the Alamo is defiance, us against everyone else. “You guys with me?” Every Mustang replied with a cowboy’s easy nod.

Chauncey said, “What are we going to do?”

“Well,” I said, “we’re not getting mad; that’s too easy. But I’ll certainly get even. After all, Charles is Anderly’s prince, not mine.” I didn’t have a plan, but I gave the Mustangs a sly chuckle and headed to my car. Once I focused, everything would work out as it always does.

The Brits were even more tight-assed than usual when Prince Charles arrived that afternoon; he seemed kind of bored by all their sucking up. Chauncey and I had the best handicaps in the club and were grudgingly chosen for the team that would oppose the Prince’s. Chauncey asked what I had in mind, and I told him I’d handle it. Chauncey’s buccaneer blood was percolating; if he’d approached me a hundred years ago on a Mississippi river boat, I’d have stood aside.

A receiving line had formed as Anderly introduced the members. When it was my turn, I looked Prince Charles straight in the eyes and stepped toward him. He froze. I gave him a big hug, slapped his back, and said, “My mommy and daddy think your mommy and daddy are doing one helluva job ruling England. I mean that, sincerely.” As his security men were man-handling me, the Prince laughed and said that he would convey my sentiments to his parents. The Brits, Anderly in particular, were having cows, full grown with horns.

When things settled down, I went over to the horses; Chauncey was holding mine by the reins. I swung up; Chauncey handed me the reins and said, “Beau coup, mon Capitaine, beau coup.” A man as touchy as Chauncey saying that while looking up to me sitting a horse reinforced his sincerity.

Looking at Anderly and the Brits helping Prince Charles get ready for the match, I started thinking: Charles has spent his life sitting around in drafty castles waiting for his mom to die. That was the difference between him and me: he just waited; I made things happen.

Chauncey said, “Got some advice, if you want it?”

“What’s that?”

“Drop the Junior. You are Primo.”

Chauncey was right. Time to go home and assume Primo’s legacy: “Daddy, I’m not asking for the keys; I’m taking the damned car.”

As for the polo match, I can’t remember who won.