Waco: That Tingling on the Back of Your Neck Means Something

By Walter Agnew Moore II, Roving Correspondent 
2 June, 2001 Austin, Texas 

Now you all think you know something about Waco— Wacko-Waco, land of Branch Davidian Crazies and Baptist Baylor University, and maybe you do, but my guess is, you probably don't know jack. That's OK though, because Walter Moore has always specialized in being the eyes and ears of the fearful, the less mobile, looking into things, behind the masks, the assumptions, the lies. I am now starting my second summer in Waco, doing... well, never you mind what I'm doing. But if you want to know the truth about this town, hang on for the ride. 

First off, David Koresh and the Branch Davidians: It is not my purpose here to debate how the Government should have gone about killing 80-plus men, women, and small children—suffice to say that the Government is more numerous and more heavily-armed than this writer, so I'll take their word that they had a good reason. But all that took place in Waco, right? Wrong. Waco is where the reporters drank beer while the bodies were smoldering some 10 or 12 miles out of town, in a place called "Elk". As far as I know, there is not one bar, or much of anything, anymore, in Elk. 

Secondly, the Baptists. Now, they used to say a Methodist was a Baptist with shoes, and a Presbyterian was a Methodist who could read. Maybe that was true once. Now, I'm not so sure. Rich Baptists are about as snotty as rich anybody-elses. Don't get me wrong, I'm not out beating the drum for the Baptists. I have one or two serious differences with their beliefs as stated--that whole drinking-ban thing for instance--but overall, I find them no more or less threatening than any other group who claim to base their actions on the commands of invisible beings. They don't seem to be responsible for Waco's special kind of weirdness. 

But weird Waco is. 

A few facts to ground your understanding of what is to come. These facts are not drawn from any published, official "source", but rather from my own, personal observations. You can trust me to tell you what you really need to know.

Waco is a city of some 100,000 souls in Central Texas, on I-35 halfway between Dallas to the north and Austin to the south. Dallas is Pure Evil, competing with Houston as Whore of Babylon, while Austin is so Way-Too-Hip that you'd like to smack its Buddy-Holly glasses off its smirking side-burned mug. 

Waco is neither of these things. In Waco, it is always 1972—and not the romantic kind of 1972 they put in movies with fuzzy focus and happy classic-rock music as beautiful kids dance on a San Francisco hillside—but a real 1972 where the crunch is about to come, and Nixon is making lists, and greasy-headed youths sniff glue in an alley after beating up the new kid. 

Long stretches of peeling-paint one and two storey buildings, with molded plastic signs whose reds and whites are well on their way to turning to muted pinks and beiges. 

The city was once fairly important, but then a tornado hit the downtown, followed by Urban Renewal. Urban Renewal did more damage. Now the grid-pattern part of town seems strangely empty beside the Brazos River, while blobular winding roads stretch southward and westward with all the trappings of Generica and with as much rhyme or reason as a ball of yarn tangled up by a cat. 

The population of Waco consists, as far as I can tell, of three groups: the Peasantry, the Owners, and the Lords of Creation. 

By far the most numerous, the Peasantry inhabit the frame houses in the grid-street neighborhoods, fail to receive an education at the under-funded public schools, and lead lives of apathetic poverty broken by exciting interludes of violence. They are represented by Texas's three main varieties of Human: the "white", "brown", and "black", in more or less equal portions. (It should be noted for accuracy's sake that all these Humans actually tend toward similar shades of brown but have been trained since birth to exaggerate small differences.) 

Every town has its poor. But in Waco, the Peasantry bears the mark of Cain, leading one to support some Howardian view of Degeneration or perhaps some Lovecraftian Curse. To be in their midst invites emotions of pity, sympathy, and fear. One realizes that they have never had a chance, that one is looking at the result of generations of deprivation. Yet they seem cheerful. 

Case-in-point: I'm in line at the HEB grocery store on 19th street, a little behind a thin man who looks like an Auschwitz survivor decked out in a Harley t-shirt and goatee, eyes glassy, smile fixed. His head seems too small. His wife or girlfriend or sister is immediately in front of me, rocking back and forth, almost bowling me over for she is grossly fat and sunburned almost to the same color as her dark pink mumu. She has no neck. Suddenly she starts moaning and laughing at the same time: "MAA-muh, MAA-muh". I eventually realize she is mocking the man in line behind me, a bristly fellow of perhaps 55, who is going to Western Union once again to get his mother to send him money. 

"MAA-muh, MAA-muh! Sin me sum munny MAA-muh!" 

"Hey ma mama's z'only one I'n count on!" 

"MAA-muh, MAA-muh!" 

A small elderly lady standing near the line engages (Mama's Boy) in conversation, and he explains further to her: 

"I got three brothers an two sisters, all ma brothers went to jail an bofe ma sisters got pregnant an now they all back livin wif mama!" 

(Mumu) is about to crack herself up, she's so clever saying "MAA-muh". She stumbles about, steps on my foot. Luckily I am wearing heavy boots. (SmallHeadMan) is still smiling, I want him to stay that way. I want them all to get through with their purchases and just go away. 

And I look around the store. Everyone, customers, clerks, the cop on duty, everyone looks like they didn't get enough oxygen at birth. And suddenly I'm not feeling so well myself. 

I could tell you more stories about the Peasantry, but it is time to move on to the Owners.

Less numerous, but more powerful, the Owners inhabit the rolling suburbs by the lake. Their children refer to Waco proper as "the ghetto", which, to be fair, is not that far off, with the exception of a few streets with old mansions on them. The Owners are a mix of go-go get-em successful business types and Old South-style landowners. Almost all of them are "white" Humans. Their children attend private academies and may occasionally speak to one of the Peasantry as the latter mows the grass or cleans the house. They are sociable enough to strangers if approached carefully. Knowing their town's reputation, they tend to a wry humor, blaming it on the water. They may be right. 

The thing to beware of in the Owners is their occasional need for Fresh Blood, when they may set one of their personable, attractive children to the task of snaring a healthy stranger. Beware. What seems at first to be an innocent friendship or mild flirtation is actually a cynical attempt at keeping the breeding stock viable, like a scene from the Sci-Fi classic "A Boy and his Dog". 

Delilah roped in Samson, but the Owners knew that it would take more subtlety to bring down Walter Moore. Thus, they held their daughters in check, and instead tempted me with Drink, making sure that I owned a 20 oz. mug with my name on it down at Cricket's, a large bar/pool hall in a warehouse near the river. Cricket's also does a good job on food. I recommend the fajitas for your first visit, because if you don't order them, you will still smell them when the person next to you orders them, and your heart will be filled with wailing and lamentation while you gnash your teeth. 

The "Mug Club" entitles you not only to a free extra 4 ounces whenever you buy a pint, but on Mondays membership lets you drink *any* of the 50 or so beers on tap for a mere $1.50 each. They know that I will always delay my departure for just one more Monday. And once they have you, you will never leave. 

The third group, the apex of the pyramid, are the Lords of Creation, otherwise known as the Baylor Kids, and their mythical, parasitic subset, the Baylor Profs. (I say "mythical" because I have yet to see one of these professors anywhere in Waco. If they did exist once, they are not around now.) My impression is that the Baylor Kids have taken over the campus and surrounding neighborhoods in an unsupervised, "Lord of the Flies" manner. 

Now, Baylor is officially a Baptist school. No doubt a few of its 13,000 students actually came to Waco out of religious conviction, but that minority aren't out in the bars like you and I, so let's ignore them and keep the analysis simple, or better yet, simplistic. For, in the bars is where the Baylor Kids are. They are rich alcoholics who believe, as I do, that it really was "wine" and not "grape-juice" at the Wedding of Cana. They are envied by the Owners and resented by the Peasantry. They are immortal, good-looking, and above all laws. Since Baylor is consistently Ivy-League-inept at football, they may, just may, be intelligent as well. They certainly will not hesitate to tell you how much better they are than the locals, and the sad part is that the locals accept it. 

In my duties as M10K's Roving Correspondent, I managed to insinuate myself into the company of the Lords of Creation, possibly because I drink heavily and occasionally shoot some pool with them, but more likely because they see me as some sort of awe-inspiring shamanistic holy-man from beyond their Closed World of the Three Groups. Who knows why the apes accepted Jane Goodall? Whatever their reasons, I have been able to visit their dwellings and observe their rituals at close hand. One such visit begins with a visit to a "keg" party where one stands in the backyard of a frame house similar to those used by the Peasantry, but priced out of the Peasantry's slim means by the whims of the Owners and Lords. Overflowing with "white" Humans aged 18 to 22, holding plastic cups full of light beer, talking about matters of importance to the Lords of Creation. These particular Lords of Creation, I am informed, are a subset known as "Greek", or a "Fraternity", as well as being "brothers" and "sisters", which puzzles me, because many of them are much blonder than other "Greek" Humans I have met, nor do they speak "Greek", seeming to prefer a casual dialect of "English". Nor is there much family resemblance among these "brothers" and "sisters". Perhaps they are all adopted. 

This is interesting, but my Lord of Creation guides, (Mr.X) and (Mr.Y), soon decide to take me to a "bar" called Scruffy's, which is decorated with a cartoon "Irish" Human above the door, beer in one hand, the other cocked back in a threatening fist, because it is amusing how those "Irish" Humans are said to drink and fight. 

Inside Scruffy's we shoot pool and meet two Lord of Creation females, (Ms.W) and (Ms.Z). During a previous study, I made the acquaintance of (Ms.W), who is kind enough to buy me a pint of Newcastle, as well as imply that her lair-dweller (Ms.Z) would be a fitting mate for me, as she is a genius who speaks every language there is. 

Intriguing though that may sound in theory, it is not to be, for later at the house of (Mr.X) and (Mr.Y), (Ms.Z) proves to have less capacity for alcohol than for linguistic expertise and succumbs to unconsciousness on the couch. Despite (Mr.X)'s somewhat bizarre attempts to awaken her (singing and jumping around on her like a chihuahua), (Ms.Z) is obviously staying asleep. After a polite amount of conversation, I take my leave of those still standing. 

Months later I am informed by an escaped Wacoan that I probably bewildered my hosts by leaving and mortally snubbed (Ms.Z) as well—by the ancient customs of the "Greek" Lords of Creation, (Ms.Z)'s act of passing out drunk in my presence was tantamount to a marriage proposal, or at least an offer to get nasty—little did I know. 

Waco is strange. But the strangest thing is how it can grow on you. As I write I can see my 20 oz. mug hanging from the rack at Cricket's, calling to me. The city is in an area of considerable natural beauty, with two rivers meeting under limestone cliffs. I enjoy kayaking in the afternoons past the playful Peasant children frolicking in aptly-named Ghetto Park (well, it is still named Cameron Park, but I'm sure the Owners will change it if they ever take a close look at it), a few of the spirited imps are pitching sticks harmlessly towards me and calling out greetings such as "Buss dat nigga inna head!", "Hey, you deek-sockin mah-fokka!" 

Ah, the sun, the water, sweet Waco. 

A jagged metal object flies spinning past my head, vumvumvumvumvum... and splashes in the river well past me. "SHEE-it, I almos hit dat nigga inna head!" 

Those little bastards are trying to kill me. 

Waco.

© Walter Agnew Moore II 2001