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Nat Mulloy
Nat Mulloy
Nat Mulloy hit rock bottom on a Tuesday morning in March of 1964. On the previous Friday, he had lost his job driving the Galveston street sweeping machine, his boss having finally decided that he was hitting too many Datsuns and Ramblers. His little severance check had been appropriated by a player named Tall John in the pool room. Then on Monday night, Angela had left the trailer on the arm of his best friend, taking their last thirty-four dollars cash money. It wasn't even his trailer.
Nat decided that the only place for him was at the bottom of Galveston Bay, and accordingly he caught a ride to the bridge and began to walk. He figured there was no need to drown in worn -out tennis shoes, so after hoofing it a couple hundred yards over the water, he climbed the railing and debated whether there was any point in holding his breath. Almost immediately, a car pulled over and two girls jumped out, demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing. He explained his plans, but they insisted he unclimb the railing and get into the car with them, so he did, reasoning that he could return later.
The girls took him to McDonald's and bought him a Big Mac and some fries, and then took him to the big house where they lived, along with several other chicks and a house mother named Claudine. They found him a place to bunk down, and gave him several chores that needed doing around the place. This was a far better gig than the water in the Bay, which might still be chilly so early in the spring. He fit into the routine around the place, and soon was a part of the family, so to speak, and a fair-to-partly-cloudy maintenance man, and had occasional access to some killer young ladies.
One day Claudine called him into the little office and asked him if he would like to be their bookkeeper, also, and was dismayed to learn that Nat could neither read nor write. In his shame, he decided that he best move along, and announced his decision to depart on the next business day, which could be any day at Claudine's. They never closed. The girls mourned for him and even took up a collection, sending him away with sixteen dollars in his kick. With a new and rosier outlook, he avoided the bridge and fought off an urge to try to find Tall John again. His first good move in a long time, one might note.
As he walked along, he met an elderly man – actually a really old man – laboring behind a dilapidated pushcart full of fruit. On a whim, he bought both the vehicle and the produce for twelve dollars, and four dollars left for another trip to McDonald's. He parked in the lot and went inside and ate lunch, after which he went to work, vending fruit. Trade was brisk, and he was able to trundle along to the market and buy a second load, which he also sold in a brief period. Nat prospered, after a fashion, and without laboring over the details I can tell you that in ninety days he owned every pushcart in Galveston, and several weeks later he began to think about Houston.
In the ensuing decades, Nat became very large in the produce business around southeast Texas, owning first shops and delivery trucks, and then markets and big rigs running the Interstates to buy and sell produce of every sort. He married and raised a fine big family of sons and daughters, all of whom went off to college and became physicians and attorneys and chiropractors and proprietors of tanning salons and billiard parlors. Never forgetting the humble circumstances surrounding the origin of his vast enterprise, he became a philanthropist of some note, bestowing large sums of money on charitable works and nearby universities. Nat Mulloy had made the grade in a big way.
It came to pass that in March of 2017, the civic organizations and bankers of Houston assembled in a suitable venue to honor this great man. With speakers of every stripe waiting in the wings to perform, the mayor of the town introduced our hero. At great length he told the story of Nat Mulloy, who had accomplished so much with so little, and then he confided to the multitudes in the theater seats that Mr. Mulloy had done it all with great effort and industry, in spite of being illiterate. Turning toward the honoree he asked,
“Mr. Mulloy, in your wildest dreams, can you even imagine where you might be today, if only you could read and write?”
Without hesitating, Nat Mulloy admitted, “Mr. Mayor, I know exactly where I would be. I would be a bookkeeper in a whore house in Galveston!”
Nat Mulloy
Nat Mulloy hit rock bottom on a Tuesday morning in March of 1964. On the previous Friday, he had lost his job driving the Galveston street sweeping machine, his boss having finally decided that he was hitting too many Datsuns and Ramblers. His little severance check had been appropriated by a player named Tall John in the pool room. Then on Monday night, Angela had left the trailer on the arm of his best friend, taking their last thirty-four dollars cash money. It wasn't even his trailer.
Nat decided that the only place for him was at the bottom of Galveston Bay, and accordingly he caught a ride to the bridge and began to walk. He figured there was no need to drown in worn -out tennis shoes, so after hoofing it a couple hundred yards over the water, he climbed the railing and debated whether there was any point in holding his breath. Almost immediately, a car pulled over and two girls jumped out, demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing. He explained his plans, but they insisted he unclimb the railing and get into the car with them, so he did, reasoning that he could return later.
The girls took him to McDonald's and bought him a Big Mac and some fries, and then took him to the big house where they lived, along with several other chicks and a house mother named Claudine. They found him a place to bunk down, and gave him several chores that needed doing around the place. This was a far better gig than the water in the Bay, which might still be chilly so early in the spring. He fit into the routine around the place, and soon was a part of the family, so to speak, and a fair-to-partly-cloudy maintenance man, and had occasional access to some killer young ladies.
One day Claudine called him into the little office and asked him if he would like to be their bookkeeper, also, and was dismayed to learn that Nat could neither read nor write. In his shame, he decided that he best move along, and announced his decision to depart on the next business day, which could be any day at Claudine's. They never closed. The girls mourned for him and even took up a collection, sending him away with sixteen dollars in his kick. With a new and rosier outlook, he avoided the bridge and fought off an urge to try to find Tall John again. His first good move in a long time, one might note.
As he walked along, he met an elderly man – actually a really old man – laboring behind a dilapidated pushcart full of fruit. On a whim, he bought both the vehicle and the produce for twelve dollars, and four dollars left for another trip to McDonald's. He parked in the lot and went inside and ate lunch, after which he went to work, vending fruit. Trade was brisk, and he was able to trundle along to the market and buy a second load, which he also sold in a brief period. Nat prospered, after a fashion, and without laboring over the details I can tell you that in ninety days he owned every pushcart in Galveston, and several weeks later he began to think about Houston.
In the ensuing decades, Nat became very large in the produce business around southeast Texas, owning first shops and delivery trucks, and then markets and big rigs running the Interstates to buy and sell produce of every sort. He married and raised a fine big family of sons and daughters, all of whom went off to college and became physicians and attorneys and chiropractors and proprietors of tanning salons and billiard parlors. Never forgetting the humble circumstances surrounding the origin of his vast enterprise, he became a philanthropist of some note, bestowing large sums of money on charitable works and nearby universities. Nat Mulloy had made the grade in a big way.
It came to pass that in March of 2017, the civic organizations and bankers of Houston assembled in a suitable venue to honor this great man. With speakers of every stripe waiting in the wings to perform, the mayor of the town introduced our hero. At great length he told the story of Nat Mulloy, who had accomplished so much with so little, and then he confided to the multitudes in the theater seats that Mr. Mulloy had done it all with great effort and industry, in spite of being illiterate. Turning toward the honoree he asked,
“Mr. Mulloy, in your wildest dreams, can you even imagine where you might be today, if only you could read and write?”
Without hesitating, Nat Mulloy admitted, “Mr. Mayor, I know exactly where I would be. I would be a bookkeeper in a whore house in Galveston!”