Ralph Linscott:  

Nestled in the shadows of Mount Taylor, Grants, New Mexico looked like an intriguing town. It was. Savage - Wicked - Uranium Capitol of the World. . . Exciting were the women, easy were the men. What a fabulous place to be during the late 1950s and early '60s Brightly painted burlap rubbed adobe buildings urged passing motorists to stop. Pinks, oranges, greens and blues were the colors of choice. Bright neon lights drew additional attention to each business. The discovery of uranium increased the population by twelve thousand. The uranium boom brought an influx of money to this small town south of Albuquerque. Men poured in. License plates from West Virginia, Colorado, Oklahoma, and Texas intermingled with the yellow and gold New Mexico plates. Some arrived dragging small mobile homes behind their automobiles. These young powerful men were looking for work. Some experienced miners, others simply possessed a strong back and a weak mind. All came; all were employed. Miner's are considered brave, or perhaps stupid. Graveyards are a grim reminder death waits in each dark man made shaft. The monetary reward is the reason they risked their lives. During this era in America's history the average working man received one dollar an hour. Wages in the mines started at three dollars an hour for mere underground laborers. A miner never worried about the hourly scale, his salary depended on production. The more holes he drilled, the number of rounds he blasted, stands of timber installed and the muck he slushed determined his salary, simple as that. Men working underground earned eighteen to twenty seven dollars an hour. Some pulled down three thousand dollar paychecks for a two-week period. This explained why miners were willing to risk life and limb. He lived by a creed: "Live fast, die young, but oh what memories." Old Route 66, also know as Santa Fe Avenue, contained flashing neon lights. A bank, travel lodges, restaurants, pawnshops and other business establishments lined the street. Oh yes, there were also thirty five taverns. Each filled with exciting women, promising everything, and delivering it. The McBride family operated the Roaring 20s. For many years Eddie McBride served the finest T-bone steak dinners imaginable. Even with all the trimmings this feast could be enjoyed for a mere dollar and eighty six cents. Intoxicating beverages were their main source of income. A bottle of beer cost a quarter, half a dollar for mixed drink. Ray Chavas, yes he was blind, yes he was colored, but when his fingers tickled the ivories a special magic occurred. Everyone considered him a native, even though he had only lived in Grants since the early forties. He loved the town because of it's slow paced atmosphere. Then the miners came. His genius at fingering the keys while singing sad country songs caused the miners to not only get drank, but also rambunctious. The fights were never real serious. I've never heard of a Grants doctor using more than a hundred stitches to put a mans face back together. That's when Rays most amazing ability surfaced. Ray would rise from his piano stool, and hide behind the piano placed twenty inches from the wall. Speaking of walls, the walls of Jericho were about to tumble down. He used his music creator as a safety creator. With hell breaking loose all around him he remained safely out of the range of flying bottles and beer mugs. On a typical Friday or Saturday night Ray spent as much time hiding behind the piano as he did playing it. In the next block stood Mikes 66 lounge. Mike Dominguez made a fortune separating miners and Indians from their hard earned money. Mike's became my favorite hang out a couple reasons. First, when I arrived in Grants my pockets were almost empty. He rented me a room over the bar. The five dollar a week rent as well as my drinks were payable after I received my first paycheck. Second, the finest looking women were at Mike's. The noise from the large dance floor underneath my room never kept me awake. I had either a blonde, brunette or redhead in my arms dancing the twist. Mike's Lounge provided enjoyment, and I enjoyed everything Mike's Lounge provided. One day something fantastic walked through the door. Arthor Blea, a true Grants native had on his arm a gorgeous redheaded, well-built, fighting cock rooster. He ordered himself a beer plus a shot of Tequila for the bird. When Mike arrived, he took one look at the redhead and shouted, "Get that damn chicken out of here." Art smilingly protested. His speech as always slow paced and elegant. In his soft way he explained, "My rooster is of legal drinking age. Is entitled to his constitutional civil rights, and has never been known to cause any trouble. He never picked a fight with any of your clientele. If my bird is not welcome in your establishment, I guess I will also take my drinking elsewhere." Even in that short space of time, everyone loved the cute redhead. We agreed to go where ever the rooster went. Needless to say Art's handsome companion became a regular. No matter how much Tequila he consumed he always conducted himself in a gentlemanly manner. To my knowledge nowhere in the city of Grants, or even in the state of New Mexico, did he ever engage in any roughhousing. A block down, stood the ever popular Californian lounge. What a great success story. With just one simple large black book, Mabel, created a fantastic business, second to none. Inside the black book were the names and phone numbers of every party women living in the town of Grants. Stars attested to each girls beauty and her specialty. Careful note had been made as to which shift their husbands worked. It is common knowledge when the battery to a miner's headlamp failed his wife would be off somewhere entertaining a gentlemen caller. By my observation the mines in Grants, were bathed in darkness most of the time. Sometimes the mines were totally black. Across the street from Mike's stood the city jail. In reality just a large room in the basement of the courthouse. I forgot to mention there were bars on the windows and doors. Friday and Saturday nights the population of the one room cell overflowed. Sleeping space impossible. Limited seating space on a first-come first-served basis. Without a reservation, you would receive standing room only. The Small Bar set, directly across the street from mom's pawn shop. A lady of the evening named Princess, worked out of the bar. She¿s described as tall, slender, over buxomed, with a million freckles covering this light skinned black girl. She only had one major vice. Pickpocketing. She might even be considered one of the finest pickpockets in the world. Able to remove a wallet, take out the money, and return it to the victims pocket without him ever becoming the wiser. A young miner, who had been in town a short period of time, discovered his money missing. Four hundred dollars to be exact, in one-hundred-dollar bills. He knew Princess had taken it, after all, he had just had a date with her. When the argument became heavy, the only sensible thing to do is telephone the police. Officer Womack, a close personal friend of mine responded to the call. Because of the allegations he arrested and transported her to jail. Our city police force remained in the dark ages. Women were not employed by the Grants Police Department. A body search would be out of the question. Womack, later revealed to me what happened at the jailhouse. "Princess, I know you took the money. I really would rather not place you in jail. If you hand over the money right now, you're free. Otherwise into the slammer you go." She slowly rose. Removed her blouse. Lifted her bra. Not only did her huge breasts spill out, but also four one-hundred-dollar bills. The young miner, thinking ahead to the embarrassment of a court trial, decided to drop all charges. It cost twenty dollars to employ Princess. Four dollars went to Dwight Small, owner of the bar. The four dollars covered the fine the city accessed because of her illegal activity. She shared the remainder with Harry, her boss. One afternoon a large man entered the Small Bar. He informed Princess he had decided to become her boss. Harry, even though slight of build, did not take kindly to this notion. Shouting and pushing resulted in a great idea. "Let's settle the discussion outside." They exited the bar and walked to the side street to the left. Gene Anton stood beside me in front of the Ace Pawn. With the aide of a concealed slapjack the large man slept contently in the middle of the street. Harry walked to his blue Chevrolet pickup. Started the engine. Then slowly drove back and forth over the prone body. The district Attorney called it a simple case of self-defense. A trial would be considered, "Just a waste of time." In Grants, Lady Justice wore a blindfold most of the time. The Franciscan, Cactus and American night clubs contained large dance floors. Each had a stable of women/girls for the miners entertainment. The Enchanted Village night spot, located in Milan, catered to the cowboy element. Western bands including Glenn Campbell, before his heyday, performed on weekends. One evening, Swede Swanson, and myself were taking up space. A large group of West Virginia coal miners were feeling their oats. The bartenders requests of a taming down period, fell on deaf ears. He called the police. Womack, and a young rookie answered the call. ...Expand for more