Dan wondered which story to tell him. The truth? No one wanted to hear the truth. The story he intended to tell tomorrow to the students at the University of Texas? Truth, perhaps. To some extent. Probably.

"The full story," Dan said after careful thought, "is that I worked on a couple of magazines in New York City, one of them a trade magazine published by Hearst. Hard work. No fun. The other was a man's magazine. Hard work, but a great deal of fun. Somewhere along the way, I guess at a party one night, I met someone who told me that I really should be in television."

"I knew it! You're an actor! What name to you use? What do they call those artificial names? Norm de plumes?"

"Just a professional name, Lester."

"You have one?"

"Sure. Everyone has a professional. That is, almost everyone. Gary Owens, the radio and television personality? His real name is Gary Altman, as I recall. It's not a big deal out in Hollywood."

"I knew it!"

"My legal name," Dan insisted, "is Dan Jones."

"Then you really are an actor. I knew it."

"Actors, Lester, unless it's someone like Harrison Ford, Julie Roberts or Bruce Willis, are a dime a dozen. Even then, some of them don't do so very well. But, I'll admit that when I first went to Hollywood, I thought I'd make a living with roles as an extra. Didn't work out that way. Again, luck. Pure, unadulterated luck. I got a job as an assistant director. From there on, it was just a matter of luck and being in the right place at the right time."

Lester's face lost some of its excitement.

"Then you aren't famous? And there aren't any broads?"

"Not really," Dan said. "In the industry, a few might know about me. Hey, I once had my name on a parking space at NBC. Believe me, in Hollywood, that's famous plus. But someone else's name is there now. I don't even know who."

Lester shook his head.

"Sorry, Dan. That's not very famous, you know. Just a parking space. Not a movie. Or a television series. Not famous enough, I'm afraid."

Dan laughed. Because this small town sheriff would never know how he had connived and fought to get his name on that particular parking space at NBC. Not far from the parking space of Jay Leno.

Because he was amused, Dan merely tried to appease the McCulloch County sheriff. No sense creating conflict.

"You're right, Lester. Absolutely right."

Lester frowned. He looked both directions before facing Dan, eyes slightly wide, feet braced.

"It's Sheriff Bradley. I prefer to be known, these days, as Sheriff Bradley. Someone might hear you using that name Lester. Can't have that."

"Sure," Dan said. It seemed a bit pretentious to him, but what did he care. He'd be out of this place in just a few hours.

The sheriff's face suddenly brightened.

"But I'll bet you know a lot of famous people, though."

Dan thought quickly. Just who would impress him? Should he mention David Carren? David's latest project was a horror film called "Mr. Hell." Ken Levine? Ken had written a lot of TV shows. Directed quite a few, too.

"Well, I know a guy named Ken Levine who has wrote quite a few of the 'Becker' television shows. 'Fraser', too. With a partner, of course. That's the way they do those things now most of the time. Ken also directed several of the shows."

"I can't stand 'Becker'," the sheriff said. "I hope that's not one of the shows you produce."

"No. But it was a big hit," Dan said. "For many years. Made Ken a great deal of money. He was able to send his son to Tufts. Daughter, too, went to college somewhere. A good school, as I remember."

Ken had mentioned his daughter's school...even told him about going to visit her. But Dan couldn't remember the name of the university at the moment.

"Tufts?"

"A college like Texas A&M," Dan said. "Only different. And expensive."

Actually, Tuffs was a different world from Texas A&M. At Texas A&M you could major in football. Not at Tufts.

"I only went to Texas A&M a couple of years," the sheriff said. "Then, I decided to leave."

Was he trying to relate? A vague effort? This rather pretentious small-town cop? Okay, Dan could play that kind of game, too. Anything, just anything, to shorten this conversation. Get it done!

"Same with me," Dan said. "I went to Texas on the GI Bill. The money was barely enough to starve on. I dropped out after four semesters in order to earn some money to buy some clothes. Never was able to get back in."

The sheriff patted the fender of the Mercedes.

"Looks as if it didn't hurt you," he said. "Me? A sheriff certainly doesn't make this kind of money. And it looks as if I'm going to be stuck forever in Brady. Mary Lou doesn't want to move. Every time I mention getting a job somewhere else, a bigger town, she raises a hell of a fuss."

Dan didn't quite know how to respond about that. However, he wasn't concerned anymore with keeping the conversation going. He was concerned about his car. Now he would definitely have to have it washed. The dust. The fingerprints. He was growing agitated about the car. No real reason. But a lot of things that ordinarily aren't important had begun to add up into one huge irritation.

Then he reminded himself that it didn't matter if the sheriff's handprints would be all over the car. Funny, but those things used to matter. A few days ago, he would have screamed. Shouted. Pulled a hissy and then pulled out a buffer mop from the trunk and wiped the fenders. One had an image to maintain in Hollywood. A car, a fancy abode, a beautiful blonde. Image! On the other hand, a person back there in Hollywood was one kind of person and the same person would be a different person here in Brady. More than likely.

And, frankly, image wasn't his major concern these days. Certainly not at the moment.

"Well, Brady isn't really all that bad," Dan said. He purposely looked across the square at a guy sitting under one of the trees. The man was sitting on the grass, leaning his back against the tree.

"Some people might actually like this place," Sheriff Bradley said. He, too, looked across the square. "I think Mary Lou likes this place."

Dan thought it might be best to change the subject. The sheriff seemed rather depressed about Mary Lou liking Brady.

"Hey, I heard they made the old jail a museum," Dan said.

"Isn't that something crazy!" Sheriff Bradley said. "That old place has to be haunted. Wasn't your uncle locked up there a few times?"

"Every time he went on a drinking binge. The sheriff would go round him up. He was always a crying drunk, not a violent drunk. And he'd lock my uncle George Washington Jones in a cell until he sobered up. Then let him out. I'm not even sure they bothered to lock the cell. Probably just told him to stay put."

"I heard he shot someone once when he was serving as constable."

"Yes," Dan said. "He told someone to move or something and the person didn't and uncle George shot him to teach him a lesson."

"Heck of a lesson," said the sheriff.

"Sometimes I suppose we need a strong lesson," Dan said, thinking back about uncle George. Alcoholism was an untreated disease in those days. One day, drunk, uncle George was coming down the steps of the Brady Hotel over yonder, slipped, fell down the stairs. He died of complications from the fall. But it was really the alcohol that had killed him. His father, Johnnie Jeff "Red" Jones, had loved that old man. His mother Evalee mother sometimes put up with him and sometimes she'd chase him off. But Dan's father had loved him.

"You going to be in town long?" the sheriff asked.

"No. I thought I'd sit here and take in the view for a while. Then maybe go down and look at the old power plant where my father worked when I was a baby."

"It's not there anymore. They tore it down."

Dan thought about asking the sheriff to call him mister. Mister Jones. Then he realized that would be very pretentious in a town like Brady. Even silly to some extent. Maybe a sheriff could be pretentious. Not someone just passing through.

"What a shame," Dan said. "My mother said I used to crawl on the floor of that old plant long before I learned to walk. And I remember the grapevines outside that tasted more like acorns than grapes because of the old live oaks on that side of the plant."

"Everything's gone," he said. "Except that old shack your family owned. Someone still lives there. Painted it blue."

"That shack has to be more than fifty years old because it was an old shack when we lived in it. I'm surprised someone hasn't chopped it up for firewood."

"You know that Mex kid? He still lives in that shack up behind where the power plant used to be. They've tried to chase him out of there several times. Once, a citizen's group was going to burn it down, but he threatened to stay inside and let them and so they finally backed off when I went up there."

"Lord! I was hoping that Rudy Ramierez had managed to leave of town. Some way. Somehow."

"Not that Mex. Who'd want to hire him? Where would he go?"

"What about the Musslemans? They lived in a shack out there on top of the hill."

"That old house fell in on them. Remember the holes in the floor? They finally moved into a small house on that side of town. Of the people you might have known up there, only the girl would be left."

Dan remembered the girl's name. But, no, he didn't remember the place where she lived. He didn't recall every going up there.

"No. Don't think so. Edith. Wasn't her name Edith?"

"That's it," the sheriff said.

"Well, she's married and probably has a dozen kids by now."

"She never married," the sheriff said, then added quickly, "That is, not as far as I know."

"Didn't you date her once?"

"That was a long time ago," he said quickly. "I dated a lot of girls."

"Yes. I remember you being quite popular."

"Basketball," the sheriff said. "Girls loved basketball players. Not as much as the football players, of course. Since I played both football and basketball, I had all of the girls I wanted. Just cheerleaders, though. But I guess that was good enough."

"Waterboys never had much luck with girls," Dan said.

"You should have tried," he said. "Might have lucked out."

"Probably I was afraid of women in those days," he said. "I don't remember."

"But not anymore, eh? Probably have your pick of broads out there in Hollywood," he said.

Dan had grown to resent his referring to women as broads. But he didn't think there was much he could do about it.

"Well, I guess so," Dan said. "But it's not the same thing. No love involved most of the time. Physical love, yes. Nothing else. If so, it's sort of a temporary condition. Regardless, it's always like a mutual admiration society, I guess you'd call it."

"You have that sort of thing going now?"

"A blonde," Dan said, but without any sense of possession or pride about it. "An actress."

"Hey! Good on you."

Dan couldn't remember if he'd asked the blonde to live with him or she'd asked to live with him. Maybe she'd just moved in one day when he was blondeless.

"It's nothing to brag about," he said.

"Of course not," the sheriff said.

But Dan could tell Lester didn't believe him.

For a moment, Dan hadn't been able to remember her name. But now he remembered that it was Joyce something. She lived with him. Occasionally, she had dates. He didn't mind. The only rule was that she couldn't bring them home and she had to practice safe sex. He didn't like a woman who smoked. Or drank too much. She also had to be fairly neat since a maid came only once a week. Otherwise, she had the run of the place and the computer and phone. She could also move out when and if she wished. He wanted her to know that she had no strings on him and he didn't have any strings on her. If she needed money, there was always several bills in a plastic container in the refrigerator.

"Has she been in any movies I might have seen?"

"No. I don't think so. She has been on a few television shows."

"Pretty, though, I'll bet. Am I right?"

"Yes. For some reason blondes are always pretty. This one, Joyce, is stunning when she dresses up. Evening gown. Girls in Hollywood know how to make themselves stunning."

"You don't find that kind of girl in a town like this," the sheriff said.

"Well, beauty isn't everything. I used to think it was. But lately I've changed my mind."

"That's where you're wrong, Danny Fanny. Beauty is everything. Because if you've got to put up with a woman, you don't have much else. It's do this, do that, you forgot to do this, you forgot to do that. After a while, you get tired of taking orders. You wonder what might have been. But by then it's too late and all you've got left is a pretty girl in a copy of Playboy magazine or in a movie doing an acting job and you admire that beauty and you wonder if she's really real."

The sheriff was staring again at the Mercedes again. Dan had the feeling that Lester thought if he had a car like that, he would be able to get the girl of his dreams. On the other hand, Dan wondered what his wife Mary Lou looked like. Of course, he would never know. And Lester would never know what his blonde looked like. Dan tried to recall the blonde's features. Her hair. Her eyes. But he couldn't remember. She had a nice warm body that felt good when she melted against you after sex. Strange that he would remember this aspect and nothing else. But he had realized some while ago that to some extent that's just about all she meant to him. They had sat on the deck a few times, sipping wine, sipping coffee. he could remember the ocean, he could not remember her face.

But he couldn't tell the sheriff all of this. Why smear his dreams? Dreams were, Dan thought, one of the most important things in life. Without dreams, a man actually had very little.

"Most of them are real," Dan said. "Beautiful on screen, just as beautiful off screen."

"I figured that," the sheriff said.

But, of course, they were not. How could he tell Lester the real truth? After you scrubbed off the makeup, there was only a frightened, hungry little girl. Not hungry for food, though some were and couldn't eat because they might balloon up and the next role might require a svelte, petite little thing. Mostly, though, just hungry for fame. Success. Success meant better roles and, if you got lucky, somewhere down the years there would be money. But at the moment, it was the job. A more important role in a more important television show. It was the same with the men. Looks meant just about everything. Some muscle. Not too much. Messed up hair like Robert Redford. Tee-shirt like a young Marlon Brando.

"What about Julie Roberts?"

"Of course," Dan said.

He didn't even know Julie Roberts. They ran in different circles, as the old cliché goes. He had the great fortune to meet Audrey Hepburn at an awards function once. She had aged, but still had that phenomenal prescience. Actually, he didn't know what it was. But she had something! Still quite lovely. Still able to command attention. Still charming. Still warm, pleasant to everyone. You felt honored just to stand near her as she radiated bright thunder over the audience, the crowd, those within view. He had always regretted not going over to her and introducing himself. But he was afraid she'd just nod and say something pleasant and that wouldn't be enough. When she died, he was distraught for a while, maybe a few minutes, and thought, well, we all go eventually and, of course, that proved to be the way it had to be.

"That Julie Roberts is something else," the sheriff said.

"They all are," Dan said.

He thought that would cheer the sheriff up. Instead, it seemed to depress him even further.

"I've always wondered," he said.

"But I thought you and Mary Lou...is that her name...had a pretty good life going here in Brady."

"Oh, we do," he said. "Except for the kids of course."

"A good life is just a matter of viewpoint," Dan said to him. He didn't know why he said it. He hadn't planned to say anything like that. He didn't even know what he meant by it.

"Right," the sheriff said. However, there was no enthusiasm in his voice. He glanced around the square, as if expecting trouble, then sighed and mumbled the word, "Work."

He slipped his sunshades back on, stepped away from the Mercedes.

Dan stood up to shake his hand. The sheriff held onto the hand as if a drowning man. He hated to let it go.

"I'm very pleased you came by," Dan told him.

"Might bring my wife by to say hello," he said. Again, without any enthusiasm. "Her name is Mary Lou."

"Yes, you mentioned her name. That would be fine," Dan said. "I don't plan to stay too much longer, however."

"And when it comes to Jo Ellen, don't pay her no mind."

"I was thinking about inviting her on a trip to New Orleans," Dan said.

"What for?"

"She wanted to go."

The sheriff shook his head, made sure his hat was just right on his head.

"Take care."

"Same, sheriff."

He watched as the sheriff walked down the sidewalk to his car. He couldn't decide which of them had been the most fortunate in life. He hoped the sheriff envied his life. But he wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure that he envied himself. Regardless, the encounter with the sheriff had left him greatly confused.

As the sheriff's car pulled away from the curb and sped away, the guy leaning against the tree over on the courthouse lawn crawled wearily to his feet and looked carefully around as if searching for something. He glanced Dan's direction, too, then shook his head and started walking west and then, just as suddenly, stopped, turned, headed toward Dan. There was no traffic at the moment.

But then he turned, as if a soldier on parade, and walked back to the same tree where he'd been sitting on the grass, sat down and leaned his back against the tree trunk once more.

He appeared to be a Mexican. Dan couldn't really tell from this distance. He was still standing, thinking that he might go get a bottle of Lone Star out of the ice chest in floorboard of the Mercedes. Cherished long necks. So, he did. An impulse. Grabbed two bottles and an opener and carried them across the street to the tree and opened one of the bottles and handed it to the guy. The man looked up. Frowned. The frown made his face ugly. However, he nodded. Took the bottle of beer. He didn't say anything. Dan had expected him at least to say thanks. Something to open a conversation. He didn't. So, Dan turned and walked back across the street to his canvas chair and sat down. When he looked again at the man by the tree, the man had his head down as if talking to himself.

Dan suddenly thought: that's Rudy! But, of course, it wasn't. Rudy always came at you with a smile. Fun to be around.

(continued next week)

This week’s column is devoted completely and specifically to honor George Wilson, a man I’ve known and treasured as a friend since the mid-60s who is, in my opinion, the true personification of a radio man. He worked as radio personality, music director, program director, general manager, and chain president during his active career and was successful at all levels. His daughter Terry and son-in-law Rob Moorhead tossed a brunch Aug. 21, 2008, in Los Angeles. All photos were taken by Amie Moorhead, not only a professional photographer, but Wilson’s grand daughter. The aegis of the brunch was that of former KIQQ staffers. But that was not entirely so. Bob Levinson, now a best-selling mystery writer, once did public relations for the late Bill Gavin and met George Wilson when George headed of one of Gavin’s annual radio programming conferences. George idolized Chuck Blore back in the 60s when he was a legendary radio programmer and created a historic radio promotion, since outlawed, called "The Amoeba." George tried to copy the promotion in Denver for a radio station he was programming and subsequently spent the night in jail. Kim Williams, now with KIIS in Los Angeles, began her career in sales at a George Wilson-managed station (see previous Commentaries). Don Whittemore, now head of Dandy Don’s Ice Cream in Los Angeles, once did promotion for RCA Records (Rob Moorhead: "By the way, his products are amazing...the quality is stunning...he really knows his stuff!). Mel Hall is a noted radio programmer and producer. Everyone one at the brunch was, literally, a star.