THE PIT STOP

It was way out on South Main, near the old Meyer Race track, where Midget Racers used to test their speeds against each other and share small purses, if they were in the top few to win. The nuisance around the area was the noise, the whine of the struggling engines permeating the air for a mile or so in any direction, dependent on the winds. No residences of any stature had been built in the area. After all it was in the middle of an almost extinct oil field. The soil had been contaminated, so despoiled that even weeds would not grow. The black wealth had been drained out of the once productive ground. But the “tool house” was still there, as was the road that covered a quarter of a mile to the large ramshackle building, unpainted and weather-beaten from the outside. Barn-like in appearance it had once served as a repository for the equipment used to maintain the working oil wells. Now most of the wells had been capped and those that were still producing, did so on command, percolating a few barrels of the black gold, very few.

Mike Martin, an employee of Aztec Oil was responsible for the upkeep of existing operating wells as well as those that were capped. Aztec Oil, a Limited Partnership, had, for better or worse, probably for tax avoidance purposes, bought the small field in 1980. It is doubtful if they had pumped a thousand barrels of oil any year out of the ground in the ensuing time.

This did not stop the innovative and energetic Mike Martin, who was the only full time employee, with one part time assistant, from using his ingenuity to convert the “tool barn” into the “Pit Stop” in the old oil patch. He found a way to turn the barn into an exclusive gathering place for young partygoers on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays during football season and on Fridays and Saturdays during the balance of the year. He had been doing this without any interference from anyone, the owners or the law.

The “Pit Stop”, appropriately named after the now defunct race track, had only a most exclusive clientele.

They came from the better high schools in the West Houston area coupled with students from the local colleges and universities. Their ages ranged from eighteen to lower twenties. The high tariff ensured a better class clientele.Every “open night” Mike Martin would meet the revelers at the gateway entrance, count the heads, and charge them thirty dollars each for refreshments, and a ten dollar “cover charge” per person. He then would open the gate and allow them to pass. No one was allowed in without paying, cash only accepted, no checks, no credit cards. On a bad night, there would be eighty to one hundred people, and on a good night there would be well over a hundred, up to one hundred and fifty, all at forty dollars per person.

Martin had few rules that he could enforce, but he did have a couple. These were No Hard Stuff, meaning  hard liquor or dope of any kind.  A few tokes could be overlooked, after all it was the narcotic of choice, almost universally accepted in the circles of his clientele.

Inside of the “Pit Stop” were four bar areas, one at each end and side wall of the cavernous building. Each had a large Coca-Cola cooler filled with ice and beer, long necks and cans, regular and light, an assortment of soft drinks all iced to almost freezing. There were six bottles or cans for each attendee. At one end of the room was a juke box with all of the latest records. The coin slots had been adjusted so that each piece cost fifty cents and it played loudly and continually. It had turned out to be quite a profit center. There were dispensing machines with crackers and cheese, peanuts, chips and the like, all priced at a dollar each, another profit center. The cigarette machine had all brands at five dollars a pack. His intent was to make it as alluring and contemporary as possible for the obvious reasons. He felt that unless he was extremely lucky this type of operation was destined to be short lived. To his surprise after two and a half years, almost, he was still operating.

Mike kept his job at Aztec Oil, and the $357.80 weekly take home pay, but the big bucks came from “The Pit”, where his take home amounted to $12,000,00 to $15,000.00 per week-end. He certainly didn’t need the $357.80, but without it there would be no “Pit Stop” and the monies that followed it.

At first he worried about the law, after all he was in the city limits of Houston, but because of the remoteness, he rarely saw a police officer. It was quite some distance from South Main Street and behind a heavy fence. To be sure that suited him. Most of all it was private.

So when the BMW’s, Mercedes, Mustangs, customized trucks, Audi’s and Volvo’s came through the gates, Mike Martin only worried about the cash he would take in. His holster pistol, for which he had a license to carry, was plainly visible as was the night stick attached to his belt, and he hoped that this would be adequate to deter any possible trouble he might encounter. As people came in, he made frequent trips to his own vehicle, where he kept a small safe in which he kept his cash as it accumulated.