I don’t remember seeing my mother the night that she decided to play spy, although chances are, I just didn’t recognize her in her super secret espionage wear.  The year? 1974, just after I had turned eighteen and my mother had turned forty-seven (apparently going on twelve).  The location?  A bar called The King’s X.  The occasion?  I was working there.

One of El Paso’s only private clubs during its dry county days, in 1974, The King’s X was home to an unlikely assortment of business wheelers and dealers, mediocre rock bands and their local fans, and the occasional Mexican Mafia king pin complete with entourage.  Naturally, Mother, being a mother, was worried.  She wanted to get a feel for where I was working.  So she went to my friend, Paul, for help.

Paul, my drama tournament acting partner, wore purple velvet frock coats and a large gold and ruby ring long before 80’s glam rock made such garb acceptable.  At eighteen, he looked like a fifty-five year old version of the Eurythmic’s Dave Stewart.  I am certain that Mom picked him not only because of his eccentricity but because she knew that Paul would have no compunction about secretly snooping on one of his best friends.

I’m not sure if the spy get-up was his idea or my mother’s.  To this day, I have no idea of how Paul disguised himself, although I enjoy imagining him dressed as a “shit kicker” in jeans, Tony Lama boots, and cowboy hat (under which he would have had to hide his long locks in order for the look to work).  I do know that he dressed my mother in a trench coat, long blond wig, and a loud-colored, flowering scarf.  He also insisted that she wear large sunglasses, indoors, at night.  

I imagine them walking in, Paul attempting an unconvincing swagger, Mom in all of her Agent 99 glory, wrapping one of her arms through his.  They spot me, mini-dress and high heels,  working the floor.  Quickly bowing their shoulders, they conspiratorially press closer together and head in the opposite direction. He orders, margaritas for the both of them.  Her head follows me throughout the evening. 

Finally, she decides that I can handle myself within the swirl of sexual energy that increasingly pulses through the King’s X as the evening progresses.  She peremptorily turns to Paul and insists that they leave, her head moving bobble doll-like as she makes a final assessment of the scene.  Seeing their chance to sidle out of the building without running into me, her small hand digs into Paul’s arm with claw like tension as she forces him up and out.

Shortly after their adventure in sleuthing, Paul, who could never keep a secret, spilled the beans.  But he couldn’t tell me what Mom saw, because she wouldn’t discuss it with him.  To this day, I wonder.  My warding off the advances of Louis Lama, Tony’s fat and greasy black sheep brother? My joking with a table of high school friends?  My carrying a tray of twenty drinks from table to table, flirting with slightly older men and stuffing tips into my bra? 

Several years later, when I get her to confess to her adventure over a glass of wine, all she will say is that she knew I had to start making my own choices, but wanted to make sure that I was safe.  And then she giggles.  Can there be any doubt why I love her?