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I had a lot to learn, so I sought out mentors. One of the first people I visited was a local lawyer named Boyd Laughlin , affectionately known as Loophole. He set up a meeting with Buzz Mills , a big man with a crew cut and years of experience in the oil business. I found Buzz and his partner, a cigar-chomping man named Ralph Way , playing gin rummy. I couldn’t tell how much money they were betting on the game, but it was a hell of a lot more than I had.
    Behind their friendly country demeanor was a shrewd understanding of the oil business. I told Buzz and Ralph that I wanted to learn to be a land man. The job of a land man is to travel to county courthouses and research who owns the mineral rights to potential drilling sites. The keys to success in the job are a willingness to read lots of paperwork, a sharp eye for detail, and a reliable car. I started by tagging along with seasoned land men, who showed me how to read title books. Then I made trips on my own, checking courthouse records for day fees. Eventually I bought a few royalties and small working interests in Buzz and Ralph’s wells. Compared to the big-time oilmen, I was collecting the crumbs. But I was making a decent living and learning a lot.
    I held down costs by living lean. I rented a five-hundred-square-foot alley house that friends described as “a toxic waste dump.” One corner of my bed was held together with a necktie. I didn’t have a washing machine, so I took my laundry over to Don and Susie Evans ’s place. Susie and I had known each other since grade school. She married Don, a Houston native with two degrees from the University of Texas, and they moved to Midland to break into the oil business. Don was a down-to-earth, humble guy with a great sense of humor. We ran together, played golf, and forged a lifelong friendship.
    In the spring of 1976, Don and another close friend, a Midland orthopedic surgeon named Charlie Younger , suggested I join them for a Willie Nelson concert in Odessa. Of course, we needed a little libation to prepare for the event. We bought hip bottles of bourbon and had a few slugs on the way. When we got to the Ector County Coliseum, we were reminded that no drinking was allowed. We took a couple more gulps, discarded the bottles, and went to our seats.
    Charlie decided we needed more alcohol to enjoy the experience fully. To our amazement, he was able to convince a stagehand that Willie Nelson needed some beer. The guy dutifully went out and bought the beer with Charlie’s money. Charlie left one case for Willie and snuck one back to us. We hunched over in our seats and drank like thirst-ravaged wanderers. After we had each downed several bottles, Charlie suggested we head up to the stage to thank his new friend. Don wisely stayed behind. Not me.
    Over the noise of the band, I heard people yelling my name. A group of Midlanders in the front of the crowd had recognized Charlie and me.They were shouting for beer. We accommodated them. When the concert ended, Charlie stuffed several longneck bottles under his shirt. As the three of us were walking out, the longnecks slipped and exploded on the floor, one after another. It was as if we had set off an alarm for the authorities. Our steady stride turned into a sprint for the exits, three bozos running for our reputations.
    The next day, dozens of folks in Midland told me they had seen me onstage with Willie. There was no editorial commentary until one old boy said I looked like a fool up there. He was right.

    I spent Labor Day weekend 1976 at our family’s house in Kennebunkport, Maine. That Saturday night, I was at a bar with my sister Doro, Dad’s longtime political aide Pete Roussel , and two family friends, Australian tennis star John Newcombe and his wife, Angie. John introduced me to the Aussie tradition of drinking beer with no hands. You put your teeth on the edge of the mug and tilt your head back, and the beer goes down your throat. We had a great old time, until