Read You Can Run but You Can't Hide Online
Authors: Duane Dog Chapman
more loans.
I couldn’t let that stop me. I walked in and asked to see the head
loan officer. I went into his office and shut the door.
“You see that woman out there?” I turned and pointed to my
very pregnant wife.
“I love her. I just got married and I’m trying to change my life.”
The banker looked half-scared and half-shocked as I spoke.
“I’ve been a criminal most of my life, but I’m not anymore.
Where do I start if I need to get a loan?”
The banker said, “Right here.”
“I have no record or convictions. I’m trying to live right. Can
you help me?”
“Yes I can.” After he calculated my monthly payments, he gave
me a chance few others would have dared to offer. We made a deal
on the spot. I was so grateful for his generosity and understanding.
LaFonda and I were homeowners. It was incredible. I made the
monthly payment by renting out the cottage next door. I never
charged a dime more than our total mortgage, which meant that
the tenant paid for both houses. It was a bargain for everyone.
At the time, LaFonda was working at a local bra factory, be-
cause I couldn’t get a job anywhere. I tried to get work, but no one
wanted to hire me. I went to the oil fields, but I was afraid of
heights, so working on the derricks was out of the question.
Next, I went to the local slaughterhouse. When they brought in
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the first cow for me to kill, I couldn’t do it. The steer looked me
straight in the eyes. It was like he knew he was going to die and that
I was the guy who was going to kill him. I didn’t have the heart to
pull the trigger. I walked out the door before I broke down in tears.
A local tree-trimming company had some jobs available. My job
was to feed the cut branches into the wood chipper. One afternoon,
the boss called me over and told me to get into the bucket they
hoisted with a crane to the tops of the trees.
I didn’t want to admit to the boss I was afraid of heights. I had
finally found a job I was good at. I didn’t want to say no, but there
was no way I was going up in that bucket. I just said, “No sir. I can’t
do that.”
“Chapman, you get into that bucket or you can go home.”
My job was on the line. LaFonda was pregnant. We needed the
money. By now, the boss and other workers had figured out I was
scared. I reluctantly agreed to get in. They hoisted me up sixty feet
and began shaking the damn thing. It felt like an earthquake. I got
so mad I threw the tools over the edge and screamed, “Get me
down!”
They were all laughing at me. When I got down, I bitch-slapped
the boss. One of the workers called the cops. Sheriff Rufe Jordan
came down. This was the second time he and I met in the few weeks
I’d been in Pampa. He warned me that the next time we crossed
paths, he was taking me in.
Then, next morning, LaFonda found a Help Wanted ad in the
paper. The Bison Vacuum Company was looking for employees.
The ad read, “Will train. Make $300 a week!”
LaFonda was nine months pregnant. I needed to find a job fast,
because she couldn’t work after she gave birth. With a baby on the
way, we really needed the money.
I went for an interview that same day. They gave a demonstra-
tion and explained that all I had to do was show the vacuum thirty
times a week and I’d get paid three hundred bucks. It sounded easy.
A couple of weeks went by. I showed the product dozens of
times, but I hadn’t made a single sale. During the third week, I got
called in by my manager, Dale Hunt. He said, “Listen Duane, if you
don’t sell any vacuums, you can’t get another paycheck.” That
wasn’t the deal. They had said all I had to do was show the damn
machines.
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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e
I was born with a gift. My gift of gab saved me many times from
Flash’s wrath. It was easy to talk my way into a customer’s house.
What I needed to learn was how to sell those damn things. Dale
Hunt suggested he and I go out on the road so he could teach me
the ropes.
If a sale is what they wanted, I could do that. I went on the road
for a week by myself. I made two sales. The best salesman in our re-
gion was a guy by the name of Bobby Walker. Next time I went out,
he wanted to go on the road with me. He and I had a wonderful
rapport. We drove all over Texas in my blue 1963 Chevy.
It wasn’t long before I developed my own brand of selling. I
found out this ol’ boy had talent. I was personable and likable to
everyone I met. A customer once told me I could sell God the gates
of hell. I flirted with the women as much as I shot the bull with the
men. I began telling customers how I’d just sold their neighbor
Mrs. Jones two vacuums, so Mrs. Smith would buy three. I loved
selling to farmers’ wives. They bought anything, especially a prod-
uct one of their neighbors had just bought. They’re a very compet-
itive bunch of women.
Now, the farmers are a different sort. They don’t like to part
with their money. I usually got their attention by demonstrating the
Bison.
I’d say, “Is that an impressive machine?”
They’d always respond with one word, “Yup.”
This is where I hooked the poor bastards. I’d say, “I know you
love your wife.”
That wasn’t what they were expecting. Their wives were always
standing right there in the room. How could they respond, other
than to say, “Yup, I love my wife.”
“Now, the day you married her and said you loved her for better
or for worse, I am certain you would have agreed she needs one
vacuum for upstairs and one for downstairs, am I right?”
With the farmer’s wife sitting right there in the room, there was
only one answer—“Yup.” Blam. Another sale.
Eventually word got out about my technique. Several farmers
got to talking, and whenever I showed up, they’d slam the door in
my face, saying something about my marriage mumbo jumbo not
working there. I had to laugh. It tickled me to think these good ol’
boys talked about me, vacuums, and their wives all in one sentence.
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Every now and then, I’d pull the old price switch. After proving
how well the Bison could pick up dirt, the final question always
boiled down to price.
The customer always asked, “Well, how much is that there vacuum
gonna cost me?”
“I’m glad you asked that, sir.” I’d jot a few numbers down on a
piece of paper, like this:
Original Price: $650.00
Discount: $100.00
Final Price: $450.00
Every single time, I could see the customer’s eyes widen, not want-
ing to let me know I’d made a hundred-dollar error.
They always said, “Is this your bottom line?” thinking they were
going to pull a fast one. A man’s handshake is as good as his word.
When we shook hands, we had a deal.
We’d get the paperwork signed, I’d collect the check, and then I
would hear something like this: “I really got you, Dog. You made a
big mistake. You should have collected $550 from me! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Oh. Well. Guess the joke’s on me, huh?” I was coy for a mo-
ment. Then I’d always say, “No, there was no mistake. The machine
sells for $450.00. Gotcha!!”
I was proud of how I sold the Bisons. I was good at it. I’ve never
been the kind of guy who could take no for an answer. I stayed un-
til I closed the sale. I’d ask the customers if I could try my pitch
again, until they said yes. I realized that when customers immedi-
ately tell you no, what they’re really saying is, “You haven’t showed
me enough yet.” So I kept on trying until I either made the sale or
was told to beat it.
I remember meeting a salesman on the road who was trying to
sell safes. Now, that was a hard product to move door-to-door! He
was fifty-six years old and drove a brand-new Cadillac. He must
have sold a lot of safes to get a car like that. He told me a story
about a young man who took his girlfriend out to the drive-in movie
one night. He asked her if they could do the wild thing. She said, “I
would if this was a convertible.” So the guy gets out of his car and
saws the top right off. A good salesman will do whatever it takes to
make his sale. For all of you guys out there, think of it like this:
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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e
How many times does it take to get the girl of your dreams to fi-
nally say she’ll go out with you? If you’re like me, you’ll keep asking
until she finally gives in. That’s what makes a good salesman.
Many of my best life experiences were garnered during the years
I sold vacuums. Selling door-to-door taught me how to deal with
rejection, how to overcome obstacles, and how to talk my way in or
out of every situation.
I learned the value of relationships and camaraderie. I consid-
ered all of my customers my friends. I gave them free vacuum belts
and bags. Whenever they saw me out in a restaurant, they’d tell
their friends, “There’s Duane. Don’t be frightened by how he looks.
He’s really a nice guy.”
My record was selling sixty-two vacuums in a single month. I
began making some pretty good money, too. I was able to pay off
the house and buy LaFonda a new Subaru.
Duane Lee was born in January 1973. Things were going pretty
well. I held that little baby in my arms and couldn’t believe I’d
helped make this precious thing. I was instantly in love with that
boy. My mother-in-law forced me to hold him right away. I was
so scared, thinking I wouldn’t know what to do. I thought I might
break him or hurt him. When I got him home, I called the sheriff to
register Duane Lee.
“This is Duane Dog Chapman and I’m calling to register my
son.” The sheriff must have thought it was a crank call. He said,
“You don’t need to do that, Chapman. Are you crazy, boy?”
“I just wanted you to know that I have my son here at the house.
He’s my child and I promise I will take care of him.”
Again, the Sherriff said, “You don’t have to tell me this.” I put
my hand over the receiver and whispered to LaFonda, “He’s saying
I don’t have to tell people I have a kid!” LaFonda rolled her eyes in
total disbelief that I was making this call at all. I had no idea I
would be trusted with another human life without telling the au-
thorities. I was so young and naïve.
I made a deal with God right there and then; I promised Him I
would never join another motorcycle club again. I swore I wouldn’t
commit another felony as long as I lived. The love I felt for my son
was on a different level than any love I had ever known. I wanted to
promise the Lord I would be good so He would continue to bless
my life with lots and lots of children.
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One day, when Duane Lee was three months old, my mother-in-
law came to visit. She picked up the baby and held him in her arms.
Duane Lee held his head up, focused his little eyes, and reached out
for me—his daddy. I have never felt so needed or wanted as I did
that moment. My dad was always so abusive. I never felt love from
him like Duane Lee or the rest of my children would feel from me.
I loved my life. I thought I had found my calling. But I was still
living like a biker, even if I wasn’t affiliated with a gang. When I
wasn’t out on the road selling, I was hanging with other bikers. I
kept my promise to God. I never joined the club. But I still hung
around those guys. I couldn’t give up the lifestyle. I stayed out at
night, screwing around and drinking—but no more crime.
By 1976, LaFonda
had given birth to my two oldest sons,
Duane Lee and Leland. I’d given up trying to make a living doing
manual labor. Even though I was married, I was still enjoying the
biker life, whoring around, smoking pot, and drinking whiskey until
I was completely out of control. Since the vacuum job didn’t work
out, I needed to find a way to make money, so I could take care of
my family. A buddy of mine from the Disciples helped me get a
part-time job with a local trucking company.
I thought life was really good. I had everything a man could
want. But I pushed the envelope until, one day, things went a little
too far. After September 16, 1976, my life would never be the same.
LaFonda warned me not to go out with the boys that night. She
had a great ability to foresee things. I wish I had listened to her.
Donny Kurkendall, Ruben Garza, Cheryl Fisher, and I all de-
cided to go out and raise some hell. Ruben was a short, fat biker.
He hung around us all the time, but no one wanted him in the gang.
Cheryl was a typical young and pretty Texas teenager who had a
thing for hanging out with bad boys. Kurkendall was a true Disci-
ple, willing to do whatever he had to do to pull off a score. He was
a creepy-looking guy, the type you might see on the evening news