BwareDWare94 723 Posted April 22, 2011 (edited) The Last Cowboy The sound of the bar door closing returned Jake to the present. A waft of autumn air chilled the back of his neck as the warmth of the room returned to prominence. He noticed the absurd lightness of the bottle in his left hand and ordered a new Budweiser. The barmaid set the fresh bottle on a coaster, looked at Jake, and said, “That’ll be two seventy-five.†Jake smirked. “Come on, Steph. You say it like I don’t usually pay up.†“I’ve been out with you enough times to know how you handle your money.†His smirk became a smile. “I have a memory, you know. You had fun.†Before she could reply, the jukebox started up. Bass thumps and shitty rap lyrics. Jake tossed her four dollars, told her to keep the change, grabbed the remote for the jukebox which was sitting by the till, and pressed the “skip†button. The song stopped playing, and each set of eyes in the room turned to Jake. A young man in a Hollister shirt glared at him. “What the fuck did you stop my song for?†“Because that ain’t music.†Jake returned the glare. “You’re in a small town. We don’t play that kind of shit around here.†Jake watched as the young man sized him up, noticing Jake’s button-down T-shirt, cowboy boots, and powerful frame. The man realized he was in over his head and quietly resumed the conversation at his own table. The older patrons clapped in appreciation of Jake’s actions. He sat down, and the bar returned to its usual state. Jake grabbed his beer and took a long drink, closing his bloodshot eyes. When he opened them again, Steph was in front of him. She took the remote from him and set it under the bar. “Jake, you can’t do that.†Her long red hair and slender frame were captivating. “I know you don’t like that kind of music, but you have to take it with a grain of salt.†“Did you hear that fuckin’ song he tried to play?†He put his beer down as her hazel eyes looked straight into his own. “Alright. It’s been a rough week.†He paused. “I can’t get in to the field.†“I know it’s been raining,†she began. “Just keep your head up. Harvest will start up again before you know it.†She gave him a smile. “Thanks, Steph.†She walked away as a crack was heard on the pool table. Jake looked down the neck of his bottle before getting up and walking around the bar. He avoided the table by making his way to the jukebox. He pulled a single out his wallet. Three plays for a buck. He decided to play a tune by his favorite artist, Jamey Johnson. He picked “That Lonesome Song.†The country artist’s voice muted the conversational din with the first few lines of the song. That morning sun made its way through the windshield of my Chevrolet. Whiskey eyes and ashtray breath, on a chert rock gravel road. He turned to the pool table. Gary and Tony, his former classmates, were re-racking after a miscue on the break. Jake watched as Tony took the cue ball to the other end of the table and slammed it onto the felt. Jake balled his fists and approached the men. “Knock that shit off.†They were taken off guard. “Blow it out your ass, Jake.†Gary had never known when to keep his mouth shut. What the hell did I do last night? That’s the story of my life. Like tryin’ to remember words to a song nobody wrote. Jake took a deep breath. “Every time you slam that damn ball on the table, you dent the slate. So every time you miss a shot and blame the table roll, it’s actually your own fuckin’ fault.†His words brought Gary around the table. “Leave us alone, man. We’re not doing anything wrong,†the man said as he pointed at Jake, hitting him in the chest with his index finger. Jake shoved him. He watched Gary wind up and take a swing. Jake caught the man’s wrist, stopping it in place. He used his thumb to press into the inside of Gary’s arm. Jake had total control. Gary sank to his knees as Jake’s fingers, strengthened by years of manipulating barbed wire fences, pressed further and further into the man’s wrist. Jake felt the cartilage under his thumb, relishing the fact that he could do serious damage if he wanted to. He looked down at Gary. “Don’t even pretend that you don’t know what I could do to you.†He watched Gary grit his teeth, saw him slam his eyes shut and hold his breath. “Get the hell out of this bar. Take Tony with you.†“Yes, sir.†The two men grabbed their things and left. Warren, the bar owner, approached Jake. “You can’t do this to me. I don’t care if they dent my table,†he said. “I rarely get this many customers during the week. Don’t scare them outta here.†Jake regained control of his temper. “I’m sorry, Warren. I’ll buy a round for the place to make up for it.†Warren tried to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, but Jake did it anyway. He returned to the jukebox, needing more of Jamey’s honesty, and began searching for a song to pick. It’s a south bound train. It’s a whistle in the wind. Ain’t no one that’ll care where I been. I’m hummin’ on that lonesome song again. *** If the rain would end, so could Jake’s harvest season. But it wouldn’t. Every other day, water would appear between his pinto bean rows. Every week the river would rise and ravage the line fences of his pasture, where his cattle needed a month more to graze. The rain had also prevented him from hauling all his bales. They sat in highway ditches, alfalfa fields, and on the stubble of the wheat he’d managed to thrash. The workload piled up as water pooled over the flat land. At the moment, Jake was fixing his chisel-plow. Each shank had to be rotated so he’d be able to tear up all the wheat stubble when the fields dried up. Arlen, his hired man, had put new shanks on three weeks ago. Each shank required two bolts and two nuts and Arlen had used bolts that were a half inch too long. Threads stuck out a half an inch past each nut and the rocky ground had stripped the threads on nearly every bolt. Jake had to use a hacksaw to remove most of the shanks before he could rotate them, turning a half hour job into three grueling hours. He was angry. The rain didn’t help. The day had brought scattered showers, but the sky remained grey throughout. The sun was an illusion. *** “Jake, what's wrong?" He could hear concern in Steph’s voice. “Nothing...nothing," he uttered as his breathing picked up. He stood up, shaking, and walked away from the bar. He walked to the jukebox, put in another dollar, and selected “The Last Cowboy," another song by Jamey Johnson. He walked back to the bar without filling his remaining credits. He took a seat and contemplated another drink. It would be his ninth in two and a half hours. And ever since Waylon, I can’t find no one to buy into sad country songs. A couple of false cowboys were ordering their drinks. Their words were sloppy and hard to understand. Jake could see that Steph was having a hard time taking their orders. He heard her decide to start simple. She asked them their names. The one in blue was Todd, the one in red was Tucker. “Twins?" Jake asked, interrupting. The men looked at him curiously. “No, just good friends,†said Todd. “Those are goofy fuckin' names." Jake feigned a drink from his empty bottle. Tell me who’s gonna ride us away when the last cowboy is gone. “Jake,†Steph whispered. He looked at her and she mouthed the word “stop.†“What do you boys do?†“We farm,†said Tucker. “Where at?†“By…uh…Lankin.†Jake could see the discomfort in Todd’s eyes. He could tell that they knew he was on to them. “If you’re farmers, why aren’t there any scuffs in your boots?†Jake lifted his own into the air, revealing countless scuffs and scratches in the leather. He pointed at his torn jeans and ragged shirt. “You don’t farm without roughin’ your clothes up a bit.†“Look, man,†began Tucker. “We’re just trying to have fun.†His drunken words infuriated Jake. “You two can leave and find a place to change…†Jake set his bottle on the bar. “…Or I’m kickin’ your asses.†He gave them a stern look. Tell me who’s gonna ride them away when the last cowboy is gone. Jake watched Tucker nearly fall to the floor as the man slid off of his seat. “Fuck you. We’ll stay here and do what we want.†He stood there, swaying, clearly unable to handle his liquor. “Your choice, boys,†said Jake. He got up from his own bar stool. His song was ending. Does everything good have to change til the last cowboy is gone? Apparently the men liked their odds two-on-one. Jake stepped to his left as Todd threw the first punch. Jake wound up and his fist crashed into the man’s nose, sending Todd to his knees. Jake saw Tucker advancing and brought his foot into the air and drove his boot into the man’s stomach. He watched Tucker fall to the ground and throw up on to the rough tile floor. Jake took some ragged breaths and straightened, turning away from the smell of vomit. He saw that Todd was back on his feet, a pool stick in hand. *** Jake’s old Ford was a monster. The 1975 model had been running as long as he remembered. When his father died, he’d fixed the body and replaced the clutch. He had the old beast out on the highway, headed into town. He’d realized that Arlen’s mistake was partly due to his low stock of nuts and bolts. He looked out the windshield and had to brake for a deer. He heard an odd sound when he first touched the pedal. The old beast was talking to him again, whining about something. The truck began to slow, but he felt his brakes give way, and had to push the pedal to the floor to stop the vehicle. Dammit, he thought. He got out and popped the hood, praying it was just a blown brake line, but discovered that his calipers had blown apart. “I don’t have the money to fix this right now,†he mumbled under his breath. He slammed the hood shut walked to the back of the truck. He opened the tailgate and grabbed the crow bar in the box. He swung it up into the air and brought it down hard on the tailgate. It barely made a dent in the solid metal. He hit it again. *** The night had progressed with no further incident. It was getting late for a farmer on a weekday. The ten o’clock news had finished, forecasting more rain for the coming days. Jake decided he’d close down the bar with the local drunks, but he’d definitely be up in the morning before many of them were aware of their own identities. The door opened again, but Jake didn’t bother checking who entered. He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Two men walked to the other side of the horseshoe bar. They were each wearing a Stetson hat, button-down shirt, tombstone-sized belt buckle, and cowboy boots. This wouldn’t have been an issue for Jake, but there were no imperfections. Not a scuff on the boots, tear in the jeans, stain on the shirts, or frayed edge on the hats. The men were faux cowboys, and Jake was beside himself with anger. It was clearly a ploy with the intent of getting laid, but neither man had a woman in sight. Jake attempted to control himself. They wouldn’t allow it. Both men were drunk and obnoxious. They were louder than anybody else in the bar. They were abusing the image that he was born into, the image that he adored. Jake had laughed off the presence of such men before, but it was the wrong night, at the wrong time, and the men were in the wrong place. *** Jake glared at Todd, daring him to swing the pool stick. The man’s nose was bleeding, and he was clearly at a last resort. He advanced, and Jake stepped back. He watched Todd begin to lift the stick into the air. Jake grabbed a bar stool, lifted it above his head, and used the seat to break the momentum of Todd’s swing. The stick collided with the more solid object and snapped in two. Jake tossed the stool aside and ripped the jagged pool stick out of Todd’s hands. He shoved the man into the bar, wound up, and threw a nasty haymaker that sent Todd to the floor. Jake placed his boot on the man’s chest, pinning him on his back. “You done yet, boy?†“Yeah,†gasped Todd. “Yeah…We’ll go.†He was breathing heavily through the blood pouring out of his nostrils. Jake went down on a knee and used his index finger to jab the man in the chest. “I ever see you in here again, the same thing’ll happen.†He waited for his words to sink in. “If you want to pretend to be a cowboy, stay out of small town bars. You’ll run into more country boys like me.†He stood back up. “Now you know what happens when you get in over your head.†Todd and Tucker collected their things and left in a hurry. The door closed and the room was silent. Jake walked over to the jukebox for the third time, noticed his unused credits, and selected Jamey Johnson’s “Playin’ the Part.†The outlaw’s voice filled the bar once more. END It's a little rough in this format, but just give it a try. Opinions, please. Edited April 22, 2011 by BwareDWare94 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
RazorStar 4,025 Posted April 22, 2011 Well you certainly established the main character as someone who has trouble getting along with anything different. It does feel a bit jarring when you jump from scene to scene, but I'm guilty of the same thing when I write so it's not that big an issue. You really set the atmosphere well here, you can almost hear the sounds of the small town bar as the story is narrated in one of those country crooner voices. Very interesting read, it's nice to see some stories being put on here. 1 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
BwareDWare94 723 Posted April 22, 2011 Well you certainly established the main character as someone who has trouble getting along with anything different. It does feel a bit jarring when you jump from scene to scene, but I'm guilty of the same thing when I write so it's not that big an issue. You really set the atmosphere well here, you can almost hear the sounds of the small town bar as the story is narrated in one of those country crooner voices. Very interesting read, it's nice to see some stories being put on here. It's a little easier to follow in a Word document. Right now, he sounds arrogant, but I kinda just threw his traits out for the draft I just handed in without balancing him out. I made him look like a complete ass. I'll be working on that within a week. Thanks for the feedback. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
