He said he was a cowboy and she laughed. Loudly and for several minutes until she realized she was the only one in on the nonexistent joke. Didn’t boys usually outgrow this phase? Her hips hit the compass points as she spun a quick circle around the bar and took in the collection of preppy boys and girls in Greek letters. “Looks like you’re the Lone Ranger here,” she said when she returned north. “Yes ma'am” he said. She thought she might start laughing again.
What the hell. She’d watched enough westerns growing up to not help but find herself attracted to the idea of a cowboy. His glass came down and his hand went up to the hat she'd eventually come to rarely see him without, and then only for the obvious reasons like funerals and sex and sometimes not necessarily even for those occasions. His index finger popped out from under his thumb and he tipped the hat, which was of the cowboy variety - “So perhaps that makes it official,” she thought - then tugged it back down to tap that same bullet of a finger along the curved edge. “At your service, missy," he said. Drawled. She liked to say he drawled. The lines radiating around his eyes when he spoke seemed to affirm this was a man more interested in cattle counts that were higher than any SPF, so if a cowboy was what he said he was, a cowboy he would be.
Would it come off enticing if she made a joke about how her name wasn’t Missy or the fact his hat was black. “Isn’t it always the bad guys who wear black hats?” She practiced the words in her head while watching him drown his drink, then bit her tongue against the melting cheese she swore was resting there. The opportunity to label him a villain would come later and for a variety of reasons. Her favorite would be when she’d talk him out of breaking into Last Call Liquor after they’d closed the bars. “I’ve seen pictures of Bonnie and Clyde’s last stand,” she’d sigh, staring out the window of his idling truck at the busted sign on the liquor store’s door. “I don’t know about you, but I, for one, don’t look particularly good in red polka dots.” The cowboy couldn’t farm for anything, but he could milk the hell out of a drunken night. Another time would be the 3 a.m. phone call that wrecked her. For now, however, black looked good on the cowboy and she’d had just enough cups of pink nectar to think she wanted him to be one of the good guys.
“You’re such a girl," he’d say when they’d eventually come back to this place, and his eyes would roll over the lip of his bourbon. She'd lap the last drops of her very girlie drinks and drag skewers of fruit through her teeth and smile. “Lucky for you," she’d drawl, because either the drinks made her or she liked to say she did. They didn‘t fit, which would eventually become as obvious as the fact he wasn’t really a cowboy, but not for the next year and then for awhile more after that. At this moment though, she knew from the first tip of his hat that she wanted them to, so when the DJ flipped the order of the bass and the lights, she leaned into him and massacred a string of words that ended up sounding enough like “So, you got your horse outside?” that she laughed when he told her no, he’d opted instead for the Ram.
Five days later, they’d drive around in that pick up truck and she'd listen to him talk, thinking about how maybe she could do that for the rest of her life. Silly. Three weeks after that, while hanging on tightly to the end of every 'darlin', 'puddin’, 'dumplin’ (seriously) and other endearment he’d taken to calling her that had misplaced its G, she lost something of her own in the cab of the Dodge. If that wasn’t grounds for one of those country songs he was always listening to, she thought, it would have been good enough for Bon Jovi to sing about. “Like Bon Jovi going country is ever going to happen,” she laughed.
Being with him made her do stupid things. Like think of country songs and believe him on the nights he’d talk about how they’d have a place and he’d set the sun while she’d write the books. Four months later, he only tolerated her music while she was collecting cassettes by country singers who carried on about ne’er do well friends residing in downward locales or lamenting unfortunate luck in love, and attempting to break in black cowboy boots she secretly admired each night when she’d kick them off into a corner of her room. He chided her when he’d seen the pink and red hearts stitched into the black leather. “Guess you’re a real cowgirl now, darlin’,” he said. “If the boot fits,” she replied. The boots needed some more work, but they still didn’t. He wasn’t really a cowboy and she wasn’t really a girl who thought she’d be buying country music albums the rest of her life.
The 3 a.m., phone call eight months after she started disregarding a few of her own Gs would wreck her. The music would be smashed and so would she after several girlie drinks. Eventually, she’d not dwell on the idea of the place and the words, and she’d stop wondering about the driver behind the wheel of every random Dodge she’d pass. The cowboy boots with the pink and red hearts stitched into the black leather would be also be left behind in a closet when she moved into another place and onto other things. Years later, ironically around the time Bon Jovi actually up and went a little country, she realized she didn’t miss the cowboy anymore, but she did wish she still had those damn cowboy boots. They didn’t really fit her, but still.
What the hell. She’d watched enough westerns growing up to not help but find herself attracted to the idea of a cowboy. His glass came down and his hand went up to the hat she'd eventually come to rarely see him without, and then only for the obvious reasons like funerals and sex and sometimes not necessarily even for those occasions. His index finger popped out from under his thumb and he tipped the hat, which was of the cowboy variety - “So perhaps that makes it official,” she thought - then tugged it back down to tap that same bullet of a finger along the curved edge. “At your service, missy," he said. Drawled. She liked to say he drawled. The lines radiating around his eyes when he spoke seemed to affirm this was a man more interested in cattle counts that were higher than any SPF, so if a cowboy was what he said he was, a cowboy he would be.
Would it come off enticing if she made a joke about how her name wasn’t Missy or the fact his hat was black. “Isn’t it always the bad guys who wear black hats?” She practiced the words in her head while watching him drown his drink, then bit her tongue against the melting cheese she swore was resting there. The opportunity to label him a villain would come later and for a variety of reasons. Her favorite would be when she’d talk him out of breaking into Last Call Liquor after they’d closed the bars. “I’ve seen pictures of Bonnie and Clyde’s last stand,” she’d sigh, staring out the window of his idling truck at the busted sign on the liquor store’s door. “I don’t know about you, but I, for one, don’t look particularly good in red polka dots.” The cowboy couldn’t farm for anything, but he could milk the hell out of a drunken night. Another time would be the 3 a.m. phone call that wrecked her. For now, however, black looked good on the cowboy and she’d had just enough cups of pink nectar to think she wanted him to be one of the good guys.
“You’re such a girl," he’d say when they’d eventually come back to this place, and his eyes would roll over the lip of his bourbon. She'd lap the last drops of her very girlie drinks and drag skewers of fruit through her teeth and smile. “Lucky for you," she’d drawl, because either the drinks made her or she liked to say she did. They didn‘t fit, which would eventually become as obvious as the fact he wasn’t really a cowboy, but not for the next year and then for awhile more after that. At this moment though, she knew from the first tip of his hat that she wanted them to, so when the DJ flipped the order of the bass and the lights, she leaned into him and massacred a string of words that ended up sounding enough like “So, you got your horse outside?” that she laughed when he told her no, he’d opted instead for the Ram.
Five days later, they’d drive around in that pick up truck and she'd listen to him talk, thinking about how maybe she could do that for the rest of her life. Silly. Three weeks after that, while hanging on tightly to the end of every 'darlin', 'puddin’, 'dumplin’ (seriously) and other endearment he’d taken to calling her that had misplaced its G, she lost something of her own in the cab of the Dodge. If that wasn’t grounds for one of those country songs he was always listening to, she thought, it would have been good enough for Bon Jovi to sing about. “Like Bon Jovi going country is ever going to happen,” she laughed.
Being with him made her do stupid things. Like think of country songs and believe him on the nights he’d talk about how they’d have a place and he’d set the sun while she’d write the books. Four months later, he only tolerated her music while she was collecting cassettes by country singers who carried on about ne’er do well friends residing in downward locales or lamenting unfortunate luck in love, and attempting to break in black cowboy boots she secretly admired each night when she’d kick them off into a corner of her room. He chided her when he’d seen the pink and red hearts stitched into the black leather. “Guess you’re a real cowgirl now, darlin’,” he said. “If the boot fits,” she replied. The boots needed some more work, but they still didn’t. He wasn’t really a cowboy and she wasn’t really a girl who thought she’d be buying country music albums the rest of her life.
The 3 a.m., phone call eight months after she started disregarding a few of her own Gs would wreck her. The music would be smashed and so would she after several girlie drinks. Eventually, she’d not dwell on the idea of the place and the words, and she’d stop wondering about the driver behind the wheel of every random Dodge she’d pass. The cowboy boots with the pink and red hearts stitched into the black leather would be also be left behind in a closet when she moved into another place and onto other things. Years later, ironically around the time Bon Jovi actually up and went a little country, she realized she didn’t miss the cowboy anymore, but she did wish she still had those damn cowboy boots. They didn’t really fit her, but still.
And this, in a nutshell, is why I love fadkog. It starts funny, goes bittersweet, sparks with hidden barbs and inferences, meanders around and - in the end - leaves me with a little smile on my face.
Posted by: TwoBusy | Tuesday, March 02, 2010 at 08:15 PM
That was some fine fadkogging. Thank you.
Posted by: Palinode | Tuesday, March 02, 2010 at 08:21 PM
A fine post, little lady. (tips hat)
I think if you drive over the boots with your Ram it breaks them right in. Works with Docs at least.
Posted by: Susan (Trout Towers) | Wednesday, March 03, 2010 at 03:34 AM
I do love a girl in cowboy boots. That's some mighty fine writin' you done did here, girl.
Tipping my hat to you.
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Yeehah! The one who got away -- he would stunk up the whole joint, ya know?
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"Being with him made her do stupid things." ... oh, yeah ... I entered an "Achy Breaky Heart" dance contest once for a girl.
Once.
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It has to be wrong that this reminded me of my father and no less than two of my ex boyfriends.
This project is really going to force me into therapy. :)
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Girly girl, alternatively spelled girlie girl, is a slang term for a girl or woman who chooses to dress and behave in a traditionally feminine style, such as wearing floral dresses, blouses and skirts, and talking about relationships and other activities which are associated with the traditional gender role of a girl.
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