the kid

(short story)

It took 10 seconds to realize I’d go crazy sitting in my car hoping cell phone service would suddenly arrive. My car was dead and I could die out here too. The next town was fifty miles away and I hadn’t seen another vehicle for hours. So much for shortcuts to Phoenix. I wasn’t going to play golf today. “What the hell,” I thought: “Walk!” On a desert road, wearing bright yellow golf pants, a Midori green shirt and brand new white tennis shoes, I might as well walk down the road in a clown suit. But being so bold made me a little cheerful. “What the hell.” I kept saying out loud.

Thirst kicked in about two miles down where there was a gravel track off to the left, and a shot up sign saying ‘WILLIKIN - ONE MILE”. It wasn’t on my map. I felt a tiny bit disappointed it was going to be this easy.

Willikin consisted of two buildings. A farmhouse with holes in the roof had been painted half yellow and half red, separated roughly in a line down the center. Apparently, someone painted over the yellow part way and must have decided in the middle of the job that they didn’t like it. Two dusty Harleys hunched out front. I gave up after knocking on the storm door for five minutes.

The other structure was a weary old building with a wide wooden porch, just like in the old movies, complete with saloon doors. Tattered pieces of yellow police tape blew from the pilasters. No one bothered to remove them. I had the feeling they were left up as a kind of decoration. Feeling cocky, and since no one was watching, I made believe I was in an old western and burst through the swinging doors.

My eyes were blinded by the sudden dark. The place wasn’t empty. A man with a gravelly voice bellowed, “What the hell do you want?”

I froze. Must be the bartender, I thought. I wanted to turn around and walk in again quietly, like a normal human being. I cleared my throat and asked, “Is there a phone I can use?”

A cough exploded from a dark corner. The place seemed big all of a sudden.

The bartender was wearing white bib overalls covered with what looked like blood. I couldn’t take my eyes from it. “Is that blood?” My voice was dry and thin.

“What!” The tone of his reply was not the upward lift of a question, but had the hard stamp of NO! He looked down at himself and chuckled. “Oh, ... yeah, … forgot about that. Yup, it’s blood from that stinkin’ cow I just butchered out back.” He paused. His look of alarm suddenly changed as if he just had a great idea. “Hey. Since you’re here, might as well join us. That’s Billy and Walt’n there in the corner with their girlfriends. Serious men.” The bartender’s lips stretched into a plastic smile. “Serious about drinkin’ and jokin’ around, if ya know what I mean.” Then he leaned toward me and whispered. “Just don’t look at their women.” He burst out in a forced and nervous laugh -- and didn’t take his eyes off me. I didn’t know what to say. He turned his big head to the corner and yelled. “Billy! Walt! Come over here and meet our dinner guest!”

I heard chairs skidding a few inches across the floor. Suddenly there they were. The bartender pointed at a tall rail thin man who seemed too young to drink. “This here is Billy.” Billy had startlingly blue eyes. The other was short and grimy looking. A piece of toilet paper stuck to his boot. He kept looking at Billy.

“Hello!” I said loudly and stuck out my hand.

They didn’t say hello or shake my hand. The tall one stared at me. The short fellow kept shifting his eyes between me and his tall companion. Even my warmest smile didn’t help to break the silence. The women quickly left. I turned to look but saw only doors swinging in the glare.

Again I asked the bartender, “Is there a phone?” My heart pounded. I had to get out of there.

“Ain’t no phone here.” It was Billy who talked - slowly and thoughtfully, as if talking was something he rarely had an opportunity to do. “Have to go to Pittstown to use a phone. ‘Bout fifty-two miles. I’ll take you there, but you’ll have to wait.”

That was it, I thought - I’m gonna die. Fifty-two miles. I had no choice. Loosen up! I told myself. Maybe these are OK people. Maybe I’m frazzled from living in Vegas too long.

I asked, “Would you pour me a scotch?”

The bartender hesitated. “Sure, I s’pose so.” Billy, you got any of that whiskey left?”

The tall man looked back to the table and scowled. “Shit. Guess so.” The short guy hustled back to the table for the bottle. My eyes were adjusting to the dark. I noticed two pistols and an old radio lying there.

“Hey, I don’t mean to drink yours. I wanted to buy some of my own.” What sort of bar is this? I thought. Must not get much business.

They stared at me. The short guy was glaring. “This ain’t no bar!” He stammered, “What the fuck.”

I looked around, and then it dawned on me. It wasn’t a bar. It was an old stable with a few tables in it. I had unwittingly barged in on them. The wooden counter we stood at had thrown me off. There were no bottles on the wall, no taps, no sink, no barstools, no lights - only some tables and straw.

“I’m sorry. I thought it was.” I must have looked pale.

“You’re pretty fucking stupid,” blurted Walt, the short one.

“Now, Walt - where’s your hospitality? Here’s your drink, mister.” The bartender poured whiskey into a dirty glass. “Built this little wooden counter here. Thought someday I could make this into a real saloon. Even put on doors.” He paused. “Crazy, ain’t it? Out here? A bar?” He pulled out two more glasses, dumped straw out of them, and set them out for Walt and Billy. The man fit the part of a bartender pretty well, rotund and depressed. He brought out a box of glasses and plates and set it on a round wooden table with chairs. We followed and stood around as he brought out a box of silverware and placed it on the table. “I’ll go start the coals. You boys behave.” As the bartender left, we kicked back our whiskeys.

The drink felt good. I realized Walt and Billy were again staring at me. Not even a blink. I sat down and poured myself another glass and tried to make relaxed conversation.

“What do you guys do out here?”

No answer.

“Do you farm?”

Silence. Cold stares. Billy slowly rolled up his sleeves.

“Hey, if you two are looking for trouble... I’m not interested.” I tried to not look scared.

They looked at each other and slowly sat down across from me. Walt quickly snatched the bottle and poured themselves another. Billy kept staring without reply and slowly picked up a fork from the box of silverware and threw it at me. It clattered off the table and clanged on the floor. Then he rocked back on the two hind legs of his chair, deadpan. They waited for me to react. Well, perhaps I had too much alcohol or something: I picked up a spoon and lobbed it between them.

We began dueling with silverware. Forks and spoons and butter knives went through the air with solemnity, back and forth. They weren’t thrown hard and no one aimed for the face. We tried to land them as close to each other as possible. Ones that clanged noisily seemed the most satisfactory. I tried to return their stares but it was less effective since I had to look at both of them.

It was silly and a little fun. The silverware was terribly balanced and would not land the way I wanted. I kept saying to myself, I must be as crazy as these birds. When the box ran out we reached for ones that landed nearby and tossed those. Silverware was strewn all over the place. I couldn’t help but let out a few laughs but they remained silent.

I was starting to have a good time and thought to myself, maybe the old westerners had little games like this all the time. Maybe even guns could be used like this - you don’t aim for the other guy, you just try to scare the piss out of him, like playing chicken.

After a while, throwing silverware became old hat. They stopped and then I stopped and that awful silence returned. Billy still stared at me. Walt looked at Billy.

“What the hell...” I suggested putting the silverware away and continuing with more upscale weapons, which was crazy since I had no gun.

Walt’s jaw dropped as he glanced at Billy.