The Cowboy Hat

"The Cowboy Hat" posts fiction, poetry, and essays about the American West and the Mexican-American Border Region.

The Decision

["The Cowboy Hat" posts works of fiction, poetry, essays, and the like about the American West and the Mexican-American Border Region.  Although not necessary, mentioning a western-style hat in the work is encouraged.  Submit to fred@villagehatshop.com for review and cosideration for publication.  People whose work is accepted receive a $50.00 Coupon for use at VillageHatShop.com.]

 

The Decision

 

 

The rich man was home.  Before she left the house to go shopping, his wife had shown him the new sandals she had bought the day before.  One pair was white with fake jewels all over.  The other pair had Indian turquoise and silver thread on a brown leather base.  She was upset that the rich man didn’t say that they were “cute". The plumber had been to the house earlier to fix a plugged drain.  The rich man wondered who ever bought Drano because his wife always contended that the plugged drains at his house were beyond Drano’s capabilities and required a professional plumber. 

 

 

There was a knock at the rich man’s door.  He was wearing an old, well-worn, felt cowboy hat, leather boots, leather jacket; he carried a satchel.  He introduced himself as Roberto Sanchez.  He said that he had come across the border looking for work.  He needed work.  He said that he had no money.  He had to have work.  Up Mount Soledad, he carried a pair of iron contraptions with leather bindings that when fastened to one’s legs and under one’s boots could be used to climb trees by digging the protruding spikes coming from the inside of the insole into the tree trunk.  Roberto Sanchez wanted the job of climbing the rich man’s palm trees and removing the dead fronds from under the live growth at the top.  He was hungry and he was cold (even though the air temperature was mild).  He very much wanted the rich man to provide this work for him.  Roberto talked very slowly, deliberately, politely.  He asked for a cup of coffee so that he could take some medicine that he was carrying in his pocket.  After the rich man brought him the coffee and he took the medicine, Roberto began again to speak about his skill, experience, and thoroughness as a tree trimmer and gardener.  Roberto Sanchez was in his fifties.  He had come across the border to find work.  This was a man that the new immigration laws required that the rich man not hire.  Not only was Roberto Sanchez from a different country and culture, but he was also of another time.  The rich man’s neighbors had warned him to be distrustful of strangers on the street. 

 

 

The rich man saw in Roberto Sanchez’s proposition an opportunity to do something worthwhile this day; to make his afternoon meaningful.  This man needed a job and the rich man had work that needed to be done.  The rich man thought to himself, “it is unusual for a man like this to be soliciting work on this street.  Does he mean to do harm?” and “this man is intruding on my peace and solitude today".  But he also thought, “This man needs work and is in front of my house asking for help".  The young son of the rich man was bouncing a ball nearby and listening to the conversation.  The rich man saw an opportunity for his son to learn a lesson in cross-cultural communication, the value of hard work, compassion, and charity.  Roberto Sanchez said that the job would lake about a week to complete.  He said that he was getting older now and could not work as fast as he used to.  The rich man thought about the fact that some neighbors might not appreciate this man on the block for a week; his general description was not unlike the warnings of the Community Alert Program leader.  The rich man somewhat resented the dilemma that Roberto Sanchez created for him on this here-to-for simple day. 

 

 

Finally, in a demonstration of his worldliness and sensitivity, the rich man said, “No trabajo hoy senor.  Lo siento mucho.” He then shrank back into his house.  Roberto Sanchez walked back down Mount Soledad.

 

 

 

 

Karl Rossinsky

San Diego, California

 

May 11, 2006 in Short Fiction | Permalink | Comments (1)

Home

He was the last remaining soul in this barren place he called home.  It had been at least a month since he’d been able to ride out to the nearest town for supplies and food.  Anyways, his horse was too weak to make the ride in.  He decided to wait it out…there was bound to be someone passing through who could send for help.  He would never leave this place, not now.  Too many memories here.  He nodded his head as he remembered all the familiar faces in town- both family and friends.  Gone now…moved out or dead.  Only he remained now, and he took some pride in that.  He was the town’s guardian.   

The sun was unforgiving in this place.  The dust blew in sporadic waves of tumbleweed and debris.  The ramshackle shack creaked and groaned as it had 80 years before.  The tin roof sat haphazardly on its rickety frame and threatened to blow off with each gust of wind.  He’d grown up here amongst the false front stores and dusty streets of this old mining town. He took off his Stetson, dusty and sweat stained.  He sat down on the steps of his family’s homestead, abandoned years ago when work dried up here.  It was deathly quiet here with the exception of the wind whistling through the cracks in the buildings, but then he was accustomed to being alone.    He loved this place…the quiet beauty of the surrounding hills and of the weathering buildings.   His steel blue eyes looked far off into the distance and his wrinkled, leathery face relaxed a little and a smile came to his lips.  His chest rose and fell one last time.  The wind suddenly caught the Stetson, and lofted it into the air far beyond the town limits. 

Days passed.  A trail of dust followed the automobile that roared through the 200 mile stretch of desert and finally into the center of town.  The vehicle stopped and a man dressed in a navy double-breasted pin stripe suit got out. He surveyed the town as he donned a Montecristi Panama.  “How much for the town?”  The driver mumbled something and the man said, “ It’s a deal then…I’ll have my crew out here to make way for the highway.”  With that, the man got into the car but paused momentarily as his eye caught the figure sitting on the steps of the shack.   The car turned and sped off into the twilight of the arid wasteland.

Ken Byers

 

July 04, 2006 in Short Fiction | Permalink | Comments (0)

What Was It About This Guy?

What was it about this guy? He wasn’t the man in the room that made the most money that was easy to see. His attire belied whatever status nice attire affords a man. The old Dodge pickup in the muddy part of the driveway surely didn’t advertise any celebrity. He spoke quietly, almost bashfully whenever a question was aimed his way, yet most of the other men wanted to speak with him, or at least be within his sphere of conversation.
The older women, not really old but more mature and dignified than any of the roving wild herd of divorcees, slinked by like housecats on a potent strain of catnip. He drawled out the ‘yes mam’s’ and’ honeys’ like they were the currency of the day. From the looks of things he would be cashing in his chips sometime this evening too. It was easy to see that the moneyed women at the event knew the value of a battered Resistol and an equally worn pair of ropers.
The youngsters ran about and pestered him from time to time until one of the parents would swat them away or he himself would send them off on an impossible dare or mission. The teenagers only wanted a nod of encouragement or just a remembrance of their name from him.
Still, whatever quality it was, was hard to pinpoint. How could she get inside the circle without being too obvious? What notion or quest would help her penetrate the tight-knit circle that had grown to two deep by now? She couldn’t just force herself on him or into the fray. That would just be rude. She didn’t have the luxury of time to grow older and more refined like the ranch ladies vying for ’shotgun’ in the old Dodge.
He already had a beer, and besides, she didn’t want to just be a waitress. What circumstance would at least get her introduced to this man, maybe old enough to be her father but from the pattern of his speech, and the cut of his clothes she surmised he wasn’t that far along. She would just have to lie in wait and take advantage of whatever opportunity offered itself.
She was chatted up a while by a local-yokel if there ever was one. A banker from out in the area of the hill country that spouted new subdivisions with cutesy sounding names like, Heritage Ridge or Mustang Run. He loaned San Antonio doctors money so they could go play cowboy a few weekends a year at their cookie cutter ranchettes. Five to eight acres apiece, nothing so big as you couldn’t handle it, but big enough to run a quarter horse or two if the mood hit you. Poor Mr. Bankerman, she mused in her mind, you got the costume but measured against the man in the circle you’re way out of your element. She shifted her stance partly to keep the late evening west Texas sunset from blinding her but mostly to keep a vigil on the man holding sway in the growing group off to the left.
That’s when she noticed he was gone! Where was he? She’d only been caught up with Mr. Compounding Interest Rate for a few minutes, so she thought. Hell, there he was, he was right on top of her. “Evenin’ Ted,” with a nod was all he spoke to Mr. Savings and Loan. “ Howdy ‘mam” with a direct look into the eyes and a quick tip of the Resistol’s brim comprised the greeting she got. Short, sincere, honest and heartfelt as any introduction she had ever had before. He was walking toward the big house with two men that looked like old friends or partners. And so, that was that, the man she was so enthralled with for the entire evening had come and gone and she was taken so by surprise that she couldn’t mount a proper comeback or introduce herself. She could have kicked Mr. Two Points over Prime right in the nuts for blowing her one chance until she noticed he was just as angry as she was about not being able to converse with the ‘big-guy’.
Her moment for glory seemingly passed, she asked ‘Ted’, “ Who is that man?”

Mitch Ladyman
McAllen, Texas



January 02, 2007 in Short Fiction | Permalink | Comments (2)

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