But when Pete got home from work last Friday, there was a package and a telegram waiting for him from the Texas estate of his Great Uncle Earl, a man who built an empire in the turquoise trade. "Your Great Uncle Earl has passed away Stop. His dying wish was that you have the contents of this box Stop." Tearing open the package, imagining great treasure, Pete was disappointed to discover only a cowboy outfit, a hodgepodge of turquoise jewelry and a vintage, barely dog-eared copy of Stag magazine. But escapism comes easily for a fudge striper and Pete forgot about riches. Invigorated and decked out in tight-in-the-ass jeans, flannel shirt and a bolo tie, Pete galloped around the living room hootin', hollerin' and dreaming of gettin' along with the little doggies in Stag. Pete immediately called up Brian to share his excitement. "Brian, I have something important to tell you," blurted Pete over the phone. "I'll pick you up in 15 minutes." Brian figured that Pete had been promoted to striping supervisor and wanted to celebrate. So when Pete rolled up to the curb with a 10 gallon hat pulled down to his eyebrows and a bevy of turquoise rings and brooches, Brian was dumbfounded. On the 20-minute ride to Prospect Park, past an apocalyptic landscape of junkyards and refineries, Brian didn't know what to think. Until Pete pulled into the parking lot of the Frontier Saloon, right off MacDade Boulevard and Route 420, a stuccoed building adorned with Western frescoes and life-sized rooftop replicas of a buffalo, horse, bear and Injun. "Brian, I'm a cowboy now," beamed Pete. "But that's no reason for things between us to change." Brian stood silent and shook his head. Pete swaggered bowlegged - Brian walked - into the Frontier Saloon, a bar and grill with light beer and dark corners, loud stock car banners and a quiet cabal of topers at the bar. "Now you might feel uncomfortable, 'cause everyone here's a cowboy," cautioned Pete. "Just stick with me and they'll accept you too." They sat themselves at a worn table with a pair of boots carved into the top. On the wall above was a light-up picture of a naked squaw whose privates are concealed only by a small blanket. However, the blanket is illuminated periodically to reveal aureolas the size of saucers. Sitting in Pocahontas' radiance they placed their order - chicken cheesesteak for Brian and a bloody-rare cheeseburger for Pete - with their waitress, Deb. "Looking at naked women and not apologizing, that's what being a cowboy's all about," said Pete as Deb left the table. "Hanging out in saloons, wearing a dead man's clothes, eating lots of beef, commanding instant respect when entering a room - you saw how things came to a standstill when I walked in." "Look, fudge boy," interrupted Brian, "I know you think you're Lee Van Kleef now, but being a cowboy is more than big hats and 'howdy ma'ams.' When you're a cowboy, you have to kill indiscriminately. You need to be violent, licentious, arbitrary - qualities you're incapable of. What you are capable of is running a machine that sprays fudge on cookies." Pete's bubble burst; as he hung his head, the 10 gallon hat slipped down over his nose, adding insult to injury. "Look at you," needled Brian. "A real cowboy wouldn't sulk. Do something unexpected, irrational. Hell, Billy the Kid once shot a man just for snoring." Pete drew a turquoise-handled Colt and shot Brian between the eyes. Deb arrived with the food as Brian's body slumped to the floor. "He dead?" asked Deb. "Yip. And I don't s'pose he'll be needin' that chicken cheesesteak, neither."
As Pete chowed down on both plates of fine, reasonably priced
victuals, a trail of grease ran down his chin. He wiped it with
his sleeve. And kept eating.
- Pete Brown and Brian Howard |