Even Cowboys Carry Cell Phones

Cowboy Stories

61 M i c h a e l S h a y Cowboy Stories R obert Wills was five beers into a Cheyenne Friday night as he told his favorite story to a middle-aged couple from Cincinnati. “Buddies used to introduce me as Bob Wills, and the women would say ‘You must be a Texas Playboy,’ and I’d say that I wasn’t any kind of Texan—I’m from Wyoming!” He cackled and tried not to trigger the cough that could go on and on and interfere with talking and drinking. He swallowed the last of the cheap draft and slapped the empty beer glass on the bar’s soggy coaster. He rocked the glass, hoping that these tourists would notice his thirsty state and spring for another round. “Who’s Bob Wills?” The woman exhaled a stream of smoke and then waved it away with a sweep of her flabby arm. Robert noticed her long lashes and blue eyes. They belonged to a face that was once pretty but now was creased with lines and droopy at the jaw line. “You never heard of Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys?” Bob asked. The woman’s husband raised his glass. “Here’s to Bob Wills and Texas Swing.” He took a long draw on the beer. “Great stuff.” Robert didn’t know if he meant the music or the beer. “Damn straight,” he said, an all-purpose reply. “Well, hon,” said the woman, eyes on her husband, “I don’t know who they are. Should I?” He nodded his big head. “Saw ‘em once down in Lubbock.” He looked over at his wife. “I was in the Army—before I met you. That band played some good dancin’ music.” “You don’t dance with me,” she said. “Bob Wills is dead.” “But you ain’t.” A pout added more wrinkles to her face. “I’ll drink to that.” Robert raised his empty glass. The man and woman raised theirs. Robert was hoping that they would notice his sad state of affairs and order up another round. Not a nickel to his name until his disability check came in next week—late next week. 62 The man put his half-finished glass on the bar. “We gotta go.” The woman put her glass next to his. “Got a smoke?” Robert asked the tourist woman. She hesitated briefly, and then tapped a cigarette out of the pack and handed it to Robert. It was a long thin cigarette with a pink filter. “Fancy,” he said, balancing it on his lip. He pulled out his old Zippo and lit up. He tasted more mint than smoke. “That’s not going to blow up, is it?” She pointed at the oxygen canister in a sling at Robert’s side. “Hasn’t yet.” Her husband laughed. “First time for everything.” Oxygen bottles don’t blow up, he wanted to say. It still felt a little strange to wear this wheezing contraption around town. It was better than those big canisters that he used to wheel up and down city streets. People would just stop and stare at this little cowboy, couldn’t be more than five feet tall, as he hauled around a big green thing that looked like a submarine torpedo—that’s how one of the guys at the Legion Hall had described it. Long plastic hose snaked out of it into his nose, a nuisance at first but now something he had to live with. “Maureen, I’d say it’s time to go.” The man eased off of his stool and tossed some bills on the bar. “Pleased to meet you.” Maureen nodded at Robert and grabbed a purse the size of a shopping bag. Robert touched the brim of his cowboy hat. “Ma’am.” The couple was three steps to the door when Robert grabbed their beer glasses and dragged them over to his spot. The glasses were still cool to the touch. Jack the one-eyed bartender was busy at the far end so Robert emptied the glasses into his, sloshing some on the counter. He sipped, slowly, and wondered if any other tourists would happen by tonight. Jack walked over, picked up the empty glasses. “You scaring away my customers ?” His black beard matched the patch on his left eye. “C’mon, Jack, you know better than that.” Robert smiled and drank his beer. “I’m the only gen-yu-wine cowboy in this place...