The Big Gulp - The Adventures of Cowboy Jessie and Cowboy earl

The Big Gulp.

 

     Summer was heating up the ranch and Earl found himself with a great thirst. He had an idea and hunted down Jessie who he had found in the barn throwing bales of hay into the loft. The heat was intense and Jessie was drenched, exhausted, and on the verge of delirium to the point where he was unaware of his deteriorated condition. Earl interrupted Jessie “Jess, let’s get out of here and go get us a Big Gulp”.

     Jessie threw one last bale into the loft before answering “Now that sounds like a fine idea Earl.”

     Earl went into the bunkhouse and returned with towels to put on the seats of the Volvo: he wasn’t about to let Jessie dirty up his car. After he had meticulously prepared the car he summoned Jessie and the two headed out for the 7-Eleven.

     Earl had no sooner brought the Volvo to a safe stop, at the 7-Eleven, when Jessie bolted out of the vehicle and into the store. Earl followed suit and met Jessie at the soda fountain. Jessie was making a concoction of Gatorade and Orange Crush while Earl went for a straight Big Red.  Jessie backed away from the soda fountain and guzzled down his Big Gulp in seconds. Earl watched with curiosity as Jessie re-loaded his cup with a new concoction of Sprite and Pepsi. Earl paid the cashier and the two cowboys stood outside the store drinking their Big Gulps. Jessie’s thirst had quenched and he backed off of the drink for a moment “Ya know Earl” said Jessie “man, I sure am glad we got Big Gulps down here”.

     Earl thought Jessie’s wording was a bit peculiar “What do you mean Jessie, we’ve always had them down here—shoot their everywhere”.

     “Yea I know” replied Jessie “I just meant—ya know, New York City and all”.

     “What about New York City” asked Earl “what does it have to do with anything?”

     “You didn’t hear” asked Jessie? Earl shook his head “Mayor Bloomberg is proposing to limit the size of soda and sweet drinks to sixteen ounces.”

     “Sixteen ounces” Earl replied in puzzlement “you can’t quench a thirst with sixteen ounces—what kind of lame brained idea is this.”

     Jessie hated to see Earl so perturbed but he did enjoy being an authority on a matter that Earl had no idea about. “Mayor Bloomberg says it’s to help fight the obesity epidemic.”

     “Obesity” laughed Earl “what’s a big soda water got to do with the obesity epidemic—obesity, that’s all about thyroid glands and stuff like that?”

     Jessie was inclined to point out the relationship of elevated glucose and fat storage but he decided to pull back and let Earl roll with it.

     Earl’s agitation was swelling like the skin under a yellow jacket sting. “I’ll tell you what Jessie—Bloomberg just a puppet—I know who’s behind all of this.” Before Jessie could ask who, Earl blurted out “It’s Lance Armstrong.”

     “Lance Armstrong” questioned Jessie.

     “Yea Lance Armstrong” continued Earl. “This guy has been wrecking it up for people for years—I mean you can’t even have a cigarette in downtown Austin anymore thanks to that guy.”

     “But you don’t even smoke Earl” Jessie pointed.

     “That’s not the point—I mean I might want to take it up sometime—it would be, let’s say, my prerogative. Just look at the guy, he loathes a man, any man, with a little abdominal fat. He sits there on that bicycle in them ridiculous shorts and just looks down on everyone. When he sees someone smoking, he runs and cries to the government—when he sees someone who’s a little chunky, he runs off and cries to the government. My god Jessie, the man’s a dang crybaby—he’s a damned monster.”

     Jessie thought the word monster was a bit harsh but he wasn’t feeling as passionately about the subject as Earl was. Jessie just shook his head “I don’t know Earl.”

     Earl’s eyes took on a distant look and his speech became almost a whisper “that’s the problem Jessie, don’t know one know what he wants next—but whatever it is, he’ll find a way to get what he wants—he gets his way every time.” Earl downed his Big Gulp and walked back into the store to redeem his free refill. He filled his cup to the brim with Big Red and walked back outside. Earl tipped up the glass and guzzled down the 52 ounce soda, then, creating quite a spectacle, slung the ice filled cup across the parking lot. Jessie looked crossways at Earl. Earl scowled at Jessie “What—you don’t think Mr. Armstrong would approve of that?”

     “I don’t think you would approve of that Earl” replied Jessie.

     “Don’t none of it matter no more Jessie” said Earl as he shook his head “don’t none of it matter no more.” The two cowboys got into the SUV and Earl drove them back to the ranch.

 

*   *  *

 

     Earl worked under the hot sun for the remainder of the afternoon. At dusk he saddled up Tego and grabbed his bedroll out of the bunkhouse. Jessie could feel Earl’s torment and tried to rationalize with him before he rode off. “Earl, that’s all the way in New Your City—I mean, it’s got nothing to do with us down here.”

     Earl pointed off toward the North-East. “Jessie, its gotta start somewhere before it gets here…just might take a little longer this time.”

     Jessie chuckled “Aw Earl, what makes you think it’s gonna make it down here.”

     Earl tipped his hat to Jessie. “Always does Jessie—always does.” Earl rode west into the blaze of the setting sun. He camped alone for three days.

 

In Recognition of Jacqueline Sanders.

In Recognition of Jacqueline Sanders.

     Mother’s day has come and gone and while driving to work I realized that I hadn’t written anything about my Mother, Step-Mother, wife or any other special Mother who is in my life. But since everyone usually writes some sort of tribute to their Mother, I thought I would write about someone who isn’t a Mother yet and how one little act of kindness made an impact on my life. That person is Jacqueline Sanders.

     This saga begins way back in the fall of 1984. Without much fanfare, my family sent me off to college after I graduated High School. My father and step mother footed the bill and my mother had high hopes for me although she was unable to contribute because she was a social worker and didn’t have much money (My father and Step-mother hadn’t hit it big yet so paying for my school was a hardship that they lovingly endured).

     So I head off to college with everything paid for (car, dorm room, meal-plan, books and spending money: Every serious student’s dream) and promptly failed every class I took with the exception of a D in freshman comp. My father and step-mother were disappointed but my mother was broken hearted. She had always valued education and it was a dream of hers that both of her children graduate college. My older sister had graduated the University of Oklahoma the year before. Note: My Mother received her Bachelor’s degree in her 20’s and her Masters of Information Science in her 50’s.

     My father took a hard stance and sent me packing to the working world and let me flounder there for a couple of years before sending me off to trade school. Trade school was the best option for me as I was not focused enough for university studies. Fast forward 12 years and I found myself reasonably successful as an industrial electrician but down inside; I still felt like I had disappointed my family (my Mother in particular).

     At 35 years old, I still couldn’t shake this feeling of disappointment I had imagined from my family so I decided to take matters in my own hands. I enrolled in Community college and began the arduous task of getting a degree. It took me almost 5 years to complete the 2 year requirements for an associate’s degree (I know 5 years seems a long time but I was working full time and trying to support a family). My family was supportive and my mother was always interested in my classes and insisted I send her my school papers for her to read.

     So now I was ready for the university. I didn’t’ put much thought into a major; I simply asked myself what classes did I do the best in and what did I enjoy the most. The answer was English (that answer was pivotal as it put me in trajectory with the heroine of our story). I was just a few months shy of 40 when I enrolled at the University of Houston-Downtown. It was summer 2006 and I had just started my classes when I received word that my Mother had been diagnosed with colon cancer. I knew I couldn’t draw this out for 5 more years so I increased my course load. I was in a race against time. I could never live with myself if my Mother died before I graduated.

     As my coursework progressed so did the cancer that was killing my Mother. I had managed to complete my coursework by the 2^nd summer session 2008 with the exception of one more class: Dr. Joe’s Contemporary Literature class. I was home free. I knew my Mother could make it another 6 weeks but I wasn’t sure about much more past that.

     So here I go. I showed up at school the first day of class and took the elevator to the 4^th floor and marched down the hallway with an air of confidence knowing that my quest would soon be over and that soon, I will have regained my families honor and fulfilled my Mothers dying wishes. Imagine my disappointment, when I opened the door to the class, to find there were only 4 students including myself. I asked Dr. Joe if the class was going to make and he told me that it needed at least 5 students for the University to keep it open. I was in full panic mode. I didn’t know what to do. (Enter Jackie Sanders) I called my friend Jackie and told her I needed a favor and asked her to take the class. Jackie had already finished her graduation requirements in the first summer session and had, in effect; already graduated (I did not tell Jackie why this class was so critical to me as I usually can’t tolerate hard-luck or sympathy stories). So what did Jackie do? She signed up for the class (And on at least one occasion, she brought sardines to class and her rat a couple of times after that). The class made and I completed my graduation requirements on August, 7 2008 at 9:45 A.M. (I remember this because I wrote it down). I got to my car after class and called my Mom. She was overjoyed and we both ended up bawling together over the phone.

     My Mother died 10 months later and was able to come to my graduation. One could argue that if the class didn’t make I could have simply taken one in the fall and that everything would be alright. But it’s not that simple and, given the uncertainty that cancer deals, nobody knew. So with that I extend my undying gratitude to Jackie Sanders. I Love You Jackie…Happy Mother’s Day. 

    

                                          Mom before the cancer.

                                          Uncle Gary and Aunt Francie.

                                         Mom in her last months. (In pain but still a sport)

                                         Step-Daughter and Nieces.

                                             Dad and Step-Mom.

                                          Wife and Sister-in-Law.

                                         Sister and Brother-in-Law.

                                         Mother and father-in-Law.

                                         Cousin Sam.

                                         Libby and Claire.

Cousin Nancy and Husband Chris.

                 Freda Duckworth-Hunsaker-Christopher 1942-2009

The Bright Flash

The Bright Flash.

     I rose from my desk and went out the door without saying a word to my co-workers and left them to their stupor. We were all in a stupor as were everyone else trapped in the, hand knitted, gill net of not figuring a way out of this. I went to the elevator and went to the ground floor and walked the grounds. Since the layoffs, the grounds were empty and I was alone. Layoffs are lonely for those of us who make it—if you want to call it that. What was once a sense of pride at being selected to stay has since become a source of shame. Meaning, did they keep me because I was needed and necessary or is it because they knew I would roll over without much of a fight.

     Walking the grounds didn’t offer much solace as did strolling through what was left of the once magnificent gardens. This place was once known for its gardens. Now, only the hardiest of plants survive and the more delicate and fragrant plants are allowed to die in place then dug up and thrown away without ceremony. Sort of like when my Yellow Tang died when we went away on vacation. We came home and he wasn’t there—the poor Tang absorbed into the ecosystem leaving only the hardy fish though none of them were as graceful as the Tang. 

     I left the gardens and went back to the elevator and went to the roof on the 6^th floor. I looked west over the city then east toward the refineries. There was nothing. Other than the automobiles on the freeway or the occasional airplane, there were no signs of life. And even though the cars and planes were in motion, there was nothing to suggest that they were occupied—just moving hunks of metal that were going where they were told to go by an invisible hand orchestrating where and when things are suppose to be.

     So looking over the desolate and moving city, I had this sensation that somewhere, some faction or individual was going to detonate a nuclear bomb somewhere in the city. This left me with a dilemma: should I stare into the flash and be instantly blinded (rationalizing that a literal blinding light would be spectacular) or should I try to shield my eyes from the initial blast then watch the city become engulfed in the shockwave (rationalizing that watching a city be obliterated would be a spectacular sight). Realizing that both options would result in me being vaporized; I wondered should I go into the basement where I would survive the initial blast yet die of some hideous cancer: one of those that quickly attacks sensitive and painful areas but leaves critical organs intact as to prolong the agony. So now I have three options: witness a spectacular bright flash(and die), watch a city be decimated(and die), or get some hideous cancer (and still die). I thought the latter would be more desirable because with that extra time I was sure I could construct some special prayer that would ensure me a spot in heaven and further; would being on a morphine drip be really that bad. I mean, a lucid and dreamlike state would be better than being de-animate. Then I thought, what if I couldn’t find morphine and what if this special prayer I were to construct would somehow backfire and, rather than grant me passage to heaven, it would conjure some sort of wood spirit that would torment me relentlessly. 

     After about thirty minutes, I realized that there wasn’t going to be a detonation—or at least one that I would be aware of or could prepare for. So I grew tired of the roof and went to the elevator. I rode the elevator down to my workstation wondering to myself why I always had this sense of doom though nothing terrible had ever happened to me. And I also thought about these ridiculous fears I have like being struck by lightning, sucked up into a tornado, or being in an airplane crash and of the precautions I take to avoid them. Like I simply don’t fly to avoid the plane crash and I wear a rubber slicker suit and refuse to be around metallic umbrellas during lightning storms. Then sometimes when I think there’s going to be a tornado, I’ll go to a large sturdy building full of innocent people—the kind of innocent people that God would not strike down just to take me out. But even with this, I wonder why I don’t seem to have a problem with hurricanes or smoking or excessive alcohol use and germs: it seems I rarely, if ever, get sick.

     So I made it back to my desk and one of my my co-worker was complaining about the stock market, homosexuals and other things that made him unhappy. After a few minutes of this, I rose from my desk and walked over to the window and searched, desperately, for the spectacular bright flash.  

The Golden Years

The Golden Years.

    
      Leona was a good woman, a widow woman, and a Christian woman. She lived in the little house that her husband had built by hand after the war. And in Pearl River, she was well liked and as far as the officials of St. Tammany Parish were concerned, she was politically consistent. But that was years ago before she didn’t get out much and to whoever was left, she was mostly a memory, a distant memory. Her husband had died twelve years earlier and a decade before that, their son had been swept away into the memory of an epidemic that had descended into the city. She prayed to herself on most days and had somehow reached a level of contentment and peace with her life and had, on most days, been satisfied with the outcome of her life and the choices that she had made. But she didn’t think about that much, she was just happy to be alive and in contact with her God….her precious God who watched over her. 

     When the winds came, her years had told her that there would soon be rain and that rain was good and that with it came life….precious life. But the rain did not come, soon, as she had remembered, only wind. And the wind gathered strength and it was ferocious. And before the rain began, the Live Oak tree in the side yard blew over and smashed through the eastern window and caved in a portion of the roof. Then the rains came. In horizontal sheets the rains came. The apocalyptic rains came and they pulled siding from the house and they pulled the tar shingles from the roof and its wetness entered the house and destroyed all that it could touch.   

     Morning revealed that Leona was alive and that everyone in Pearl River was alive and had escaped the judgment brought upon Mississippi and New Orleans. With a little work, the already dying town could be brought back to its relative obscurity. But maybe it was that obscurity that kept the crews away, kept the television cameras away, kept help away. But help did come, for Leona that is. Help came in the form of a friendly young man, Jarrett, in a work truck and a cooler full of potato salad, and sandwiches. He fed Leona and without asking, began cutting the tree away from the house. Jarrett worked hard that day cutting up the tree and neatly stacking it as cordwood. After picking up most of the debris from around the yard, he provided Leona with a dry blanket, comforting words and a plan to get her house back together. Jarrett spent most of the next morning with a clipboard, plastic calculator and measuring tape as he looked over the house carefully surveying the damage. And Leona took comfort as she would watch Jarrett calculating and writing notes on his clipboard. He was meticulous. He was concise. He was perfect; for later he met Leona on the porch to describe what needed to be done….what had to be done. 

     Now fifty thousand dollars is a lot to most, nothing to others, but it was the world to Leona. Fifty thousand dollars was all she had and Jarrett drove her to her bank branch in a neighboring town to withdraw the money while explaining that cash would get them better deals on material and he would be able to make her house stronger and better than it was before. When they had returned that night, Jarrett had helped Leona to bed and told her that he would begin the repairs in the morning…. “At the crack of dawn” he had told her. But by morning he was gone. He was gone in a flash and by morning he was in Houston exchanging most of the cash for gold and before noon he was westbound for Vegas. 

     It turns out that Jarrett, that nice young man, wasn’t really that nice and really wasn’t that young after all: as it is conscience that usually puts years on a man. For after he had made off with Leona’s savings, he drove the old white work truck into a warehouse and drove out in a wickedly black Mercedes-Benz with a satanically induced shine. Oh, Jarrett was a smooth one and on his way to Vegas he buried his stash of gold near a rest stop just outside of Lubbock. And like his bastard seed that was strewn throughout the country, Jarrett's gold was buried at rest stops, along country roads, in farmers fields and in public parks throughout the country. He was a very busy man and he knew where every wretched bit of his gold was buried. 

     While Leona sat and waited in a little chair in the front room of the house, the Mercedes crested the final mountain and Jarrett beheld the Vegas lights. And as the Mercedes descended to the desert floor, Leona slumped over in her tiny chair and died. 

     Jarrett was hot that night and every roll was a winner and he enjoyed the spoils and fulfilled his lusts that winning willingly hands over. But as soon as it had came, his luck turned into bust. His winnings began to dwindle and the only escort that Jarrett had left was an empty room overlooking the desert. Bad luck was part of the game for Jarrett and being the resourceful man that he was; bad luck wouldn't last long. 

     Jarrett set out the next morning with his shovel to withdraw a bit of his treasure. But when he appeared forty-feet behind the abandoned Kerr-McGee station twenty miles out of town off of one-forty-seven, he was astonished to find a freshly dug hole where his gold should have been. He dug his hands in and around the perimeter of the hole to find one single gold coin—one single coin where fifty should have been. Perplexed and un-anxious, Jarrett wiped the dirt from his hands and drove to one of his other locations only to come up empty. And anxiousness soon set in when Jarrett found that all of his spots around Vegas were empty: dry holes so to speak. 

     Jarrett took his single gold coin to the exchange and re-filled his wallet with enough cash to last a few days. He set off for Washington State and he was certain that he would regain his ground. But Washington was a bust and in particular, the areas around Mt St. Helen’s only produced a single gold coin: a single gold coin that he sold for food and gasoline.

     And all through the winter Jarrett crisscrossed the country going from coast to coast and at all locations, there was just enough to get by. Moore Oklahoma gave him less than Homestead Florida and in San Francisco, there was nothing—nothing but a pawn shop where he sold his Rolex for enough to get to South Carolina. But Carolina was just as dry as the rest and Jarrett felt for the first time in his life a sense of desperation. 

     In his last gasp just as spring was starting to break, Jarrett managed to drive the mangled Mercedes down to the rest stop just outside of Lubbock, his last hope. As the morning frost was starting to burn away the memory of the night, Jarrett began to dig. And as the sun began to warm the cracked soil, names like Andrew, Hugo, San Andreas, and Katrina began to swirl in Jarrett's head: his blessed head that came alive when his shovel hit pay-dirt. Excitement ran through every vein in his body for now he had hope. Hope, the one thing that he never thought he would need was now his—now his and in the palm of his hands. He looked up to the sun and held the nylon bag full of gold coins to the heavens and began to laugh and cry as he pulled the coins to his chest. For now he had hope. But the day was warming and the nest of Diamond-Back rattlers under the Sage-Bush used to mark his location, woke up and struck. And as the venom pumped through his veins, his poisoned body fell back into his freshly dug hole and the gold coins that he beheld scattered onto the parched and cracked soil….glistening in the radiance of the sun.

*    *    *

    
     In the spring, Pearl River has a magic to it….Magnolias in bloom and as the branches of the Cypress tantalize and tease the spawning fish, the Great Blue Heron and Brown Pelicans return from their Southward journey. And as the people began returning to Pearl River things began to return to normal and the dying town resumed its gasping breath. And when Sheriff Williams and Parsons Jones came to check on Leona they had to clear a path to the front door through the Spanish Ivy that had engulfed the porch. They forced open the door and the shine that reflected back from the single ray of sunshine was almost blinding. And after their eyes had adjusted to the glare emanating from the front room, they beheld Leona’s seemingly laughing corpse upon a throne—upon a throne made entirely of gold.

Apollo 11

Apollo Eleven

     They couldn’t figure out a way to get rid of the alcoholics but the dope smokers had been gone years ago. The tobacco users were being phased out and the injured and genetically unfit would go next but that would not happen until corporate paid the right people to convince the others that that was a damn fine idea. So when Roger walked with his tray in one hand and his cane in the other over to the table, he had to steady himself on the edge of the table before he could sit down. Steve, Roger's accomplice, held back in the line behind Herman, the new guy, and kept his eye on Roger while he was making his way to the table.

     The ever leering Roger had made sure there was an empty space at the table while Steve invited, diverted and maneuvered Herman over to the table where Roger sat. The three men sat at the table saying nothing while Roger glanced up at Herman as if he was surprised that the new guy was sitting with them. Roger gestured as if he were about to speak but remained silent long enough as to push a feeling of discomfort across the table. The others in the cafeteria looked on while motioning to one another in voyeuristic excitement as they watched the right of passage unfold before them.

     Now cruelty is in the eyes of the beholder as after pleasantries had been exchanged Roger announced to Herman that the orientation meetings that he had been going to weren’t really meetings, they were simply a way to size you up before your probationary period had expired. Steve chimed in that none of them really went to the real meetings; they were only invited to the fake ones that someone thought might be good for morale.

     Roger, the old master, pulled back a little on Herman and asked him about his family and other things that no one gave one fuck about at the plant, not only to give Herman a breather, but to search for any certain afflictions that he could not openly condemn. Once he was sized up, Roger and Steve let Herman take the floor. 

     In following the tradition of the others, Herman turned to another topic that the three of them could come together on. He picked up Steve’s newspaper and began talking about an article that explained how the Chinese had sent a probe to circle the moon. Roger had let Herman go on and Steve followed his lead. Herman talked about how exciting space travel was and about scientific breakthroughs and that how the international space station had brought nations together and that how the space-shuttle was man’s finest achievement. 

     This went on for a while until Herman ran out of things to say. The table grew silent and Steve looked over to Roger and then over to Herman. He looked at Herman a little longer than was expected then slowly looked back over at Roger, who, with his head down, slowly raised his head and said “So you think the space station is a neat thing?” “Well, I tell you” said Roger, “The space station is our little way of telling the other countries that they are special. It’s our little way of diluting our country and handing over what we have earned to some European Speedo wearing freaks.” Roger breathed deeply and in an agitated tone said “You got that….there too goddamn busy lunging themselves at everyone that they can’t build their own goddamn space station—international my ass—that just means that they are trying to get a free ride--sure we used their Nazi’s….we just knew how to channel their energy….they didn’t know what to do with them and look what happened…..just ask six million Jews what happens when you don’t now how to handle Nazis.” Roger regained his composure and said “Those Euro-trash bastards sent us Nazi’s and you know what we did with them?.....We sent motherfuckers to the moon…..That’s what we did—we took the worst and made the best.”  He paused a moment. "Fuck man" said Roger in a disgusted tone, "we would't know what to do with damn Nazi now days. Shit, maybe send him to a therapist or something like that." Herman and Steve sat still in their chairs as Roger went on “ There was a time there boy before you were even born—Steve and I sat right here where we are sitting now—It was thirty-nine years ago and we strapped three men into a capsule sitting atop a Saturn Five rocket—we shot that that rocket into space. America said fuck you to the world and shot that rocket to the moon—and those men landed on the moon—they planted our fucking flag on the moon—and I’m suppose to get excited that thirty-nine years later  the Chinese are sending a probe to the moon. We haven’t done jack shit in almost forty years but circle protein paste eating PhD’s into low earth orbit doing nothing more than timing how fast semen can enter a uterus in zero gravity and re confirm the uses of Velcro.” “Bullshit” said Roger. “Bullshit on the whole damn thing—that’s the way we used to run this company—by the seat of our pants.” By this time Herman was looking over at Steve hoping for an out but Steve was enjoying the show as Roger went on “That’s how we use to  run this place--we had big burly motherfuckers with oversized hearts and chests bigger than fifty-five gallon drums. They would rip your head off one minute and give you the shirt off of their backs the next. Now all we got is a rainbow of equally represented sensitive managers" Roger thought for a moment "sort of like that space station you admire so much—I mean they tell you what their doing but you really don't know. Do you?" Herman shook his head while Roger continued "Don't forget it. Their leading us straight down the middle and into mediocrity—they're kind and understanding to your face and they will cut your throat out in one of their meetings—one of those real meeting that you will never go to—I'm telling you now Herman—they will cut out your fucking throat in one of their secret meetings and you won’t even know what hit you.”

     Lunch break was over and Herman reported to his afternoon orientation meeting. Roger and Steve sat at the table hoping someone would fuck with them especially since Roger was unstoppable today. No one came and they avoided any real work for the rest of the day.

*    *    *

   
     It was well after midnight when Herman looked closely at his wife to make sure she was fast asleep. He crept down the hall to his son’s room and from the glow of the instruments and night lights; he removed the boy from the Velcro fastened oxygen chamber and carried him to the backyard and held him up high to the moon. The boy gasped, breathed in deep, and gained strength.  

The Bluff

The Bluff

 

 

      It was a clear day on the ranch as an Audi A6 sped up the trail leading to the coral. The Audi came to a dusty stop just outside of the fence as Jessie and Earl were tending to their horses. An edgy but confidant young man exited the vehicle and walked over to the horsemen. Earl secured Tego and walked towards the young man. Breaking the silence Earl spoke first “Hello there stranger…you lost?”

     “No no, I’m not lost—the Widow sent me” said the young man while extending his hand “The names Carraway.”

     Earl knew something wasn’t right about this; the Widow wouldn’t send anyone up here without telling him first. Earl refused his hand “So—Mr. Carraway.” Asked Earl “What’s the nature of your business?”

     The young man replied “I’m an efficiency expert—I’ve been sent to help you streamline the ranch.”

 

      “Partner” said Earl “We don’t need help streamlining the ranch—me and Jessie got that figured out.” Earl walked past the young man and over to the Audi “I’ll say this Carraway, this is sure a good looking A6” The young man was beaming with pride as Earl pointed off toward the barn “but I’m partial to my XC90—it’s safe.”

     “Maybe so” replied the young man “but I enjoy the sportiness of my A6.”

     Earl was getting agitated “You’ll think sporty after you wrap that thing around a tree” Earl looked him square in his eyes “I suppose now you’ll tell me about the Quatro suspension but I’m telling you it won’t do you no good unless you know what you’re doing.” The young man stood his ground. Earl moved in “So, was it the Widows son who put you up to this?”

 

     “Well-well” stammered the young man “we knew each other back in college.”

     “I see” said Earl “So he either owes you a favor or you got something on him”

     “I wouldn’t put it like that”

     Earl’s face took on a scowl “I’ll tell you how I put it—you got something on him and got him to convince his momma to go along with this—didn’t you.” The young man just stood there not saying anything. Earl continued “Now I got something on him too—though it will break his momma’s heart, it will blow the lid off of this whole thing—now you probably don’t want to hear this Carroway, the Widow is a generous woman but she won’t take kindly to being grifted—she’s got a cage full of lawyers shell turn loose on you—they’ll rip you apart lie a pack of wild dogs.” Earl ran out of material and let up. He hoped that would be enough.

     Carroway stood frustrated; he was boxed in “Ok then, what should I do..I’ve got this contract and all?” he asked.

 

 “I suggest you tear up that contract and drive up to the mansion and tell the Widow that everything looks good down here on the ranch.” Earl continued “And Mr. Carroway, I think it would be a good idea to refuse payment.”

     The young man got in the A6 and sped off toward the Mansion.    

   

     Jessie walked over to Earl “Earl, what do you have on the Widow’s son.”

     Earl shook his head “I don’t have anything Jessie I was bluffing.”

     “Bluffing” asked Jessie “what are we going to do when word gets back to him?”

     “Were not going to do anything—we won’t have to.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Earl couldn’t wait to throw out the next bit; he knew it would blow Jessie away “He’s a human being ain’t he?”

     “Well yea—of course” replied Jessie.

     Earl reluctantly paused for affect “Then he’s done something he shouldn’t have.”

     Jessie knew to downplay this as it would only encourage Earl “I suppose you’re right Earl.”

     Earl was still basking in his own cleverness and didn’t acknowledge Jessie.

 

*   *   *

 

     Without much fanfare, the two cowboys went back to tending to their horses and after about 30 minutes Earl turned to Jessie “Jess, I’m starved. Why don’t we saddle up the horses and head into the Sonic.”

     Jessie remembered the last time and was surprised by Earl’s idea “What about the last time we went to Sonic Earl—you remember that don’t you?”

     “Of course I do Jessie—that’s why I want to go” confessed Earl “I mean—every man deserves a shot at redemption—right?”

     Jessie nodded his head in agreement. The two cowboys saddled up and rode into Sonic. Earl had high hopes and led the way.

 

The End.

The Cat Who Got Away-The Adventures of Cowboy Jessie and Cowboy Earl

The Secret Journey - The Adventures of Cowboy Jessie and Cowboy Earl.

A message from the author.

To my one reader. Ok, all testing has been completed; now for the task of finding something to write about. My goal is to produce at least one bit of material per week: an observation, a short story or a Cowboy Jessie episode. The goal is to keep my chops from breaking down (Like everything else).
After I get up and rolling, I will send an invite to Dr. Joe, Jackie, Paula and Wylie.

Post Test #6.

Post #6. Trying to figure out how to put each post on a seperate page.

Blog test #5

Still testing this. Meaning: I havent thought of anything to write yet. Tonight, I'm going to figure out how to make each post on a seperate page.

Test #4.

Cowboys and Aliens-The Adventures of Cowboy Jessie and Cowboy Earl

Still testing the blog.

Post #1. This is still a test.

Earl and Jessie have madcap adventures. This is still a test.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Yte6zEfdZI&feature=list_related&playnext=1&list=SP4CB0675AABF381C8

1st post

This is my first post. This is a test.