Suburban Cowboy alone on a Saturday night

Suburban Cowboy alone on a Saturday night

fiction
edward w Pritchard

Money is good after a hard week at work, but it looks like the Suburban Cowboy will be alone on a Saturday night. Stay busy. Shower shave and English leather aftershave.

Wash the truck. A twelve pack of Coors lite packed in ice in the slide top Coleman. Put the Coleman in the back of the truck.

Stop at Wal Mart and buy a new classic western shirt with black piping front and back.

Stop at the car show at the church down the road and check out the old classic cars. Share a few Coors with the old guys and their wives.

Redneck music at the roadside inn. A burger or two. Sing along if you wish.

Can't find a lady, choose a facsimile, true ladies are rare. Show off you brown polished Edwin Clapp boots by kicking up your heels on the dance floor.

Can't find that special lady yet?

 Alone in back of the truck out on a desolate country road near a cornfield. Watch the stars, drink Coors and play your harmonica. Sleep in the back of the truck.

Sober, drive home alone.

The truck won't start. The radio was on when you fell asleep to Hank Williams "Your Cheating Heart" you remember that. Now your watch says 3:02 it's pitch dark, it's AM of course. And foggy, with a wet cold mist. Looking up to the East about a thousand bright stars. The stars are reassuring waking up in the dark with a headache, thirsty, no more beer, all 12 are gone. Oh for a pepsi, or another hamburger.

There's that creaking moaning sound again that woke you. There's no Smith and Wesson in the tool chest, It's at home. Grab the metal hand axe, no flash light either.

Walk back to the church, the Lutheran church where the car show was. The creaking sound is approaching, no cars out tonight just that wobbling creaking whining and the occasional whiny of a horse.

There's a picnic ground here behind the Church and about one thousand graves silently sloping up the hill towards the West shining in the starlight. The Moon is down, just the stars and the glow of the fog over the tombstones.

It's a black buggy. Amish. A farmer dressed in all black. His name is Jacob Miller and he is starting his day. He polishes the Amish tombstones in all four Lutheran grave yards here in Hartville before Sunday services. He has a flash light. We are looking for the grave of Carole Yoder. He will give me a ride back to my Family's farm after he finishes polishing the eight markers here. Carole Yoder is the last.

Carole Yoder was a child when she died. June 1889 to May 1894. I use a delicate piece of creamy colored Venetian lace Mr. Miller handed me to polish the oblong leaning sandstone marker. I rub very gently for the sandstone is crumbly and the writing is getting hard to read.

There are no cars or trucks out here on the road as we head up the hill in the black buggy towards my house. Mr. Miller doesn't say much. Amish are that way. He does like my Edwin Clapp boots. He only wears black, boots too.

Why do we always seem to have trouble with our trucks on a moonless night at 3AM? It was lucky that Mr. Miller came along this foggy old road over looking the grave yard at the Lutheran Church. I could have been stuck out here for a long time.

The horse is black too. These Amish are fond of Black. The buggy creaks as we slowly move through the night. Behind to the East there about a million stars out. Soon I hope to see Venus the morning star. It's always reassuring to see the bright morning star Venus. It's a good sign that things are going to be OK. A few stars reflect in the polished wood handle of the hand axe that I clutch in my lap as Mr. Miller and I bounce along this old Country road toward the farm.