The Cowboy and The Bartender

More diaries of a traveler.  Moving North, South, East, or West. Wherever the wind blows, however much money I have.  Sell a pair of socks in Montana, work in a dish pit in Oregon. Of course we have set plans.  We have an idea of where we want to go, and where we want our souls to be. Nothing is set, except for death.  Everything between birth and death is not predetermined. Make your own path.

I learned this the hard way as a young child. I would always follow the herd and make friends based on what the norm was. All the boys played football, I joined.  We ran away from girls, as did I.  It was not until I reached my college years, or after my real first break up with a longtime girlfriend, did I start doing things my own way.  To this day I have people, including close friends and family, telling me I am “random.”  I have always been looking for that type of recognition.  I blaze my own trail.  Fuck the rest. 

I once ran into a cowboy northeast of San Francisco.  His name was Peter; I had always thought that a weird name for a cowboy.  Aging rapidly but only 32, his leathers had shown his consistent, hard work. His gloves hinted at the long hours of work put in since his decision to live off the land.  The discoloration of his teeth was consistent with long years of cigarette smoking or chew, I needn’t ask which. He was about 5’5 with a well-trimmed beard that could only be that perfect with a straight blade razor. His hat was a beige color and had a small rawhide rope around it. I do not know anything about hat materials or how they are made.  All I know is what I saw and the rawhide rope was tied off with a brass piece shaped like a star, but not a regular star but similar to the shape you would find on the key or compass of a map.  It really was a beautiful hat. His dark brown eyes suggested strength but loss in the past.  His demeanor was very humble, happy, but not boastful, in the least.  

I had met this gentleman in a bar called Matilda’s.  I had wandered in after a trip up to Petaluma for some beer drinking and debauchery in San Francisco. I was only years into being legally obliged to consume alcohol in the United States.  I always thought the drinking laws in the US were complete bullshit, I still think a majority of the laws are outdated.  Time for a makeover, US.  Anyway, I plopped down for a drink at this bar top, there were only six stools, no tables, that was it.  I had always wondered about small places like this, how they ever made it.  I had a background in business and from what I was taught, there was hardly enough business to have this place open year round, to pay anyone to run it, or to restock the shelves. The way I figured it to still be open is that the building was owned, the owner ran it, and the stock they had was so limited that it was only suited to the neighborhood regulars, like Peter.

“Crown on the rocks, and a Coors back,” peter mumbled at the bartender. “Never changin are ya Pete?” asked the bartender. “It’s how I have always been since I could remember.” I had never known anyone to order whiskey with a beer back, except my father and myself.  Most men didn’t really enjoy the taste of whiskey and only wanted the forgetfulness that accompanied a few drinks.  I could tell peter was not like that. He liked his smoke strong, his alcohol stronger, and from what I could assume, his women stronger. “I’ll have another Jack Daniels, if you would sir,” I spoke timidly.

 “You aren’t from here are ya, son.” How in the hell do bartenders always know!  I guess it is their job to know. 

“No sir, I am up here on business.” Pete replied, “What type of business are you in.”

“I work in restaurants, some lodging and accommodations. How about yourself?”

Pete looked around at me and the bartender; it was just the three of us.  “Pete runs a ranch about 13 miles outside of town,” said the bartender. “Mainly cattle, some pigs, chickens, horses, some grapes as well. I try to keep it simple,” said Pete, somewhat glaring at the bartender. 

“Hard work I would suppose,” I said this with no idea what I was talking about, trying to be as general as possible to begin a more in depth conversation.

“Yes, it is.  After the years, you begin to get into the habit of waking up before sunrise and falling asleep, tired as all hell, then waking up and doing it over again, it is cyclical.” Pete continued to look around the bar, as soon as he spoke those words it seemed as though something he had not understood resurfaced and he finally made sense of it all. 

It was around 3:30 in the afternoon. Pete, the bartender, and I were still the only ones drinking.  A homeless had wandered in amidst our conversation and settled at the opposite end of the bar, stinking of all hell.  The bartender went up and asked “what’s your poison?” 

“Give me your cheapest, strongest liquor.” Whenever you hear that before 9:00pm, it’s no good.  The bartender poured the drink and walked away to resume conversation with the new companions of the day.  I spoke up, “How do you keep this old place running with such limited seating?” 

“Your speaking like a businessman, don’t. I have owned this place for over 30 years, my pop before that. We have only the essentials and we don’t mix cocktails.  I ain’t no Tom Cruise.” I thought to myself, a bit of an outdated comparison but I get it. 

“You don’t get any problems with break ins or wanders messin with regulars?” He laughed, “I am surprised you walked in, we have a reputation in this town. If we don’t like ya, you don’t stay.”

I figured that this must be a good thing that he was telling me this, otherwise I wouldn’t have stayed, I assumed. “Now Hal stop trying to scare the kid, he barley looks old enough to drink.  Did you check his ID! He could be an undercover,” retorted Pete. 

Jesus, did Hal get angry damned quickly. He turned a bit red, infuriated, I was sure. He let his big fist slam down in front of my whiskey, a small portion actually spilled out of the glass. He was a big man and I was somewhat intimated about what was going to happen next in this very small bar.  I scanned for my exits, but there was only one way out.  Through Pete.  “You trying to run me out of business, kid?”

“I’m just here for a drink, I’ll be on my way if you want, or I could stay for another whiskey,” I said rather coolly for the situation at hand. 

Hal straightened up, walked over the homeless thing, I couldn’t tell gender, and he told it, “Get out and never come back.” His voice was so shrill when he said this. For a big man like Hal, weighing well over 300 pounds, it was not the most intimidating voice, but usually, you obey when a man three times your size tells you to get. Slowly the homeless walked out, never making eye contact with any of us. In the pit of my stomach I felt somewhat bad for the lonesome looking creature, but I was sure glad it was not me.

I finished my drink and began settling up with Hal when Pete looked over with his brown eyes and inquired, “What’s your name traveler?” “George Harring, but my friends call me Thomas.” I am not sure why I said that but Pete knew exactly what I meant. Keeping my anonymity but at the same time giving some slack on the line. Hal being the big and kind of dumb oaf he was said, “It’s been a pleasure George.” As I began walking out of the bar Pete swiveled on his chair and with a tip of his hat said, “Enjoy that life of yours Thomas."