A Real-Life Cowboy in the Middle of Birch Park
by Meg Spring
The man was a real-life, hay bale hoisting, spur wielding, bandana-handkerchief-on-the-collar cowboy. She could tell on account of the fact that his boots were absolutely caked in manure. She liked that, though. It was authentic. Charming, even. She couldn’t see to be sure, but, somehow, she knew in her heart that he had a revolver—a preventative measure, just in case he might need to scare off any stray coyotes—and a farmer’s tan hidden underneath his Carhart.
He said, “Howdy, ma’am,” and she was certain he was the kind of man whose two best friends were a sheepdog and a horse named Baby, or Lady, or Princess. Maybe all three, but Princess Baby Lady seemed like a bit much, even in her lovestruck state. She could picture him living alone in the same ranch house where he was born, taking afternoon naps in the hayloft, whispering sweet encouragements to dairy cows during milkings.
She knew farmers never really herded cattle anymore, what with all the fences and tractor trailers. Still, she would bet her favorite gold earrings that he’d camped out on the range at least once—just the man, his dog, and Princess Baby Lady, sharing a can of beans over an open fire. He had probably used his dog as a pillow, the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes, surrounded by a bunch of Jersey steers. The mare must have functioned as an alarm clock, nipping his hat right off of his face when he slept in too late.
She asked him how he was doing this morning, and he said, “Mighty fine, ma’am.” He was respectful like that. He must have been the kind of man to always call a lady “ma’am,” especially his own mother. He had definitely never called her “Mom.” It would have always been “Mama” or “ma’am,” and he would have been the kind of boy who kissed her on the cheek every evening at bedtime, just before saying his prayers.
He sat down right next to her, even though there was an empty bench on the other side of the path. She wanted to hold his hand, wondered if the calluses would irritate her clammy palm. He brushed his thumb and forefinger down his mouth, smoothing out his handlebar mustache, and scuffed his dirty boot on the grass below. A chunk of cow patty fell off, leaving behind the faint stench of authenticity. Her eyelashes fluttered as she watched his lips move. She had never kissed a man with a mustache before, never kissed a man with a beard or a goatee, either. She was sure it must tickle, but that rugged, manly prickling would only enhance the experience. It must be like kissing John Wayne, she thought, if John Wayne hadn’t been clean-shaven in nearly all of his movies and, also, if he hadn’t been a racist homophobe in real life. She felt it in her chest; this cowboy’s kisses came prejudice free.
The man stared at her, his lovely head cocked to the left. She blinked at his barely crooked nose and realized that he must have been saying something the whole time his mustache had been moving. She asked him to repeat himself, and he smiled. He tilted his head to the other side, looked pointedly at Mr. Vinny and his popsicle cart, and asked, “May I treat you to an ice cream, miss?” Oh, God. Miss.
She didn’t want to appear overeager. She paused, marking her place in the paperback Louis L’Amour she had forgotten to read, ladylike and deliberate. “Yes, sir. I think you may.” He stood and offered his hand. She took it. Callused—just as she thought.
Meg Spring is a poet, a writer, and an English tutor from the Midwest. She loves people and animals, especially if they're willing to read a story with her. Her fiction has been published in Moon City Review. She can be found on Twitter @MegWritesOkay.