Cowboy Problems
Now, ideally you want to ride into town with the sun behind you, so you’re like to a silhouette. Heightens the mystery. Problem is, most prob’ly you’ll be travelin’ west, because that’s the general direction you’re travelin’ if you’re any kind of man, which means that, to have the sun at your back, you’d have to ride into town in the mornin’, and the mornin’ ain’t no good at all. Lot of towns, the saloon won’t even be open yet. Then what are you supposed to do all day? It only takes so long to hitch a horse to a hitchin’ post. You can rent a room from whoever the local innkeeper is, and you can take a nap, but I’ll tell you it’s damned hard to take a nap in a mysterious fashion.
Maybe you get lucky and the town is off a windin’ pass or some such, so that after the twists and turns you end up headin’ east into town in your overall journey west, and then you can ride in at sundown, which not only makes you a silhouette, but the colors are good. That’s the best way. That’s the way you want it. But there ain’t a lot of towns like that. So far I ain’t seen but one.
Boy, that was a good one, though. People stood on their porches starin’ at me as I sat back in my saddle with the horse walkin’ along as easy as could be. Little blond kids pointed their fingers. And there I was, movin’ slowly in, starin’ fixed at nobody but straight ahead at whatever broodin’ thoughts you had to presume were in my head at that moment in time. Maybe said Ma’am to one young flower, ignored the rest. Perfect. Now, that was a perfect town, and a perfect entrance. But that’s the only town I’ve seen like that. I think about it an awful lot.
Now, you could quiet-like circle around a town to the west side to get the same effect, ridin’ in with the sun settin’ behind you, but then everybody thinks, Who is this fella, headin’ east? What kind of man heads east? And some of ‘em prob’ly saw you circlin’ around, and then people write you off on the spot. A move like that lacks authenticity. What’s he, about to make a U-turn when he goes? And if there are some people there who need the sure hand of a man who’s half law and half outlaw, well, you’ve prob’ly lost that gig already.
I hear tell that some men just stick to travelin’ in the traditional Westerly direction but ride in at sundown, because the colors are good, anyway, and the hell with it. They figure, Who cares what’s at your back? But I know they must regret it. Because then the sun’s in their eyes and maybe they get that intense squint, which ain’t a bad thing by any means, but with the light behind it, it’s the town’s got a heightened mystery, which ain’t the idea at all. I don’t imagine any of those men ever get anywhere worth gettin’. Prob’ly blind, most of ‘em.
Course, it’s fine to leave town that way, sun in your face. In fact, that’s the way you’re supposed to go, hardly able to see a damned thing ahead of you, because everybody knows that your long-term future is uncertain. But you sure don’t want to show up like that. Because there’s a difference between the long term and the short.
I bet this is why, when it comes down to it, a lot of cowboys will ride into town at about high noon. Because life is a compromise. If you can’t have the sun behind you, and you don’t want it ahead of you, then you put it right overhead. And prob’ly the saloon is open, or soon will be. And the sun bein’ way up there, it tends to be hot, which makes people a little dizzy in the head. Which is to say that the general populace is already full of wonderment at that time of day. Besides, things tend to happen in towns at high noon. Maybe if somebody’s shootin’ somebody, you can get in on it. If you can show up just a few minutes before noon is high, that gives you opportunity.
Problem is, what do you do after the gunfight? Nobody ever thinks about that. The shootin’ takes five minutes, tops, and then it’s a long time until sundown. You mosey into the saloon, sure, and people’ll freeze up and watch you, right in the middle of their card games, as you call for a whiskey. But they’re not gonna stay frozen like that all the way through dinner. Which leads to a lot of small talk. Cattle birth rates, rainfall, various models of saddle blankets.
I’m tellin’ you it’s a dilemma.
And then there’s the big-picture timin’. If it’s eighty-two miles, say, from one town to the next, are you supposed to pace yourself just so, so that your arrival time is precisely high noon or sunup or whenever you decide on? It ain’t like these horses come with speeds you can set. And if you go at whatever your natural pace is, chances are you’ll show up in the middle of who knows when. Which makes it look like you don’t even know your business.
One thing I’ve tried is findin’ a spot a short ways off that you can stop at whenever you do get to the area, and then you can figure the distance between you and the town and time it out so that you leave that spot at the right moment to get you to town at the right moment. Because the distances are short, it ain’t as hard to figure. So that works, long as nobody local happens by and says to themselves, What’s this dude waitin’ for? There’s a town right there! Because if that happens then you might as well skip that town and go on to the next. So I’ve done this technique, but it doesn’t always go right.
I’ll tell you what I’ve been takin’ to doin’ lately: I’ve been showin’ up in the middle of the night.
One advantage is the night’s pretty long, so you can time it out easier in the big picture. But I know what you’re thinkin’: That’s pretty damn mysterious, all right, but it ain’t like anybody can see you ride in if they’re asleep. Which is true. But that’s not my point. I show up in the middle of the night because nobody’s lookin’, see, and then I hole up somewhere. Like under a porch or somethin’. And I stay there until the mornin’, and I stay there through the mornin’, and high noon, and through the afternoon, too. My horse is hitched to the saloon hitchin’ post, meanwhile, which raises some questions—mystery and so forth. And sure it raises, on my end, the additional question of rattlesnakes, bein’ tucked in down there, but in my experience everything raises the question of rattlesnakes. You just answer that question however you have to answer it. The bigger concern is the boredom, but it turns out boredom ain’t as borin’ if nobody’s watchin’ you get bored. It’s like that out between towns, you know, if you’re out there for long enough. You’re on your own, no entrances or exits to worry about—and all of it fades. There’s nothin’ to think about at all, except, I suppose, your shadowy past that you never talk about, which eventually disappears from your mind, too. Which is kind of nice, as a matter of fact. So it’s the same under the porch. I’ll just lie under that porch chewin’ on some jerky and hopefully settin’ down all these concerns for a spell, thinkin’ about nothin’ much except maybe a little bit of that shadowy past, and I’ll be at peace.
Sometimes I wish there weren’t any towns to ride into or out of.
Well, anyway, to complete the picture: once the afternoon is over and I see nobody’s watchin’, I’ll slip out from under that porch and dust myself off and mosey right across the street to my horse, right through all the people who’ve been taken aback by my presence all of a sudden, and I’ll be starin’ at nothin’ but straight ahead at my broodin’ thoughts and such. Maybe nod my head at one young boy standin’ there with his mouth wide open. I won’t say pardner, but that’s what the nod means, and that’s what he’ll hear. Then I’ll unhitch my horse and swing up in one easy motion onto her back and turn toward that settin’ sun. Without a word, I’ll turn and go.
You know that move leaves ‘em wonderin’.
It does have its downsides. You hardly do ever get to shoot anybody, for one thing. And it’s been a long time since I’ve joined a posse or chased after any rampagin’ Indians. But I’ve done all that stuff, and it’s never quite like you picture it anyhow. There’s always some standin’ around, waitin’ for a shot man to stutter out his significant last words, or somebody in the posse brings up somethin’ off-topic while you ride along, or your backside gets sore, or you realize the Indians have a point and prob’ly should be rampagin’, or a million other things that mess up the picture. It’s never perfect, is what I’m tryin’ to say.
And you know what? I think that’s why we’re here in this life—to get somethin’ right. Just perfectly right for once. Just for one time in your whole damn life.
Which is why I take all this time thinkin’ about it.
Meanwhile, ridin’ off from a townful of people watchin’, ridin’ off and starin’ into a sun, which is really the future that you really can’t clearly see—that there might be the opportunity. It might be your chance to stop plannin’ for perfection and, just for a few minutes, live it. And then you get to head into the country, into open country. For a little while, there’s no town ahead, and nothin’ to worry about. You’re in a place where there’s nothin’ to get right or wrong nohow.
David Ebenbach is the author of ten books of fiction, poetry, and non-fiction, winners of such awards as the Drue Heinz Literature Prize, the Juniper Prize, and the Orison Books’ Fiction Prize. He teaches at Georgetown University. His books include: How to Mars, Miss Portland, Some Unimaginable Animal, The Artist’s Torah, and The Guy We Didn’t Invite to the Orgy.