Jennie’s week of training with Gail went better than Guy had expected, although her job wasn’t an all too complicated one. She picked up readily and never had to ask Gail twice where an item should be placed, when and where to request purchase orders and how to keep up with customers tabs, some of which were regularly tardy. Gail had a list of the lackadaisical patrons’ home phone numbers taped up on the wall behind the cash register. Monthly, she would call and harass their wives who could dole out a worse verbal punishment to their husbands than Gail was possible of and soon enough, their tabs were balanced out only to be in debt again.

As customers came and went to buy their various vetting, feed and tack needs, Gail introduced Jennie proudly. “Jim, Rick, come over and meet Jennie. I’m gettin’ traded out for a smarter and prettier model. But you boys keep yer hands off her, she’s marrying Larry’s boy, Pete.”

Not one man that came in that week didn’t hear the same line from Gail. Soon, the word spread and even cowhands from Crowheart made their way out to Moore’s Feed Store much more often than usual. Wives and girlfriends came in to buy headstalls and saddle blankets that they didn’t need just to eye down their competition. Jennie was pleasant to the women, but a little resentful of causing the drama, after all, she was in love with Pete. Linda even dropped in. She didn’t introduce herself, just looked at Jennie sidelong, made a lap around the aisles and raced out faster than a barrel horse.

When he wasn’t on calving watch, Pete would drop Jennie off at the feed store just after Guy had woken the place up. They were a funny looking couple, he thought. Compared to Jennie, Pete was a stick in the mud. Although it was winter, she had a warm summer’s glow on her skin. Pete was a pale, shorter version of his father with already thinning hair that he desperately tried to keep concealed under his sweat-stained hat. All that they had in common were their icy blue eyes that eagerly warmed when they looked at each other.

Guy found their affection endearing. He caught himself reminiscing his courtship days with Linda. Guy had given a halfhearted go at saddle bronc riding in high school. He swore up and down to Linda that he only rode those rank horses so that he could watch her kick up dust and whip her sorrel mare into those lurching leaps around the barrels. She was a solidly built half native, with dark green eyes and shining black hair. Her grit spooked him a little at first, but he managed to win her over with his soft-spoken charm. Guy was known for his reticence, but Linda was electrifying. She was wild, and everyone had wanted her. Linda liked bringing Guy out to parties to show off, he was handsome, and she couldn’t get enough of making the other boys squirm with jealousy. He had hoped marrying her would tame her down, and she had hoped to liven him up.

Soon it was spring, the busiest time of year for the feed store. The valley thawed and revitalized as everyone jokingly asking each other if their marriages made it through the long winter. Jennie was able to help relieve much of the grunt work and stress that Guy usually had to take on himself. The store’s revenue was noticeably improving. She helped him in the feed room as much as she could, reorganized the front of the store and cleaned the place up. As the days grew longer and his mood lightened, Guy began visiting his father more often. Kurt liked to tease his son for escaping his family to come drink scotch with him when so many years ago he had escaped his father to see his, then girlfriend, Linda.

He lived in isolation in a cabin just south of Crowheart. For most of his life, Kurt seemed to be powered by his contempt for the world in general, but with age, his vitreal softened. Guy noticed that lately, he had grown more openly nostalgic. Instead of politics, Kurt had talked about hunting trips, Guy’s first oversized trout and even spoke of Guy’s mother, covertly tearing under his scratched lenses. He had books stacked on his fireside table, something that Guy wasn’t sure was a lifelong habit or a new one. It was an unusually warm evening and the sky was clear. They decided to sit out on the porch while they continued to pour each other drinks. As Kurt spoke, he entertained himself by chuckling at the old stories he recounted. Guy found himself thinking that his father had sat on this porch for thousands of nights of his life. He thought about how many lasts this cabin had seen. Kurt’s life was full of last times. There was a last time he had woken to his wife and told her that he loved her. There was a last time he had heard Guy take off his boots to sneak out in the dark. There would be a last drink with his father, a last argument with his father, a last time he would hide knowing that his father was painfully lonely.

Kurt abruptly announced that he was done for the evening. He was still on his early to rise, early to bed schedule, even though he no longer had anywhere to be. He said goodbye and let the screen door slam behind him. Guy opened a beer and pulled forward to shut the property gate. He liked driving alone at night, the window cracked as he matched each inhale of his cigarette with a sip of Coors. The lightness he had felt over the seeming rebirth of the store dissipated when he left his father’s cabin. Kurt had let the feed store occupy nearly all of his time and claimed that leisure was for rich men, not working men. Without the feed store, Kurt had nothing left except misery and few and far between visitors. Guy had suddenly begun to worry about what would be left of himself on his last day locking the door to Moore’s Feed Store.

 Guy Moore had driven the same mundane road to and from the feed store for forty years, ever since he was old enough to drive. His father had owned Moore’s Feed Store and given it to him when he was too haggard to handle the heavy feed bags, although it pained him to abandon the comfort he felt in rote conversations with the same old timers he had known for years. Guy embraced the changing conditions of the road from snow, ice, down-pouring rains, autumn leaves and the warm glowing asphalt of the summer months. As he watched the seasons change he became more conscious of the grains of sand collecting heavily on the bottom of his hourglass. With each passing year, he was closer to becoming his father. Charles, Guy’s son, was in his late teens and expressed no interesting in taking over the family business, which hurt Guy deeply.

His early morning routines were sacred to him. Guy woke well before his family, started the coffee pot and sat in his home office, allowing his senses to rise and yawn in preparation for the day to come. He was serenaded by the report of tragic world news on the radio and the tantalizing drip, drip, drip of coffee brewing. Charles and Guy’s wife, Linda, knew to let him sip his coffee in peace for at least an hour before approaching him with their storm of complaints. His marriage had faltered when Charles was younger, but they had stuck it out for their son’s sake. Guy tried his best not to acknowledge the failure but their income barely covered the mortgage, and soon Charles would need tuition for college. This morning he wasn’t in the mood to be berated, so he quickly poured his coffee into a thermos to sip on his drive to work.

The feed store was in an old building beneath a grain mill that hadn’t been used in decades. It was quaint, he had adorned the walls with mounts from his hunts. Each fall he would take time for himself and escape to the nearby wilderness. Mostly he just sat by the campfire listening to the silence but would eventually hunt up an elk. The heat had stopped working in his truck, he was in a hurry to get inside. He fumbled his keys with his numb hands and unlocked the door, which had to be kicked at the bottom to open, something he should fix but never got around to. Like clockwork, just as Guy switched on the lights, Mrs. Dillinger would pull up. He would greet her outside and light her a cigarette before going back in to straighten the items on the shelves. Gail Dillinger had been working the cash register since his father had freshly painted the walls and was as aged as that same peeling paint. Although sometimes crass, Gail was as sweet as 75 years of hard Wyoming life could allow her to be. She was as close to a mother for Guy as any woman could be. His own had passed when he was too young to know her. It had snowed and thawed a good bit over the weekend and Guy made note of the mud splattered from the wheels on her old truck. “Mornin’ Gail. Have a little trouble out of your driveway?”

“Goddamn dirt road. Nearly spun my wheels three feet deep. Should have paved that son of bitch years ago, but Bill could never spend a dime on something so practical.”

Bill, Gail’s husband, had been dead for ten or so years. What money he had saved hadn’t stretched too far, but she had wanted to keep working to occupy herself as long as possible, even though she could collect social security.

Guy lit a cigarette and handed it to her. “I had about the same trouble,” he said, “but not as bad as you I guess.”

“Funny you mention my luck, Guy.” Gail said as she exhaled, “I gotta tell you somethin’ before I lose the courage.”

Guy knew what she would say, he had seen it coming. Her eyes were getting poor and she could hardly keep her energy up for the long hours. “You’re not leaving me, Gail, are you?” Guy asked.

“I hate to say it, little Guy, but I admit it. I’m old. I can’t do this shit anymore, figure it’s about time for me to give in, become one of those old ladies you see coming in here for cat food, take up knitting or something boring like that.”

“Well, I’m ashamed to say I had a feeling.” Guy paused for a second and took in a breath of cold air. “I understand. Can you give me two more weeks, ’til I can find a replacement?”

“Of course. But I can guarantee you won’t be able to replace a woman like me, that’s for damn sure.” Gail laughed, stomped out her cigarette and unashamedly let out a harsh cough. “It’s cold out, get your long-legged ass in before we both freeze to death.”

Guy obliged, turned the handle, kicked at the bottom of the door and held it open for Gail. He hurriedly went out to the feed room that had two large loading bays and sat on a stack of pallets to light his own cigarette. Guy sat still for a moment but fussed as he held his tears back in that peculiar way that he could be just short of crying, flaring his nostrils and taking in a few short breaths. By the time he had finished his cigarette, he had collected himself and went on to count the stacks of grain and hay bales out back before making calls for delivery, as well as arrange the special orders he’d make for his longtime customers.

Guy stayed stuck in his head for the next couple of days. Linda noticed and groaned to her friends about it over the phone. She never much liked him anyway, and particularly resented his depressive moods. Tractor Supply, a corporate farm and ranching supply store, had been offering for a year or more to buy the feed store with plans to demolish the old building and build their own Goliath of a store. Linda had begged Guy to sell. She complained for most of their marriage how he never took her on vacations and with the money they’d get she figured she could at least get a beach trip out of him. Lander was always a mom and pop run town. Guy had hoped he would die before seeing the day that would change.

Larry Baines backed his rig up to the bay for Guy to load a couple of pallets worth of alfalfa cubes. Every Thursday Larry met at a local diner to sip coffee, gossip and shoot the shit with a few other bowlegged and leather-skinned “cattle slingers” as they called themselves. He told Guy that he had heard Gail was leaving. “What a shame.” he said, “We’re all gonna miss sein’ her around here.” Guy nodded in agreement.

As Larry was pulling out with his load, he stopped the truck and yelled out of his window to Guy. “My boy Pete met himself a girl at UW. He moved her out here as soon as she graduated. She was a semester early! Smart girl. I’ll tell her to come in about the opening, she’s been looking for something to do.”

Just a couple of hours after Larry left the lot, Guy was surprised to see a little blonde come looking for him as he was stacking bags of grain. She had a blinding smile and confidently presented her hand. “You must be Guy. I’m Jennie. Larry said you were looking for a hand, well, here’s your hand!”

He was taken aback, he hadn’t really expected the girl to show up, or to be as bold and charming as she was. He shook her hand, introduced himself and asked if she had any experience with cash registers and ranching supplies. “My dad has been in the ranching business my whole life, and I just got my degree in Accounting.”

“Alright,” Guy said, “Come in tomorrow, and Gail can show you the ropes, if she approves, you’re hired.”

Guy was more than pleased. He knew he would hire Jennie but still hoped to have Gail’s good graces. When he made it home that evening, he went out to the horse pen where Linda was tending to the horses that she doted over. He told her that he had hired Pete Dugger’s fiancé to work the counter at the feed store.

“Lord, what is she, twenty? Whoever would marry Pete has gotta have a half empty head. But I don’t guess you were thinking about her smarts, were you? She must have nice tits.” Linda laughed at her own statement.

Guy took offense, “Linda, be straight. She has a college degree and grew up around cattle. The store could use a little youthful optimism, it’ll be a nice change. I’m sure you will like her, at least you won’t have to see Gail.” Guy loved Gail but figured that his own statement would make Linda happy. Gail and Linda never got along. Gail thought that he deserved better and she made no strides to hide her opinion.

“Do what you want Guy like you always do. Just don’t bother me when I’m down here with my horses again. You know the rule.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Guy said sarcastically over his shoulder as he turned toward the house. Maybe he could hold off selling the feed store for a few more years, he thought.

Lorraine lit a cigarette half way up the sloping hill to the sewage dump. She had to take a break, a breath of smoke, the shit bucket was heavy that day. Jason craps more than an overfed hog when he visits. She thought, He seems to store it all up while he’s locked up. Doesn’t surprise me, I wouldn’t want to expose my ass in jail either.

She glanced down and noticed that she was wearing her house shoes. Fuck. She thought. They were meant to stay clean, she couldn’t stand being barefoot in her home, or anywhere for that matter. By the time she reached the dump, her cigarette had ashed its way to the butt. Lorraine threw the butt behind her after checking to see that no one was watching, then promptly lit another.

Jason, her twenty seven year old son, had been in and out of jail since he was seventeen. Beaumont, Texas wasn’t a great place to raise a kid, especially with the paycheck that she earned at 7-11. Bill had made good money working the offshore oil rigs, but went off the deep end when the market tanked and resigned himself to drown in cheap pints of whisky. He left when Jason was in his teens, ended up somewhere low rent around the Casinos at Lake Charles. She had hoped his father leaving would be as much of a relief for Jason as it had been for her, instead, he became hurriedly bitter.

Lorraine’s shifts at the gas station were from six P.M. until midnight, sometimes later if she could pick up the extra shift. She and Jason became strangers in the same house. At the age of sixteen Jason had managed to get a girl pregnant, but by the time the baby was born, he had gone to jail for the first time. He was pulled over for speeding, earning himself a DUI and possession charge for synthetic speed stashed in the console.

Being released from jail briefly tempered Jason’s indignation. Lorraine had hopes he would get his GED and a job, but Mindy, the girl that he had gotten pregnant, came by Lorraine’s house more and more often. Mindy demanded that Jason supply money for their two month old baby. Money that Jason didn’t have, money that Lorraine barely skimmed together, only for her grandson’s sake. The stress of the baby, his inability to find work with a criminal record and suspended driver’s license crippled what was left of Jason’s pride.

I hate doin’ this shit, Lorraine mumbled as her second cigarette came to an end while she hooked up the honey bucket hose to the sewage dump, lifting what felt like two hundred pounds of waste. It was a shame that she couldn’t get a trailer site with a direct sewage line but that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Lorraine saw Jim walking his two small dogs around the park. She smiled and nodded, he did the same as he walked on. Funny, she thought, a burly man like that with two tiny little fuckers. Maybe he’s gay. The tank emptied right before her arms gave out and dropped it, not because it made her tired, but because she felt like being dramatic.

The weight of her rolling tank felt much lighter, practically falling down the hill toward her old fifth wheel trailer. Honey bucket is such a ridiculous word for a shit tank. Nevertheless, it made her laugh to call it that. Her sister Denise had given her the trailer and set her up with a job working for a house cleaning service in San Marcos. Leaving Beaumont was a dream Lorraine always thought wasn’t possible, but Denise had a kind heart and most importantly, a little bit of money.

The housecleaning gig didn’t pan out for long. The woman running the service got married and decided the only house she’d ever clean again was her own. As quick as their employer was wed, Lorraine and the other gals were out of work and quickly approaching debt. Luckily she found a job at an Exxon station, but this time, Lorraine managed to get a daytime shift. She couldn’t handle the late hours anymore, she was older now, on the back side of her sixties.

Setting the shit tank in it’s place under the trailer, Lorraine looked at the watch that Bill had given her when things were okay back in Beaumont. It was later than expected. It was her first day at the Exxon. She wished she had gotten a little more sleep the night before. Whenever Jason shows up he paces in and out of the trailer for another beer and another beer and so on, slamming the door, rocking the trailer with every heavy step. He was constantly outside either berating or being berated by some trashy girlfriend he managed to keep.

Lorraine dressed quickly in the cramped back bedroom while Jason sat watching the television at high decibel.  She almost forgot her signature blue eyeshadow; She thought that it complemented her eyes but somehow never picked up that eyeshadow had been out of fashion for nearly 30 years. Lorraine turned off the television and looked herself over one last time. “Fuckin’ Jason!“ She slammed her oversized purse into the ground as she stepped out to find that her Camry was missing.

Irate, she gathered her things, lit a cigarette and started walking. The Exxon wasn’t too far, but she had to walk quickly to make it on time. God, I hope that son of a bitch leaves for good this time. The irony of calling her son a son of a bitch hit her suddenly as she took a long drag from her Winston and waited to cross the road. She had spent her whole life waiting. Waiting for a change, waiting for a chance, and waiting for love; all she ever got was a divorce, dead end jobs, a jailbird son, a shitty trailer and now, a stolen car.

As Sylvia returned to her Lexus, she was suddenly hit with a rush of exhaustion, much like a dust storm, a common occurrence in her part of the country. She felt a weakness in her legs as she had often felt when the exercise boom hit just before the big oil bust of the 80’s, the height of her amateur Tennis league days. Of course it could be the cancer, hell, I haven’t been able to take a full breath without coughing my lungs out in months. But this was a different type of exhaustion. Sylvia took the half breath that she had at her disposal and fell into the driver’s seat. As quickly as she sat, she reached into her bag and pulled out her Marlboro Light 100s. We deserve this, maybe even two this time. Sylvia had to ration her cigarettes since she had been diagnosed with small cell lung cancer. She allowed herself a cigarette in the morning, which she jokingly referred to as her “shit-cig”, paired with caffeine, it was the perfect recipe for her daily constitutional. In the evening, she allowed herself a “night-cig” to go hand in hand with her nightcap. On difficult days, Sylvia would indulge in an afternoon cigarette or two, but never too many, if she happened to want anymore, her bloody cough would keep her from lighting up.

 It was nearly 30 years before when the oil glut took the piss and vinegar out of the town, and suddenly she and everyone around her aged a little more rapidly. In the ten or so years between the oil bust of 86’ to the all-time price low of 98’ she and Marty moved into separate bedrooms and nearly drank their livers into oblivion, although their scotch choice was no longer top shelf.

The two of them, and generally everyone at the Racquet Club were all in denial of their financial losses. When they had to take a second mortgage out on their property, Sylvia was terrified of who the banker might  happen to know and if he would whisper the spectacle of their financial ruin into the wrong ear. Shortly before, Amy had been accepted to college, of course it would be unseen for her to attend a public institution, so she attended Texas Christian University in Fort Worth which cost around 25 grand a year at the time. Sylvia hoped she would skate through in four years and promptly get married and out of her immediate care, and most importantly, her bills.

Driving toward her house in “old Midland” Sylvia was aghast at the traffic on Garfield Street. This town has turned to complete shit, all these roughnecks move in here and think they own the town with their brand new cars that  they won’t be able to afford in five years. Since she had lived through a few booms and busts, she knew how to live conservatively enough to make it through the next bust. These new money idiots don’t know what’s coming, they’re gonna be broke off their ass spending money on shit they can’t afford. Since leaving the group therapy session she felt uneasy, and she always resorted to putting down the lower class of individuals that were moving into her neighborhood.

As Sylvia pulled into the garage of her town home, she could already hear her Yorkies yapping at the back door. Goddamn annoying little shits. She sat for a while before going in, cursing Marty for causing her to move into such a drab little town home. She and Marty had barely been married at all, it was mostly a marriage of convenience. She was the daughter of a prominent oil and gas family and when they met, he was working as a Landman for her father. At the beginning of their courtship and eventual marriage, Marty was very charming. It was the 70’s and oil prices were high and so was everyone. There were wild parties at the Petroleum Club, and Marty had introduced her to cocaine. It was in the throws of a wild snow filled flurry that they had conceived Amy. Sylvia was almost certain that was the only time that they had really had any sex, the few other times were forced out of a drunken mess. The disparity of her sex life left Sylvia abusing the drug until they could no longer afford her habits in the mid 80’s. When Marty finally left her, he ran away with a man who owned a boat. Last she heard he was sailing the Caribbean. It was no surprise to her that he was gay, in fact it would have been a relief if she wasn’t ashamed to show herself in their old social scene.

She greeted her dogs Lilly and Daisy as they leaped, spun and panted at her feet, named during her gardening phase from a few years back.  The afternoon had flown by and she was relieved that soon she could relax on her sun chair and wait for evening to allow her to go to sleep. Well I gave it a shot, at least Dr. Allen can’t say I didn’t try. Although she had enjoyed the company of the individuals she had met in her grief therapy group, she knew it was beneath her to be in their company.

Sylvia had only gone to the group therapy session during a “weak moment” as she called it. She had seen the flier leaving Dr. Allen’s office, the physician overlooking her cancer treatment, or lack there of in Sylvia’s case. Dr. Allen had expressed concern over her lack of pro-activeness in treating her lung cancer and recommended she seek counseling. She had simply refused to take on any chemotherapy or radiation. When asked why, Sylvia’s only response was in a state of complete lassitude, “Whats the point, I’m old and I’m done. That’s that.”

If only my mother knew about this. Sylvia laughed, it was the only humorous thought she had had in a couple of weeks. She sat in the parking lot outside of the Wilson building and checked again to make sure she didn’t see any familiar vehicles or people that would recognize her as she walked in. How would they know what office or even floor she was going on, unless a person was to follow her. Who would follow an old hag like me around? Her second humorous thought of the day. Shit. This may already be working for me. 

Sylvia quizzed herself on her story while arranging her belongings in her purse. You have lost a loved one, a husband. No, maybe a daughter. Too personal. We decided on a best friend. When did I start referring to myself as we? Doesn’t matter. She was a friend from childhood and you lost her suddenly, okay? After making sure the check book was accounted for, she decided her fake lost friend would be Julia, and that Julia had passed away suddenly in her sleep, unexpected heart failure. Just be sure not to say too much, let’s just listen to the others and see how this first day goes. Lets! I did it again, or should I say we. She laughed again and felt ready to leave the security of her Lexus.

It was a long walk to the front door and when Sylvia made it inside, she had not expected the terror of not knowing where to go. God forbid she ask for directions. To the left was a plaque with names of offices and departments. Relieved, she searched the list that seemed to have no organization to it whatsoever until she found it- Permian Counseling.

Lord, I bet they have drug addicts in this building too, probably just here for the free food. With a sigh she practically had to rein in, Sylvia made note of where she was to go. Floor 3, Suite 312. Floor 3, Suite 312. Floor 3, Suite 312. Repeating notable information seemed to help her remember. She was never sure why, but she had done it her whole life and after a while, no matter how uninteresting what needed to be remembered, the phrases became a kind of melody to be sung until it was no longer needed.

The halls were all stale and gave no comfort. Sylvia felt a sense of regret much sooner than she had expected, but that thought was cut short by the time her steps brought her to Suite 312. The flow of the room directed her to a desk where a young unkempt woman sat.

“Hello, I’m here for group.” Sylvia said with hesitation, she figured everyone felt uncomfortable on the first day and that almost put her at ease.

“Sign in please, I can show you around after I get your payment.” The woman’s name tag said Kristen, and Sylvia noticed she had an engagement ring. Silly, she thought, women could never get a husband, much less a man to go with them in her days as a debutante dressing as Kristen had. She pictured what this newly engaged woman’s life was like, a few out of wedlock children had to be in the picture for sure, this Kristen probably had to hold a gun up to the man’s head to get a proposal. Sylvia handed the young woman her check and followed her down the hall.

“Alright, this way is the bathroom if you need it. Over there’s some coffee and water, and in the group room you will have snacks.”

A-Ha. The food for the addicts. I knew it. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Sylvia chastised her cynical self. We’re paying a lot of money and we’re not going to get anything out of this if we keep being cynical. She had come to terms with her third person references and decided to let them stay in her inner dialogue, who could judge her anyway?

“Your group will meet in this room, you are a little early so just wait until the others show up. Let me know if you need anything.” Kristen disappeared quickly, and Sylvia was left to enter the room on her own. The room had a nice feeling from the second she entered, which surprised her. Although it was a cheaply decorated room, it was warm, and relaxing. There were no overhead lights, just a number of little lamps, maybe one too many, that lined the room accompanied by little stiff chairs surrounding a small table with the bowl of snacks. A large black woman sat waiting as if she had been there for hours, but comfortably so. She seemed to have been installed at the same time as the feel-good decor on the wall behind her. Sylvia nodded and smiled. Floor 3, Suite 312. Floor 3, Suite 312. She allowed her mind to repeat the numbers in an effort to comfort herself.

A small drably dressed man not much younger than herself entered the room and energetically discarded his tote bags and sweater, “You must be Sylvia! I’m John- welcome to group, I’ll be leading our discussions, we’re so glad to have you here!” Sylvia shook the hand offered her and though her face said “Thanks”, her mind became worrisome as she took her seat against the wall. Good Lord, please tell me this isn’t going to end up being a bunch of hippy bullshit. Maybe this is a meeting for a Cat Steven’s fan club, or wasn’t he a Muslim now? Yousef Muhammid I think it is, oh hell, how should I know. Just one day. Try it out just once, then we’re off the hook, a Scotch bottle could listen to me bitch if I ever felt the need. I could go for some Scotch right about now.

While Sylvia was planning her date with Glenlivet a few more people entered the room that no longer felt as comforting. Everyone seemed to know each other and it felt more like she was fulfilling a civic duty serving on a Jury of her peers. There were hispanics, blacks, young girls… even an older man walked in and took a seat. What will we all discuss? She thought, I’ve never talked about myself in anyway that wouldn’t be socially expected of a lady, much less discussed my emotions with strangers! She had assumed that the group would be mostly feminine, drawing from her personal experience that men would rather do the dishes than be open to the idea of talking about their feelings.

John welcomed everyone and motioned to the young woman on his right. “Elizabeth, how was your weekend?” Elizabeth smiled nervously and fiddled with the pen that she held in her hand. “It was an okay weekend, I spent it at my mother’s house… she was easy to get along with mostly, but it feels like she is never happy with me. Like, everything I do is wrong, but there’s no right way to do it!” As soon as the mother was mentioned an outpouring of comments about mothers came from the once quiet room. “Mmhmmm! I heard that girl! Shit, If I said the sky is blue, my momma would tell me I need to get my eyes fixed!” There was laughter from the circle of chairs, but Sylva sat in silence as anecdotes filled the space of the room about pesky mothers and wanting daughters. Story after store, she was surprised to hear that these daughters were so concerned about their relationships with their mothers. These were grown women, what did they expect? It was endearing that they were all so engaged with their parents, but it seemed simple to her that these women could just keep their interactions with their mothers to a minimum.

That’s what Sylvia had done. She had married and created a new life and family with Marty and their daughter Amy. As soon as her mother had been widowed and became an issue, she hired a nurse to live in with her. I guess these people can’t afford assistive care, what a shame. Her thoughts went on. Well, certainly I couldn’t have cared for her! I had my own things going on back then, Amy was in every activity imaginable, and the horse shit, it was never ending. Every weekend with the goddamn horse shows, I was Amy’s private chauffeur, how could I expect to be a caregiver as well?

Sylvia came back to the attention of the room and noticed that a hispanic man was now discussing his weekend with the group. She realized she would be expected to speak soon and felt her heartbeat take on a more impressive frequency. The man seemed sad but also confident, in fact, that was how everyone in the group seemed. Wasn’t this class supposed to be a group of depressed people? Everyone seemed normal to Sylvia aside from the obvious sociocultural differences, but she still wasn’t sure why any of them, even herself were in this group. The hispanic man talked about losing his home and the in and out nature of his cohabitants in the group living home, particularly a man he called Melvin. “This guy, man he sleeps all damn day and keeps us all up at night screaming at the walls, they say he hears things but I think all he can hear is himself screaming!” Well. That certainly makes living alone seem glamorous. John asked the man how he was handling the stressful nature of his home environment, the man grumbled and said it’d been difficult not being able to drink himself to sleep but that it was okay, “It’s not Melvin’s fault he hears things, he just can’t afford the meds, I don’t blame him, I just miss the quiet.”

Missing quiet in a home was something that Sylvia hadn’t thought of since Marty and Amy had been gone. Amy had been gone for nearly twenty years and had since been replaced by two little Yorkies. Marty had left only five years ago, even though it felt closer to ten years since she had been with him.

“And what about you Sylvia, how are you doing?” John’s question stunned her. How am I doing? What kind of question is that! Sylvia thought about what to say and what not to say. She looked around the room, everyone was listening.

“Well. I’ve been fine, just fine.” There was a shame in her answer, but Sylvia didn’t want to think about it, she just shifted in her chair. She considered why she hadn’t mentioned the loss of her fake friend Julia. The structure of questions wasn’t what she was expecting and so her false story never come to mind. She was expecting a question like “What brings you here today?” Certainly that question would have prompted her to validate the reason she was attending a Grief and Depression group therapy session. John smiled, “It’s okay, you don’t have to share unless you want to. How about you just tell us what you enjoy doing, so we can get to know you a little better.”

Lately, Sylvia hadn’t been doing much of anything. Her ladies card club had disbanded since there were only two former members left alive and it had been really the only activity to get her out of the house other than shopping for groceries. “Well, I had been involved in a number of clubs with other ladies, but now that I’m an old lady it seems best that I stay around my house with my dogs.” Sheepish in her answer she could feel that John was hoping for more. “I also like to cook.” When was the last time we actually cooked a full meal Sylvia? Lord knows we haven’t had guests in the house in who-knows-how-long. She had only left her house once in nearly two weeks and that was when she saw the flyer for this group at the medical clinic.

“Grief and Depression are tough, we are here for you.

Permian Counseling.

Join our group discussions Tuesdays and Thursdays”

Since the pressure was off of her now, John directed his attention to an adolescent woman that was describing her anxiety about upcoming anniversary of her parent’s death. “It’s been almost a year, and I’m in a better place- but I know that this next week will be tough for me.” They discussed a plan for the young woman, on how to handle this upcoming emotional episode and the girl responded proactively. A number of the group members discussed their own experiences and offered support to the young woman, mostly in colorful stories from their own lives, but in a genuine sort of way. Sylvia had never seen anyone talk about emotions in such a manner. Emotions happened and you dealt with them, she never considered mapping out a strategy as far as how to handle them.

As soon as group had started it was over. She could feel herself missing the company of the strangers already and wishing they had more time. Maybe I will tell them about the Cancer next week. She almost felt relieved.

At the beginning of 2013 I started a job with the National Outdoor Leadership School as a Marketing Representative. This job required me to plan, travel and execute lengthy ‘tours’ all over the US on my own and promote outdoor education and leadership through public speaking as well as tabling at outdoor adventure expos. Pretty exiting job for a 22 year old. By March I had already gone on a ‘training tour’ with my boss to Illinois and Wisconsin, so when it came time to go on my first ‘solo tour’ in Idaho, I was thrilled to get on the road, and catch a ski run or two in Sun Valley.

Usually we would fly to our destinations, as Lander WY, where NOLS is headquartered, is in general, really far from the major populations of the United States. Since I was assigned to go to Idaho though, driving was an economical choice. I chose to drive my own truck and be reimbursed for mileage instead of taking a company car, because at the time, I had a personal vendetta against Subarus and would not be caught dead in one. Driving for NOLS was a big deal, it was part of the hiring procedure to obtain a driving record as the insurance policy states that someone 23 or younger driving a company vehicle could have no more than one violation… I had one speeding ticket on record, and was told, “One more, and you’ll be fired.”

Early Saturday morning, I left Lander to head west for Idaho. The night before, I had reluctantly agreed to give an intern, Joan, a lift to Targhee ski mountain, outside of Driggs ID to meet with some friends of hers. I didn’t mind Joan as a person but I can’t stand road trips with other people. I prefer to hardcore jam out to crazy classic country music and chain smoke Marlboro lights without having to consider another human being’s horrible music taste or their ideals on air quality.

The speed limit in Wyoming is usually 65 almost everywhere, except I 80, where the speed limit is IF THERE’S NOT A BLIZZARD, WHO CARES! Most roadways are two lane and, as you can imagine, wildlife is abundant, so the speed is appropriate, but the state is not small by any means, so the temptation to pick up the pace can be challenging. About an hour into the drive, Joan and I were dropping into Dubois, an area where there are a few significant hills and turns on the southeastern part of the town. I guess I had not had enough coffee to drink that morning, combined with the volume and continuous nature of my new acquaintance’s jokes… but I was ready to deliver her to her destination and get on with my curmudgeon self. Descending a hill, I passed a Wyoming state Trooper who immediately turned around and pulled me over. Before I decelerated, my odometer needle breached the 90 mph tick mark and I could feel my stomach making waves toward my mouth.

“What in the hell are you doing?” asked the painfully attractive state Trooper.

“I’m sorry, I’m from Texas, I’m not used to hills and everyone drives really fast down there!” was the carefully chosen defense I offered.

The Trooper didn’t quite find me as charming as I had hoped… and after he returned from his flashing vehicle he handed over a ticket and the rest of the paperwork.

Officer James Dean leaned in the window and said, “Look, I’m gonna do you a favor.. I wrote you up for 89 instead of 90. You are aware that speeding 25 miles over the limit qualifies as reckless endangerment?” The fact that I could lose my job hit suddenly, and I began to cry and plead with the Trooper that I could lose my job if I had a ticket on my record. I must have looked insanely desperate because, surprisingly, the Trooper scoffed and said, “Well if you had told me that I wouldn’t have written the ticket!” Horrified, I drove onto Idaho. Eventually, my employer would get a notification from the company insurance and I would be fired. I felt like such a little shit, but Joan thought it was hilarious, which really fueled my internal dialogue and made matters worse.

I dumped Joan up at the ski mountain, and continued to panic for the next two weeks. When my tour was over, I made no mention of the ‘speeding incident’ during my tour review with my boss. In a 6,000 person town, lawyers are pretty few and far between and the ones that do exist surely cover an odd array of legal issues, so I wasn’t sure how my complaint would sound when I called and requested legal counsel for a speeding ticket. The lawyer was pretty reluctant to involve himself in petty issues, but he must have been strapped for work because he agreed to take on this big case of mine.

During a lunch hour, I hurriedly shuffled across the Main Street of this ‘one street town’, in attempt to not be seen entering the office of one of the two lawyers in town. The office felt like a poorly designed cave, the man looked miserable and his thumbs both pointed outwardly in a confusing kind of way. I was pretty uncomfortable when I introduced myself and wrote the 400 dollar retainer check.

“I charge 100 dollars an hour. And honestly, I will probably spend about half an hour on this case, despite court appearances, so you will get the majority of this retainer back.”

Mr. Lawyer sent in the paperwork challenging my traffic violation and we were set to attend court about a month later. The county seat for Fremont county is Riverton Wyoming, a pretty shitty little town where the center piece is a city park, occupied by homeless alcoholic/meth addicted natives. All of the reservations in Fremont county have huge problems with drugs, violence and alcoholism. Its a pretty sad ordeal, but it is also pretty nerve racking. If the BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) arrests and legal issues that occur on the reservations were included in the jurisdiction of the county… Fremont county would be one of the most dangerous places in the US to live. But as it is, reservations are not a part of US Federal regulations, ie. the reason they are allowed to have Casinos, therefore, the county and the reservations are not managed in the same political manner. This being said, these kind of violent and criminal activities do occur off of the reservation land somewhat often, and if this is the case, these incidents are tried in the Fremont County Court System.

The courthouse in Riverton was surrounded by shipping containers. Seriously, it had makeshift shipping container ‘walls’ because someone had done a drive-by shooting a few weeks earlier. My lawyer and I walked in through security and entered the courthouse. I was extremely nervous, then I saw the bullet holes on the wall behind where the Judge sat, so any amount of confidence I had until that point became trifle. Looking around the room, I noticed that other than being one of only a few white people, I was the only client seated that didn’t look like I had maybe just murdered someone. Mr. Lawyer didn’t do much to ease my discomfort, and in fact, he seemed almost as uncomfortable as me.

Court proceedings began, and the unexpected happened. Instead of hearing the proceedings of petty crimes first, it seemed they began with the most violent and insane ones.

“Mr. BadMarriage, how do you plead to the crime of Driving under the Influence and the reckless murder of your niece, Hopping Deer, by Vehicle?” — not guilty.

“Mr. Stephens, how do you plead to the crime of Rape and Murder of your second cousin?” — not guilty.

“Miss RedEagle, Mr. King, and Mr. Antelope how do you plead to the charge of Larceny in the case of the stolen sandwich of Walmart.” — not guilty.

“Mrs. AngryBear how do you plead to Disturbing the Peace, Public Intoxication and possession of an illegal substance?” — not guilty.

This went on for what felt like hours, until I heard it, “The State of Wyoming vs. Meredith Hardwick. You may approach.”

Fumbling my way up there, I suddenly forgot if I was supposed to say guilty or not guilty, so when asked how I plead against my speeding ticket, I kind of shakily spat out sounds that resembled the phrase “Not Guilty.”

As soon as my case was announced I could feel my court mates laughing at this ridiculous little white girl complaining about a speeding ticket. It was all too embarrassing, and I felt like the court secretary made me appear last for a reason, just to punish me for being such a little princess. Luckily this was where my lawyer could step in and introduce the fact that I was a good citizen that volunteered and was a member of the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks, as well as the whole risk of losing her job thing.

“Miss Hardwick. We do not have a defensive driving course in Wyoming and a traffic fine will be reflected on your record. However. I will offer that if you complete a course called “Don’t Die, Under 25″ I will consider expunging this charge from your record.”

I didn’t know what “Don’t Die, Under 25” was but I agreed to attend the course and pay a nominal fee, for his consideration. I completed the class within the next month, which was basically a DUI prevention course, and presented my course completion certificate at a much tamer court hearing. I received my pardon, bid my lawyer adieu, kept my job and have never driven over the speed limit since.

Pancho and I are so exited to announce that today is the happiest days of our lives together! We are officially engaged to be together for the rest of my dog’s life (which, taking into account the fact that he is a craigslist mutt, is about the next 12-15 years). As a dog, Pancho pledges to always bark at things that sound mysterious, or entertaining to chase and as a human I pledge to always feed him the new trend in dog food, whether it be gluten free or calorie conscious.

We first met when I moved into the barn I now dwell in and decided, “I need something that barks, but something that my cat would also accept”… At five and a half weeks old, I was hesitant to say, this is THE ONE. But after a few months together, I was sure, he was who I would spend the next twelve or so years with, fiscal responsibility and all!

He surprised me by jumping on my laptop and selecting Bob Dylan’s Nashville Skyline and promptly puking up what I assume to be a a deer leg. He then spat out a ring I had bought for myself and gave a look like, “Should we do this!?” I only wish that I had worn a cuter outfit but the event was so sweet that whatever I wore doesn’t seem to matter, I mean, look at his markings!??!?!? What girl wouldn’t want to cuddle with something as endearing as a 30 dollar Craigslist dog that can perform cute tricks on cue???

We are registered at the local feed store, DogBandanas.com, rawhidebonesformypooch.com, and catladymagazine.com

On a lazy Friday evening, I decided to check out a new music venue in Kyle, TX near the Missouri-Pacifc Railroad, appropriately called Down South Railhouse. I am a notorious early bird, so finding entertainment in the greater Austin area that starts before 9 pm is an essential challenge to my social life. Not many people in their twenties and thirties have this demanding time restriction, so the crowd of people that make it out to shows that start at 7 or 8 are small and/or older. This I don’t mind as I get along fabulously with people that are older than me and I don’t like large crowds- but more often than not, I end up meeting the strangest person possible within a 100 meter radius.

This particular evening a new acquaintance of mine, Manzy, was performing a solo acoustic show. He is a singer songwriter type, so more of a saddle up and listen, kind of show. He was already playing when I walked in the door and took time to say hello and ask about the condition of the truck I had recently wrecked and whined about on social media. After confirming that my beloved truck “Juke-Box Johnny” was indeed, deceased, I went to the long oaky bar top to remember Johnny with a whiskey and water. Down South Railhouse is a little place that meshes all of the nostalgic ideals of what you would find in a saloon. Wood floors, High top chairs, glowing beer signs, a little stage off set in the corner with a small space for dancing– and most importantly, a large outdoor porch area.

After listening to Manzy for a handful of songs, I went out to the porch for a cigarette. I walked outside and approached, in typical Meredith manner, a table of Mexican mechanical workers because they seemed friendly, and indeed they were! I had the truck wreck topic handy to talk about with these two men as we collectively took 18 minutes out of our lives with our best friend Mr Marlboro. Mid-auto mechanic conversation, a girl around my age came out and bummed a cigarette from me. Her way of speaking was harsh and obnoxious, similar to how she applied her eyeliner. Her name was Nicole and she was quick to prove how impressive and interesting she thought she was. She asked if I’d like to join her at a table inside with a friend of hers, I accepted as I decided I had filled my socially acceptable quota of bull shitting with old mechanic stranger men.

Inside, I was introduced to Nicole’s friend, Mallory, who was not necessarily very welcoming as I joined their table. I sat and the two girls jumped right back into the topic they had obviously been discussing before Nicole had went out for a smoke.

“We tell each other everything- we’re like best friends and so in love, so I’m okay with him sleeping with other women when he’s on the road, I just wish my best friend would stop sleeping with him!” admitted Mallory.

“It’s all that bitch’s fault, she’d screw anything that walks- he loves YOU though.” Nicole offered as consolation.

Mallory began to cry and said something about needing a shot. Feeling completely disinterested in where this conversation was going, I offered to buy a round of shots for the two girls as an escape method from the table. As soon as the shots were delivered, I snuck back out to the porch and my old amigos asked why I had left the girl’s table.

“Man, girls freak me out. I can’t handle that shit.” I said as I got another cigarette lit.

Just as the two men began to laugh- a woman ran up from behind me and yelled, “I HATE GIRLS TOO!” as she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed.She had large boobs on a tiny framed body and as she hugged me, I noticed that they felt like she had stuffed big bags of rice into her bra. She pulled away and with her wild eyes and no lack of rouge on her cheeks, she explained how women were always jealous of her, and that other moms at her son’s school had spread a rumor that she was a stripper, then she introduced herself as Denise. Managing the shock of this introduction, I tried to not let my face reflect my thoughts as she continued.

“The worst was when I flew home to Illinois and my sister picked me up at the airport, she couldn’t stop looking at my butt! She’s just jealous cause I lost 200 pounds and I look better than her.” Denise told me, “ I weighed 295 two years ago and got lap band surgery, now I weigh 100 pounds and I’m a model!”

I had learned more about this woman than I cared to know in a total of about 2 minutes. It was intense, but she had me cornered so I said to her, “That’s impressive! Congratulations, I’ve heard lap band surgery recovery is tough.”

“It is! You have to watch what you eat or you’ll just puke it up. The worst part about it is the extra skin, you have to qualify for skin removal surgery– I’m waiting to get approved.” Denise pulled up her shirt to show me the extra skin hanging from her stomach that had been concealed with Spanx. It was a shocking sight as her exposed arms were thin and her frame did not appear to have any flaws from a clothed perspective. “From all the weight loss, my boobs just kind of sag, so I put rice bags in my bra to pep them up.” How did I know it was rice bags!?

At this point, my auto mechanic amigos had left the Railhouse and I was stuck in a Denise tornado. She kept talking about the cosmetic surgeries she was planning on having done, and kept referencing a small, plump, bizarre man that stood behind her for confirmation.

“My husband’s always jealous when I go out now that I’m a model, isn’t he, Ron?”

Ron would smile and say, “Yes, yes he is.” They were a very odd pair, and I wondered where Denise’s husband was. Ron only spoke when she asked him to and he never had much to say, although later, when Denise let up a little, I learned that he worked the night shift security at the State Mental Institution. I wondered if maybe, they were admitted and had escaped that institution together.

The conversation somehow turned to 80’s metal bands that Ron and Denise enjoyed, or at least, what Denise told Ron he liked. I have little to no interest in 80’s metal music so I decided to change the topic again. “Did you have your nose done as well?” I asked Denise.

“How dare you ask me about my nose!” she said, “What a rude thing to say to a woman!”

Confused as to how nose plastic surgery was off the table, but lap band, skin and breast augmentation were completely appropriate topics… I fished for a way out of this. “It’s just such a perfect nose, I wondered since you had some other procedures, how your beautiful nose was real!” I said, panicked. She was listening with a distraught face but suddenly smiled and said, “How sweet of you!” and continued on the hair band topic. Having survived that ordeal, I decided to head home as my friend was no longer playing music and I had had enough of the circus act.

“Stay one more drink! I’ll buy you one!” they both went inside to get drinks and I tried to run out the back door before they could see me. I grabbed my things and when I got to the back door, I discovered it was blocked off to keep people from sneaking in. I power walked to the front door as they both yelled my name. Pretending to not hear them, I continued outside to the parking lot. Ron found me before I could get to my truck and asked for my phone number. I told him no, thank you, and that I hoped they had a good rest of their night. I have not seen them since, but I sometimes wonder if Denise ever got her new boobs and how her modeling career is going.

Happy Hour in Wyoming was just confirmation that pretty much all there is to do in Wyoming is drink or wander around the mountains. During winter, Wyomingites tend to turn more toward the booze than the great outdoors, unless they are off snow-mobiling, hunting or ice-fishing… come to think of it, booze are involved in these activities as well, so winter basically just equals booze.

Friday happy hour was the most celebrated, and at a time in my life where I found myself limited on friends, I thought I might find at least a short conversation or two down at what was, pretty much, the only bar in Lander, the Lander Bar.
It was late October, and the weather was what Texans would consider to be completely inhospitable, but for Wyomingites meant we started to throw an extra layer or two on. I ordered a burger and a beer as soon as I walked into the crowded bar and sat at a wooden table. Eating and drinking, I watched as the crowd mingled when I saw a man at a high top table with a wool vest, bright red wild rag and a little red healer dog labeled ‘service animal’  at his feet. He was seated with his long hair spilling from beneath his cowboy hat to his shoulders as he hunched over, sketching the cover image of a Western Horseman magazine of a man on a bucking horse.

I thought, “I bet this guy could tell some stories.”

He just sat there quietly  working on his sketch while his dog lay asleep at the base of his stool. I finished my burger and hauled by beer to the back patio for a cigarette. We had a pretty nice little snow and it seemed to suit the beer choice I had made. The stranger artist strolled up with his dog and as he got his cigarette lit, I said to him, “Hey man, those are some cool boots.”

He looked over, somewhat noncommittally and said, “Thanks, got ’em in San Angelo, from a place called Leddy’s.”
M.L. Leddy’s is one of the finest boot makers in the country, and for a rather homeless looking cowboy artist to own a pair, as well as have what I had just recently noticed to be a total of about 4 teeth, was surprising, yet intriguing.

“No shit!” I replied, “I’m from a place near San Angelo and I had a pair of ML Leddy’s too, until a dog ate ’em, by the way I like your dog!”

He introduced himself as Austin, then to his dog, Delilah, who wasn’t really a service animal he told me, he said he’s just been in jail less often since he put that “service dog” badge on her, with no further details. He told me he was a traveling artist, mainly based out of Colorado and invited me over to his table to show off his artwork, which I accepted. His sketch work was all very Western, mostly livestock imagery or portraits, a lot of them were of the bar scenes that he was sitting at and observing. He sat at bars to solicit interest from nosy passers like me who have literally no filter as to who they will and will not speak with. Austin would engage people like me in conversation with a practiced heir of odd stories while asking for beer in a sort of panhandler kind of way. “I’m low on cash, gotta pay my phone bill, couldya buy me a beer or two?” He drew with a Bic pen and was like an alcoholic cowboy savant, he could take one look at the entire room and draw it to almost perfect detail. He even showed off a bar scene that had been framed atop the liquor shelf in the Lander Bar from a few years back.
“So how long have you been in Lander?” I asked, as there was practically a siren that goes off when a newcomer arrives in town, everyone knows within a few days.

“Oh, I just pulled in today, from Aspen, I lived there on and off for about 15 years, most of that time I lived in a cabin behind Hunter S. Thompson’s place — I had a tattoo shop but I also traveled a lot to do murals and stuff. I was an orphan so I got used to moving around, but everywhere I go I do my sketches and tattoo work.”

A few beers and whiskys in, he dove deeper into his history, and I started to call bullshit on him. He told me how he’d been ambushed at Little Annies bar and restaurant in Aspen by Hunter who walked straight up to him and asked, “Hey man, what does Gonzo-ism mean to you?”

Austin said he looked him straight in the eye, without a pause and said “Gonz-oism is a euphemism for truth-ism in real time.” Which, for a slightly buzzed, Thompson fanatic like myself, I thought sounded fucking brilliant and fucking crazy at the same time.

“Hunter smiled, slapped my back, and yelled ‘You’re the smartest mother fucker in this bar!'” and went on and on telling bizarre stories about yachting with Jimmy Buffett, partying with Jerry Jeff Walker and god only knows what other tall tales he had in his pockets. In-between these Rolling Stones fables he showed me his portfolio of tattoo and sketch work. All very brilliant, from life-like portraits to abstracts with lovely detail in all medium. As I had had enough to drink, I said goodbye to my strange new acquaintance, to which he asked for another beer and then handed me a business card before I could get out the door.

The next day, I was riding horses with a friend of mine, I told her all about the Gonzo, Bic pen, tattoo artist, drifting cowboy character I met and with words that felt as foreign as they sounded I said, “I think I’m gonna get a tattoo done by him.”

I had never really wanted a tattoo, I always said if it was the right design and the right time, I’d consider one, but it wasn’t a milestone I was pining for- and didn’t want a cliche tattoo done by a judgmental artist at a downtown tat shop on a wild Friday night. I thought, “Hell, If I’m gonna have a tattoo, at least it’ll have a funny story with it…”

I called Austin as soon as I was done riding, he answered hurriedly and I had to remind him who I was, “Meredith, you know, the girl who bought you beers for like three hours last night? Well I was wondering if you would be willing to do a tattoo for me?”

“HELL YEAH I’LL DO A TAT FOR YOU! Meet me at the B’n’B at three and we’ll come up with a design.”

The B’nB was the “smokey bar” in Lander, only true drunks and shadowy figures trickle in and  out of it, but I always really liked it. Over the phone I had mentioned the design I was interested in, I told him it was the Desert Rose concho design and as I found him seated with an already cascading ash tray, he was slaving away at what looked like the tackiest ‘desert rose’ design I had ever seen. Horrified at what some might find attractive, I showed him the design I had in mind and he reluctantly agreed to recreate the concho that I showed him. It was a design I had seen on a pair of chinks, which are a type of western riding chaps– and I liked the idea of a rose in the desert. To me it was a symbol for my two homes, West Texas and Western Wyoming.

We left the smokey bar and went to Austin’s car to find his tattoo equipment. His Car was a seventy-something yellow Volvo– although the primary colors of it seemed to be rust and dirt. We pulled through all of Austin’s belongings- most of which were items like clothes, deer skins, raccoon hats, cans, dog food, cigarette butts, canvases, portfolios, and all kinds of books… we dug through every inch of that Volvo and seriously the last thing we found was his tattoo equipment. After this three hour search through weirdo Narnia, I was just glad it was over and that I didn’t come across any weird porn, or something illegal. I drove us to my house, which was the attic section of an old blue house, and Austin got to work setting up his needles and ink. The needle he used was from a fresh container — air sealed and never used, so don’t worry, although his appearance may say otherwise, Austin was very professional and clean. He drew out my design on my left wrist and we were ready to rock and roll.

“Shit! The one thing I forgot to get was alcohol to clean your arm while I ink!”

“I’ve got a handle of whisky, will that work?” I said, in desperation to just get this over with.

“Hell Yah!”

With the first jab of the needle, it hit me that this was seriously happening. That Hobo McGee was tattooing me, in my living room, with my favorite whisky, Pendelton… I then took a giant pull from the whisky bottle, bit my shoulder and before I knew it, the tat was done! Austin began to roll a joint as I handed him a few 20 dollar bills a pack of Marlboro lights, and a six pack of Coors Lites in exchange for the tattoo. I dropped him off back at the B’n’B, and he commenced once again, doing what he does best, sit at bars, sketch, and bum anything and everything possible from the people around him, but he sure made some bad ass art and I got my permanent weird story out of it.

* Above pictured is the desert rose concho design