old west, an intro

It’s dusty here. That’s the first word that pops into my head to describe this godforsasken place. The quiet mornings echo with coughs. When it’s loud there’s still coughing. Tryin’ to gag up that last bit of gunk stuck in between your lungs but are never able to do it. That’s my life now. Coughing and kicking the tumbleweeds through the single road that makes up the dusty town I inhabit.

I scan my sun-stained eyes across the single damn road. The whopping eight buildings that make up our town are just a stone's throw away from each other. Everyone can hear ol’ Jack’s rooster screech at the wake of dawn every morning. Every damn morning. Sue’s roast tators can be smelled from the bitter end of Texas, let alone from my front crooked porch. Mr. Calvin can always be seen strollin’ down the smack center of the road, golden belt buckle in hand, cig draggin from his pursed lips. Hopin’ to impress the ladies I’m sure of that. Not like there’s any princess’ in this grimy town. There is Sara though. God bless Sara. She may be the only piece of goodness in this damn speck in a sea of dust. Her red braids loop ‘round and ‘round themselves, forming some kind of contraption incapable in a man's mind. She has a handful of freckles, like someone picked them up and threw them across her face. Her eyes, one green the other brown, put any man in a trance, havin’ him fall to his knees and everything. Reason why I stay away. Well, one of the reasons.

As I said before, dust is everywhere. In the house, under the dresser, in our coffee, hell-even in between my ears. No matter how many brooms sweep across the rattled floorboards, the dust remains. It’s almost soothin’, like a mama’s lullaby. I know I can always count on those damn little dust specks to be dancing on my books and papers. Maps of Africa, Europe, trails yet to be scaled, mountains not climbed, the world is a place I have yet to set eyes on. Only seen dust so far.

Every morning my eyes seem to become heavier and heavier, as if God Himself is sending me a message not to get up. Or it could be the whiskey. Who knows. I roll over across my stained sheets, years' worth of stories made up in a pattern of faded beer, canned beans, and sleepless nights. My bed seems to grow taller and taller every night, making the fall to the floor hurt more and more every damn dusty day.

The saloon has become “my place” and don’t everyone know it. Good thing my house is right next to it. Guess that’s one reason why I’m their biggest fan. I get on the same faded red bar stool with the same drink in the same glass wrapped around my calloused hand from a hard day's work. Or just from a day. Drinking away my sorrows is not something to be ashamed of, it’s just something to pass the time. Old habits die hard don’t they.

I guess we should start with my name. Name’s Dan. We can skip that last name nonsense, won’t be needing it. I grew up in Dallas. My first pair of shoes were cowboy boots, my rattle was a shotgun pistol, and my sippy cup was an old can of Budweiser. My mamma cooked me a grand supper of grits and ol’ pieces of bacon that the old man left behind on his greasy plate.

That was who I was, who I am now is a whole different story.