Cowboy Sandwich

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

The bed felt cold and empty. Barry opened his eyes. The room was dark. Why wasn’t it daylight? Where were Jimmy and Jake? And the bloody alarm clock was giving him a headache.

Groping around on the bedside table to his right, Barry searched for the damned alarm clock. It wasn’t there. Slowly he became aware that the noise wasn’t coming from inside the room. He switched on the lamp on the bedside table and looked around. The room seemed pretty much the same as it had the previous evening, with the addition of more scattered clothes. Didn’t these men ever clean up after themselves?

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Barry stood and immediately wished he hadn’t. The dull ache in his rear suddenly became more acute.

“Jesus, what did they f**k me with last night?”

Taking a few tentative steps, Barry searched for his clothes. Then he smelled it. Burning. Suddenly he realized the noise was a smoke alarm.

Donning the first clothes he found—a pair of blue boxers, his own jeans and a red flannel shirt, Barry slipped sockless feet into a pair of trainers that were several sizes too big, and waddled out of the bedroom.

The burning smell was greater in the hallway. He could hear raised angry voices so headed toward them. Turning into a doorway, Barry took in a scene of total chaos. Four men were running around a kitchen, carrying knives, spatulas, and spoons, bumping into each other and not seeming to achieve anything. A fifth man, Jimmy if the back of his blue T-shirt was any indication, was poking a butter knife into a toaster that was belching out large quantities of black smoke.

“Jesus wept,” Barry muttered. No one heard him so he took in a deep breath, not easy given the smoky atmosphere, and yelled, “What the hell is going on!”

Everyone froze. The man at the toaster turned around and dropped the knife. Barry had been right, it was Jimmy. Jake stood at the kitchen island, a tea towel wrapped around his right hand, spatula held in his left, scraping at the cremated contents of a large frying pan. Another man, older than the others, was fighting a losing battle with a loaf of bread, which was bowing under the pressure of a huge and no doubt blunt butcher’s knife. Two other men stood wielding other pieces of kitchen equipment. It was obvious from a simple glance they, too, didn’t have a clue how to use them.

Instantly knowing he had to take charge—someone had to—Barry barked, “Jimmy, unplug the toaster at the wall and step back. Jake, drop that spatula and what have you done with your hand?” Barry turned to the other three. “Put down those things before you hurt yourselves or each other.”

Amazingly, everyone did as they were told. Barry then asked the cowboy who was standing closest to what was probably the back door to open it. He did so and Barry carried the still-smoking toaster out onto a wooden deck.

Taking a deep breath of fresh air, Barry reentered the kitchen. The rapidly disbursing smoke revealed the full horror of what had transpired. Every work surface was covered in a mixture of flour, ground coffee and goodness knew what else. The floor was littered with more flour and ground coffee. In addition, pieces of eggshell, yolks, and whites had been tracked into the mess.

The smoke alarm was still screaming. Barry said, “Does anyone know how to turn that bloody thing off?”

Jimmy left the kitchen, a few seconds later there was a soft crash, but mercifully the alarm ceased its screaming. Jimmy came back into the kitchen holding several pieces of broken white plastic.

Barry sighed and addressed the group as a whole. “What happened?”

“Cookie left a note last night. His mom’s sick and he quit to go look after her,” Jimmy said, dumping the remains of the smoke alarm into an overflowing trash can.

“And none of you know how to cook,” Barry said more than asked.

“Uh, no,” Jake said, ducking his head.

That reminded Barry of his earlier question. “What did you do to your hand?”

“Burnt it on the handle of the skillet.” Jake gave the offending frying pan a scathing look.

Barry slid his way over to Jake and pulled off the cloth protecting Jake’s hand. The skin was red and blistered. Grasping him by the wrist, Barry led Jake over to the sink, turned on the cold tap and thrust the hand under the stream of water. “Don’t move.” Turning to the rest of the men, who had remained frozen in place, he said, “Everybody out.”

The three men whom Barry hadn’t yet been introduced to left, quite eagerly he thought. Jimmy didn’t.

“Yes?” Barry challenged.

“Why are you wearing his shirt and not mine?”

Barry opened his mouth to tell Jimmy of his panicked dressing, but instead decided to go with, “Because I like red.”

From behind him, Barry heard Jake chuckle.

The kicked puppy look on Jimmy’s face had Barry wishing he’d gone with his original thought. Remembering whose boxers he’d put on, he pulled at the waistband of his jeans. “I also like blue.”

Jimmy’s smile lit up the room. “Like that, you’ wearin’ my drawers.” To emphasize his point, he pulled Barry into a long kiss.

Barry felt a body press in from behind him. Turning, he accepted a similar kiss from Jake.

Yep, the two cowboys were competitive, even when it came to kisses.

Needing to reestablish who was in charge, Barry turned back to Jimmy. “Take the truck keys out of the cutlery drawer and set the table.”

Jake chuckled.

Whipping around to face Jake, Barry said, “And who told you to move from the sink? You need to keep that hand under running water for ten minutes.”

With everyone doing as they were told, Barry set about cleaning up the worst of the mess and then seeing what was in the larder that he could make for breakfast for five hungry cowboys.

As he swept, mopped, and wiped, Barry asked Jake who the other three men were.

“Our ranch hands. The guy who was cutting, or trying to cut the bread is Liam. He’s our foreman. The guy who opened the door for you is Wayne, and the smaller guy who you might have missed because he likes to blend into the background as much as he can is Rory.”

Barry nodded. Rory had pretty much flown under his radar. “Didn’t know you had such a big operation.” He also had had no idea that Jimmy and Jake were the ranch owners.

“Is my time up yet?” Jake moaned. “My hand is f*****g freezing under here.”

Barry looked up at the clock. Jake had had about seven minutes. “Okay, but if it starts hurting later then don’t blame me.”

Jake turned off the tap, shook his hand then reached for a tea towel.

“No, use paper towel or something that’s at least somewhat sterile. Where’s your first aid box? I’ll put some burn ointment on your hand.”

“I’m fine,” Jake said, dabbing at his hand with some paper towel.

“Better safe than sorry…. Where’s the box?”

Jake sighed and rummaged around in a couple of cupboards before producing a small, white, and dust-covered box.

Barry looked inside at the meager supplies. “You need to restock this.” He pulled out some ointment that was past its use by date. “This will have to do. Now hold out your hand.”

Jake did, and when Barry had finished, he gave Barry a quick kiss. “Thanks.”

Barry smiled. “Now you’re one up on Jimmy.”

“Not for long,” a voice from behind Barry announced. “We’re starving so I came to see what the hold up was, and I see you nurse-maiding that jerkwad.”

“Shut up, fucktard,” Jake fired back.

“Don’t start all that again,” Barry said, hands going to his hips. “Go on, both of you, get out of here before I rope you into helping me with the cooking.”

They started to leave but Jimmy turned on his heel, came back to Barry and laid a quick kiss on his lips. “Even again.”