Calvin’s Cowboy

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

“f**k!” Calvin shook his head in resignation.

Little about Parish Creek had changed. The phrase Bumfuck, Egypt, passed through Calvin’s mind as he walked towards the small grocery store just off Main Street, the once-blue paint on the window frames just a little more sun bleached and peeled than he remembered.

His classic 1982 Pontiac Firebird stood out a mile in the small parking lot among the various pickups, some of which showed gun racks through the rear window. He rolled his eyes. After all, this was Texas.

The interior of the store hadn’t changed all that much either. There was still that unique smell, a mixture of fresh vegetables, kibble and floor wax.

He pushed his cart along the aisles in search of food that didn’t require barbequing, deep frying or smoking. His choices were thus somewhat limited.

The range of beer wasn’t exactly wide, either. He scanned the shelves in the cooler; there was the expected Lone Star, San Miguel, and Budweiser. There was a brand he didn’t recognise, and judging by the price, it was probably horse piss. The shelf above the Shiner sign was empty. He was about to settle for Corona, when he spied a case of imported Czech beer tucked behind a box of Bud Light. It was on special, too.

Old Mrs. Grantly at the checkout looked at him suspiciously when she rang up the beer. He was half expecting her to ask him for ID.

“We had a man come in few months ago asking for that. We didn’t have any, so I ordered some, but folks round here don’t like anythin’ that’s foreign.”

“Doesn’t suit their discerning palates?” Calvin asked as he reached for a plastic sack, only for Mrs. Grantly to wave him off and bag up the beer herself.

“They like what they like,” she said, picking up a jar of low fat mayo.

Calvin hoped this wouldn’t take forever. He wasn’t in luck.

“We haven’t seen you here in a long time. Guess you have made a life for yourself up in New York.” She managed to put a world of disapproval into the last two syllables.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Seems to suit you, though. You’ve lost weight. And you don’t need glasses any more.”

“Uh, no.”

“Seems like only yesterday since you were in here for Cokes and my homemade sugar cookies.”

The rye bread and yogurt were bagged.

Calvin felt obligated to ask if she still baked the cookies. He was relieved to find that she wasn’t allowed to sell homemade goods in the store any more.

“The government has no business poking its nose into what we sell. Why, next they’ll be—” Finally Mrs. Grantly got to her main point. “Your folks are selling up and moving to Florida.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Now, how much do I owe you?” Calvin took out his wallet, needing to end the conversation. Things were so different when checking out groceries in New York.