Cowboy

Cowboy By J.M. Snyder Part 1 Kent’s Market is the only thing for miles down either side of Route 83. Rising from the midst of so much desert dirt and stubborn grass, it’s an oasis of greenery and color that makes your heart stop to see it. A small picket fence corrals in the plants and flowers and vegetable carts that threaten to overflow into the dusty road, and above it all the sign, painted to look that cracked and weathered. Kent’s. Annuals first, right by the road, lines of pansies and wax begonias and nasturtiums, purple and red and orange in the dry air. Then the shrubbery and taller plants, hostas and hibiscus, a potted azalea or two. Old wooden workbenches line the fence, overflowing with baskets of apples and strawberries, tomatoes, green peppers, and at the back of the lot a tent stands tall, its canvas flapping in the hot breeze that blows when a car passes by. Behind the tent, a ways off to deter the shoppers who stop for fresh produce and live plants, is a low, one-story ranch house, its wooden façade as worn and beaten down as Kent’s sign out front. And behind the house, hidden from view, is the field of vegetables and plants he sells. Kent himself stands at the front of the lot every morning as the sun comes up. Hose in hand, watering the flowers, the plants, thinking things I’ll never know and he doesn’t wish to share. With his black jeans tucked into faded boots, a black cowboy hat pushed down low over his eyes, he looks like the epitome of what I came west to find. A solitary man, a lone cowboy, some nugget of a man’s man that managed to slip sideways in time, straight off the range to me. I’ve always wanted a guy like that, rugged, stoic, lean and muscled and damn fine in a duster and hat. Too many westerns as a kid, my sister says. Searching for a western hero that doesn’t exist, out here in the desert sun. She never met Kent. He’s the reason women flock to our meager produce stand, out here a good ten miles from town. Sure, we advertise in the local paper, on TV, but he’s the reason people driving the back road from Laredo to Abilene stop and pick up a pint of berries or a potted geranium to take home. From the road he’s breath-taking in those jeans, that hat, no shirt and a tanned chest the delicious color of chestnuts in season. Strong—you can see that from your car window, how strong he is, how broad his chest and back, how muscled his arms. Narrow hips that hint at a tight ass, abs you think you saw on a NordiTrack commercial, a tiny string around his neck so Marlboro you ache for a smoke. The women look his way and imagine a slow, shy grin curving into that tanned face, or how he’d tip the brim of his hat just so and say something John Wayne like, “Howdy, ma’am.” They read about him in their historical romances, see him on the big screen—they know how cowboys like him are supposed to act and they come racing in to pick over his irises and cucumbers, nudging each other and giggling when he looks their way. I know, I fell for it too. Only I wasn’t holding out much hope when I stopped—a man like that usually doesn’t go for a man like me, that’s part of the reason I think I’ve always wanted one. But I was hitchhiking my way north and the couple who picked me up outside of Carrizo Springs were old enough to be my parents, and by the time we drove past Kent’s, I was more than ready to get out. Away from the words of caution, how a young man like myself should settle down with a nice girl, how I need a job like their own son working for minimum wage in the school system over in Dallas, how their daughter would like me but I’m a bit too shiftless for their tastes… When the missus saw Kent’s bare back, as broad as the sky above, and developed a sudden craving for fresh snap peas, I made my escape. Thanked them for the ride, dug my pack out of their trunk, trotted over to the stand as if this was where I needed to be. It was—I left Jersey looking for a man like Kent. I wasn’t leaving Texas without finding one. So it was a pleasant surprise when he turned in my direction and I saw in his eyes that all the women in all the world didn’t matter to him none, and when he asked if I had a place to stay, I told him no. He had an extra room in the back, if I was interested? Of course I was. Been here ever since, going on two years now. Up close he’s not so intimidating—you see the pale flesh where his pants sag a little off his hips, the small paunch that’s begun to distend those abs, the flab that runs through the muscles in his arms. If the wind is right, you catch a whiff of something strong rising from him, tequila or whiskey, something pungent and tart that makes you swoon in the desert heat. There is no “ma’am” or “howdy” or shy, slow smile to brighten your day—most of the time he doesn’t say two words from sun up to sundown, and in the early morning he’s too hung-over to smile. The cowboy hat, the boots, the lariat chain around his neck, it’s all part of the image, the illusion, the same way his “homegrown” tomatoes are bought at the farm four miles away, or the flats of perennials purchased at the Wal-Mart in town. It’s an act, a way to bring in customers and stay in business…he’s a daydream out there in the sun, hose in hand, watering his plants and I fell for it so hard, I’m still dusting off my knees. Two years. And even now when I look out from the main house, I can still see the man I thought he was, the cowboy I want him to be.