He sways as he tells stale stories of how he once vanquish bulls and rode flying broncs. But now his old broken bones force him to ride herd on barstools inside all-too-familiar tonks.
He proclaims from his unsaddled steed that it’s worse to be a never-was than it is a has-been. And he recalls with great clarity the hair color and perfume worn by his every sin.
He laughs as the barstool bolts, then hollers at the wall as the floor breaks his fall. “Boy, what’chew look’n at?” he screams at the has-been in the mirror, the one with all the gall.
A young man shyly walks up to offer him a hand, recognizing him from an old picture hanging on a wall. He was wondering just how his unknown hero could live through such a great fall.
“This is as good a place as any to hide,” the has-been said, looking up at the man too young to have much sin. “So buy me a shot of whiskey, and we can let the healing begin.”
“Boy, what’chew you look’n at!” he snarls to the young man as if he’s still talking to that mirror on the wall. “Ain’t you ever seen a man bucked off a barstool and the floor break his fall?”
“Come down here, close your eyes, and sit on the floor next to me. Pretend you are blind and judge me by my words and heart and not by the scars that you see.”
“How old are you? What’s your name? Never mind, you don’t have to say. It’s just that my son would be about your age. It haunts me that I ran out on him and his mama 20 years ago today.”
“I could ride any horse while standing on my head, not worrying ‘bout black or blue. But I had to leave those notions in the dirt when a mare showed me she could stand on my head, too.”
And he told and retold stories of how he once vanquished bulls and rode flying broncs. “Stop me if you’ve heard this,” he said as he talked from there on the arena floor of that tonk.
“Why don’t you help me up, then pull up that barstool right there? That one don’t buck. It’s used to nursemaidin’ greenhorns with dollars to burn and pockets full of unbruised good luck.”
“Did you see the Bible thumper preachin’ from his truck bumper when you came in? He sermonizes me as I walk by, saying a forgiving God don’t care if my breath smells like sin!”
He rambled on. ”Bar door facings come in handy when you’re young or old and drunk. And later on, when you’re just plain old and dizzy, you know after you’ve lost your spunk.”
Then he philosophized to the stranger as if he were his own son. “On the ‘Road of Life,’ most of the story happens in the ditch. It’s not on the pavement where life gets done.”
“I guess I’m just looking for a warm light, something to touch in the night. I gave it all up 20 years ago for a life with bite. But I think I already told you about when I ran off’n took flight.”
“Just like the song says, I’m trying to keep from get’n killed or get’n caught! I’m just walking on, passing preachers in the parking lot, neither selling my soul nor get’n it bought.”
“What’s your name? Seems like I ought to know you. What’chew want? I know you didn’t come here just to watch me ride. Or to buy me a drink, to listen to stories, or watch me hide”
Then, despite the wasted gallons of gin and paying no mind to breathe smelling like sin, and without a hint of chagrin, the young stranger gave the has-been a way to be again.
“I’m here because of a promise I made to my mother, who is old and living alone. That when I found you, I’d tell you she said you are long forgiven and welcome to come on back home.”
