Cowboy

Sitting on the muddy ground, legs outstretched in front of him, the points of his cowboy boots aimed in opposite directions, the man's head lolled forward like a pearl on a string, moaning like a newborn calf.

About fifty, and trying for thirty-five, the man had, from the looks of his clothes and the smell coming off him, recently exited the nearby "Country Cowboy Tavern and Dance Hall" and somehow found his way to the parking lot, where, by design or fate, he collapsed against the side of my Jetta where he now sat weeping like a giant infant.

In discovering him, initially thinking he was some wounded animal from his slumped, hulking shape and the noise he made, I was struck with a rush of fear, which quickly became annoyance as I neared him. He was an amazing sight. Part fake cowboy. Part inanimate, drunken object. I thought of poking him with a stick, but couldn't find one. I shoved him with my toe and he rocked, back and forth, like a child's punching bag--one of those plastic, balloonish things with sand in the bottom to keep it upright, decorated with Fred Flintstone or Casper the Friendly Ghost.

I knelt down to see him better, to look into his face, and as I did, his eyes blew open wide, startled; he cowered, then went limp as if realizing it didn't matter who I was or what I'd do or anything else.

"This is my car," I said. "You alright?"
He nodded in affirmation, bouncing his chin off his chest in exaggeration. The front of his embroidered shirt was damp with sweat or tears or spit or beer. His face was puffed and heavy.

"This your car?" he said, still nodding largely, taking great gulps of air, like a child who's cried too long.

I nodded back, though he wasn't looking and said again, "You gonna be alright?"

"Oh, I s'pose," he sighed and put a hand under himself in a vain effort to rise up from the parking lot. He fell back, instantly, his body lumped and wadded like a damp piece of paper.

I reached down to lift him, thinking more of my convenience than his grief; it was late and I had a hundred-something miles to drive.

"Don't!" the man shouted, pulling his elbow away, causing him to lose his balance again and he slid, like a swimmer doing the sidestroke, entirely under my car. He lay there making chucking noises, crying or laughing, nonetheless refusing to move. I felt my compassion waning.

There were other people in the parking lot, climbing into cars, finishing conversations, gunning engines, flicking on headlights. A few people noticed me standing awkwardly beside my car, but no one noticed the man on the ground, his pointy boots sticking out from under my car like the Wicked Witch of the East. Someone yelled "Goodnight!" from a neighboring parking space and eased off into the city. I imagined what he thought of me standing with my hand on my door handle, looking idly at the darkness between my tires.

"What the hell.." I whispered to myself, the cowboy boots staring up at me, jesting. I grabbed hold of them, one in each hand and felt the flesh inside them grow tense as I pulled. I dragged him like a bag of sand until he was clear of my tires, his black denim jeans scratching loudly over the mud. It was a disconcerting batch of moments, each of them a singular instant, collected as if for an orchestrated purpose, like shitty ingredients in an Addam's Family recipe.

When I dropped his legs I did so with vigor and his grunt of pain was the only evidence of his consciousness.

"G'Night," I said and stepped over him, exhaling loudly, glad to be on my way toward away from him, away from the muddy parking lot, away from the night, altogether. Drunken idiots make me sad and angry and lonely all at the same time. As I set my foot down on the other side of his head, the cowboy lunged at me like a barracuda, biting into my ankle, growling like a demon as I tried desperately to shake him off, swatting at his head and screaming like anyone would.

"Let go!" I yelled, jerking and spinning and hopping with all my might until, at last I freed myself, sprawling and tripping across the parking lot. "This is nuts!" I said then, mostly to myself, trembling with shock and anger, adrenaline coursing hard in my veins. I fumbled my keys out of my pocket and dropped them in a jangle at my feet.

"Should'a just drove over my head and squashed me!" the man yelled, still unable to raise himself. He sounded better, less desperate, a bit of hope--even strength--in his voice. "Should'a just killed me under the car!" he bellowed and then thumped flat on his back again, his face to the sky, his chest heaving like a tranquilized animal.

"Should've," I said back, my own voice a rattle, stepping over him again, climbing into my car, my eyes fixed on his, which darted like hornets, unseeing.

As I drove away, the cowboy remained, an inky smudge in the vast, black parking lot, the high yellow lights shining down on him like planets or flashlights or eyes. As I watched him in my review mirror, he waved and taunted, flipped me off, his shadow long and incredible on the low sky.

A hundred miles later, thick summer insects thumping like rain against my windshield, I couldn't stop checking the dark in my mirror, couldn't stop wishing I could.

-parnell