Scorpion Tail

Posted: August 21, 2012 in Uncategorized

Three shots of whiskey into a Wednesday night, most cowboys know from a distance that there’s a woman involved somewhere causing some kind of problem. Maybe she ain’t causing it, but she’s the cause of the butt in the worn-out blue jeans ridin’ stool for hours, mouthing words to Conway Twitty songs that the jukebox picks when the younger kids ain’t looking for a reason to dance or compare curves and shapes.

By the time the fourth shot arrives, a man tending bar knows he has to make a call that can make him a guardian angel or the next in line causing trouble. A man tending bar’s got to decide whether the cowboy sitting in front of him talking to nobody but talking still needs the drink, or whether he’s just adding real rot to the rotten way he feels inside. Either he plays the sympathetic brother, maybe even gives him one on the house, or he throws him out on his ass, playing the mother bird, telling him to get over himself and get on.

For now, everything continues without incident. Our cowboy friend keeps drinking and mumbling, trying not to sneer at the youngsters in love, and our bartender keeps putting off the choice he should have made when his customer’s sorry ass first set foot inside.


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