#481 ·
It feels just like those old taverns you see in movies about ghost towns out in the Wild West.
Somewhere in the twilight, I slowly drift into town.
I peer cautiously from under the brim of my hat, one hand resting lightly on the reins while the other stays ready to grab my Colt at a moment's notice—just gently stroking the mane of my one and only loyal companion.
There isn't a soul in sight, yet you can feel a thousand eyes watching you from everywhere.
A prayerful silence hangs over everything, broken only by the persistent creaking of an old weather vane on the edge of town.
The first thing to greet me is a scrawny three-legged dog that suddenly darts out from under my horse's hooves and vanishes across the dusty street.
Finally, I reach the center of town, where I spot a sign for a Poor Man's Tavern sitting right between a locked-up bank and a failed barbershop.
I thought to myself that maybe luck was finally on my side; a chance for some refreshment, a warm bath, and a real bed after nineteen days of riding and sleeping under the open sky with nothing but a stone for a pillow.
I pull up and slowly dismount, glancing discreetly over my shoulder to see if I can figure out where all those stares are coming from before I shake them off along with the dust.
I check the pump, give it a try... water comes out, yellow and smelling like a dog, but it's water nonetheless!
I lead my horse over to get a drink and tie him loosely to a nearby hitching post.
Then, with slow but steady steps, I approach the doors of the tavern.
They are slightly ajar, fluttering occasionally in the warm desert breeze that’s preparing to turn into a sharp, cold wind as the first darkness falls.
I walk up, stop in front of the door, and then, out of habit or some unknown force, I turn around one more time before stepping inside.
The first thing I notice is an old, battered piano; I could tell from the doorway that the D key is missing, along with a few black keys in the lower octave.
I take a couple more steps and look to the right—the bar is empty. I look to the left—four vacant tables with an odd number of chairs. Then I glance toward the corner—Drew Lee9.
When our eyes met, I felt so harmless, almost like I was in a trance—existing as a ghost outside of time, yet fully present and aware of everything happening around me.
I gave a slight nod of my hat as a greeting, and he responded with a lift of his eyebrows before taking a long pull of whatever he was drinking.
I ask if there's anyone around who might serve a drink or let me stay the night.
Drew Lee9 sizes me up again, and it's as if that look allows him to see things about me that I don't even know myself; he takes another sip, this one shorter and sharper, and says:
"Hello stranger, my name is don Francisko Long Play, and for everyone else like me, this is a black-and-white world."
Somewhere in the twilight, I slowly drift into town.
I peer cautiously from under the brim of my hat, one hand resting lightly on the reins while the other stays ready to grab my Colt at a moment's notice—just gently stroking the mane of my one and only loyal companion.
There isn't a soul in sight, yet you can feel a thousand eyes watching you from everywhere.
A prayerful silence hangs over everything, broken only by the persistent creaking of an old weather vane on the edge of town.
The first thing to greet me is a scrawny three-legged dog that suddenly darts out from under my horse's hooves and vanishes across the dusty street.
Finally, I reach the center of town, where I spot a sign for a Poor Man's Tavern sitting right between a locked-up bank and a failed barbershop.
I thought to myself that maybe luck was finally on my side; a chance for some refreshment, a warm bath, and a real bed after nineteen days of riding and sleeping under the open sky with nothing but a stone for a pillow.
I pull up and slowly dismount, glancing discreetly over my shoulder to see if I can figure out where all those stares are coming from before I shake them off along with the dust.
I check the pump, give it a try... water comes out, yellow and smelling like a dog, but it's water nonetheless!
I lead my horse over to get a drink and tie him loosely to a nearby hitching post.
Then, with slow but steady steps, I approach the doors of the tavern.
They are slightly ajar, fluttering occasionally in the warm desert breeze that’s preparing to turn into a sharp, cold wind as the first darkness falls.
I walk up, stop in front of the door, and then, out of habit or some unknown force, I turn around one more time before stepping inside.
The first thing I notice is an old, battered piano; I could tell from the doorway that the D key is missing, along with a few black keys in the lower octave.
I take a couple more steps and look to the right—the bar is empty. I look to the left—four vacant tables with an odd number of chairs. Then I glance toward the corner—Drew Lee9.
When our eyes met, I felt so harmless, almost like I was in a trance—existing as a ghost outside of time, yet fully present and aware of everything happening around me.
I gave a slight nod of my hat as a greeting, and he responded with a lift of his eyebrows before taking a long pull of whatever he was drinking.
I ask if there's anyone around who might serve a drink or let me stay the night.
Drew Lee9 sizes me up again, and it's as if that look allows him to see things about me that I don't even know myself; he takes another sip, this one shorter and sharper, and says:
"Hello stranger, my name is don Francisko Long Play, and for everyone else like me, this is a black-and-white world."
