After a rather long stint playing Red Dead Redemption last night while on baby duty, then hearing Bad Company’s “Bad Company” from Bad Company (the debut album) on the radio, it’s safe to say I was in a cowboy mood today. I busted into the local trophy store like a rustler. I was a little too in the mood.

So when the engraver told me that my baby bottle wasn’t ready, I got a little too tough.

“Whaddya mean, son? We had a contract for you to engrave this bottle by Jan-yoo-ary Three-One. You mean to tell me yer spittin’ on our bargain?”

Okay, I didn’t really talk like that. What am I, delusional? Let’s pretend I did, though:

“Sorry, Mister. I’ve looked everywhere’s and it just seems like the bottle ain’t finished. Reckon it’s in the engraver’s room, and he’s out for a noon picnic. Y’all can check back in an hour.” The boy was trembling. He was young, perhaps too young to be working the front counter in a dusty town like this. He stole a glance at Ol’ Betsy, snugly holstered at my side. I slowly caressed her ivory pommel and stared him down.

“You listen here, boy. I’ll be riding this way aginn on the ‘morrow. You tell yer pappy, the proprieter of this jip joint, that I expect to receive either my engraved baby bottle… or the 27 dollars I paid fer it!” And with that, I spat on the floor and turned to leave.  

“He ain’t my pappy, sir.”

“You lippin’ me, boy?!” I quickly turned in my boots. Ol’ Betsy was in my hands before I knew what was a-what. She yearned to sing her song, but I wouldn’t let her curtain rise. Not yet. The boy held his ground even with Betsy smiling in his face, but I could see the sweat on his brow. This one will grow strong some day. He’ll come looking for me, no doubt. Best take care of him now. No…

“Alright, Boy. Then you tell yer Uncle or yer Cousin or whatever kin you please that tomorrow at high sun I’ma be comin’ ‘round. And you’d better have my bottle— or my 27 dollars!” With that I turned again, Ol’ Betsy performed a flurry of spins on my finger before diving effortlessly back into her bed on my hip. As I kicked through the doors and back to the street, I could hear the boy release a sigh of relief. He would remember me. I had made an adversary today.

I climbed up on Nissan, the name I’d given my black horse. She was older, with over 100,000 miles and worn brake pads. I had to kick her a few times to get her to start up the trail, but once she was awake she moved with a noisy confidence. I should also have her muffler looked at. Or it could be a fan belt. Maybe an oat change. 

I cried a “Yee hah!” as Nissan approached nearly 30 miles an hour, which is pretty good for a horse. The boy had ran out into the street to watch me ride away. I glanced over my shoulder quickly enough to see him kick at the dirt where I had stood before he and the trophy store disappeared behind a Pilates classroom. No, kid. Save your strength. You never know what may happen tomorrow.

Seriously, how long does it take to engrave a name on a glass bottle? It’s been over a week!