You're young, a kid, headed for the diner all by yourself.
You've got a dime, a quarter, maybe even a hot little nickel in your pocket - money to spend.
You're your own boss, a kid who knows what he wants.
It's Saturday in the 50's, and you have a cowboy thirst on and a craving for a big plate of fries.
In the gravel parking lot, something brown catches your eye. You stoop down, your heart thudding, and lift the three pennies out of the stones, and practically kiss them in the palm of your sweaty little hand.
A treasure, found gold, straight from the mine. It doesn't get any better than this.
The diner door opens at your push and the bell dings, announcing your presence, like a prince, a man, a confident dude.
You look around, swagger on over to the counter, the long bar where red vinyl stools line up waiting for an important somebody's behind - and that's yours.
You slide onto a stool, near the far end where a cowboy would sit. You've seen it so many times at the Strand on the big screen, downtown.
Slowly, you nod your head, look around, casing the joint.
You need a drink.
"Bartender?"
Your right hand is raised, finger up, a master of signals.
The bartender has his long back to you over by the machine that's whirring, mixing drinks. He turns and recognizes you.
"Joey! How are you, kid?" A big grin, a massive show of respect for the cowboy.
"Uh...I'm just fine, Mrs. Buttercup."
"Well, that's good. I'll be right there. Why don't you play some music? You got a dime?"
"Yeah."
"Go put on my favorite, will you? Coke's on the house if you do."
Your face splits and your cheeks bunch. A free drink. Oh, yeah.
Off the stool, hitch up your spats by the waistband of your pants, saunter on over to the big old red and chrome box that plays the cowboys' tunes.
Tiptoes, up you go, leaning. Darned machine's as big as a stallion.
Flip through the selections. You can read, better than most in town.
Here it is - B21, bartender's favorite. A Gene Autry song. Your favorite too, it just happens. Bartender's got good taste.
In goes the dime, on goes the button, and step back to wait for it.
Man. That cowboy can sing.
The pinto under you sidesteps as you ride him back to the bar.
The bartender says, "Nice dancing, Joey." So you get that pony to behave, then settle back down on the stool.
"Your usual, kid?"
"Yeah."
The bartender slides the ice cold glass across the slick bar. Your hand snakes out and grabs it just before it crashes. You're good.
The beer is dark, a bad blend of rot gut and booze. You darned near choke on the first swallow. Bad stuff.
You look around to see who else is here.
Two old farmers eating eggs.
Two old women drinking coffee.
No dames, though. Never are dames in this bad place. No self-respecting dame would ever show her face in here.
The quarter buys the big plate of fries.
You've got a nickel and three pieces of gold waiting to leave your pocket before the sun goes down.
You spy the red machine down the counter, the one with the glass top filled with peanuts.
Slipping off the stool, you go on down and shove in your pennies, one at a time, then lift the metal flap and watch all those salty beans tumble out into your hand and on the counter.
"Hi, Joey."
A sweet sound.
You look over. It's the Morton kid, the one with the scream like a banshee.
"What do you want, Sally?"
"Some peanuts."
Dang!
"Sure. Hold out your hand."
She's five. Good thing her hand is so small, `cause it only holds five peanuts.
"Go on, now."
"Thanks, Joey. I love you."
"Yeah, yeah."
She scampers off. You shake your head.
Dames. She shouldn't even be in here. Steals your goods right off the counter.
"Fries are ready, Joey," the bartender calls.
Sighing, you settle back down and face the plate. Sweet.
You inhale a bucketload of perfection.
Close your eyes.
Picture yourself out on the range, sitting on your pinto's back and squinting into the morning sun.
"Can I have one of those too, Joey?"
Go away, kid, you're bothering me.
"Just one, then git, Sally. I ain't got all day."
"You aren't supposed to say ain't," she pouts, ticking you off.
"I'll say whatever I dang well want." You glower, scaring her.
She grabs two fries before you can stop her and runs like a coward.
An old farmer coughs.
Gene Autry winds down.
It's been a hard day.
Can't get any respect in this one-horse town.
Might as well eat and get the heck back out to the ranch.
You've got work to do, and plenty of it.
Jolly round Mrs. Buttercup leans on the counter and smiles at you like the mean bartender he is.
"Going to Betty June's birthday party today, Joey?"
You've got no time for this talk, let alone a stupid birthday party. A man's got real stuff to do.
"Yes, Mrs. Buttercup."
Yeah, what can I tell you. The dames are all over me.
"Hard to believe little Betty June's eight years old. What did you get her for her birthday?"
Snake oil, you say with a sneer.
"Bubble bath."
"Nice. Your mama pick it out for you?"
"Yes."
"Well, you have fun now. I hear her daddy's rented a pony. Nice, huh?"
You scoff. Yeah, right. You've got your own ride, your own steed, standing right here beside you, waiting for you to finish your fries and coke, if the danged world would just leave you alone.
"Thanks, Mrs. Buttercup." You smile.
Man, you hate this bartender. No good, conniving weasel, always cheating you. Never fills the glass up. Makes a ton of suds that burst in your nose. Can't even pull a decent beer out of the tap.
Next time, if you ever come back to this two-bit joint, you're buying the good stuff, straight up.
Two swallows of that swamp water and you're staggering.
Like a man.
A cowboy.
Ain't nobody gonna mess with old Joey Armbrewster no more.
Not after today.
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