The Cowboy

Late Saturday afternoon an old cowboy came into the shop. He was a real cowboy. He had bowlegs, broken misshaped fingers, hat, boots, big truck, and the kind of handlebar moustache only a real cowboy could have. He saw me looking at his fingers and he just said, "years of team ropin'." He had a cowboy demeanor too, blunt, to the point, and pragmatic. "I ain't buyin' no more diesel. Show me what you got." I showed him my last Sun Rover in a box. "What does it do?" I wanted to tell him it was a bicycle, what do you mean what does it do, please don't waste my time. "Can you put 'er together right now?" I told him no, I was just real busy. He said if I could put it together he would buy it. "OK", I said. "I'll put it together." He grew cold and began to back away. "Hold on there partner," I said, in my best cowboy vernacular. "I told you I would build it. Do we have a deal?" I stuck out my hand and looked him in the eye. He hesitated, and then shook my hand. An hour and a half later he paid for his bike. "I ain't buyin' no more diesel," he said again, and he rode away, into the sunset.