The Cowboy Church

Part 1 of three. By J.L. Mackey

The door to the Cowboy Church opened and a confused man peered inside. A sharp column of light pushed through the darkness and landed on a jukebox in disrepair. Mounted above it was a longhorn skull, a rusted Winchester repeater rifle laid across its horns. He took a few steps in and let the door close. The man stood there for several long seconds before a woman’s voice came from the shadows.

“This ain’t a museum. So why’re you staring?”

The man pointed back toward the door. “I thought this was–”

The woman stood up behind the bar. “And you came in anyway? Do you often suddenly need Jesus on a Tuesday afternoon?”

“No, I just–”

“Have a drink or walk back to your Subaru, man.” He looked back at the door, but decided to walk up to the bar. Against the walls were small, dimly-lit booths. In some of them were cowboy hats which cloaked their wearers in still darkness. He found a barstool, and the woman put a lowball of something dark in front of him. The entire bar was silent, save for the ice clinking in his glass. He wasted no time finishing it, and stared at the sign above the bar: “Established 1725.” His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to say something.

“Do you take everything literally? This fucking country didn’t even exist then.” She laughed.“It’s the first time someone used the word ‘cowboy.’ Jonathan Swift. Read a book, man.” She eyed his clothes. “Or maybe read better ones.” A low chuckle came from one of the booths. The man nodded. He pulled a ten from his pocket, placed it on the bar, and got up to walk to the door. 

“Thanks for the history lesson,” he said without looking back. 

“Any time.” 

A short man under a large, straw hat sauntered to the bar. “Hey hermana, you don’t gotta be so mean to the gringos.” 

“I wouldn’t have to if they weren’t so stupid. And I’ll take your advice the day you can finally see over the bar, vaquero pequeño.” 

“Ay!” He slid his empty glass across the bar. “Gonna need a double to heal that pain.” She pulled a new glass from under the counter and half filled it with rye. 

“En la casa.” 

“I knew I liked you, hermana.”

“You’re married and I ain’t interested. Move along.” He laughed and strutted back to a dark booth, his boots clicking against the concrete floor.

The front door swung open again and in stepped a thin man in a wool Stetson. He limped to the bar and gingerly took a seat.

“Miranda. How’s it?” He took his hat off, set it on the bar, and rubbed his eyes. There was a bowie knife buried in his every joint. All he wanted was a dozen Vicodin and to sleep for a month. 

“It goes, Ezra Ballinger.” Miranda leaned closer to him. “Have you been drinking again?”

“Its too fucking early to be hearing my full name like you’re my momma or something.” 

“Hell, I might as well be. And it’s eleven thirty. So you have been.”

“Sue me.” He motioned for a glass with a stiff hand. “Send it on over.”

“Maybe you should lay off. I’m sure you killed a fifth or more last night.”

“Hey, no one’s keeping score. And you can’t tell me no. Who signs your paychecks?”

“That would be me.”

“Fair enough. But whose name’s on it?” 

“Yours. But so what? You gonna hobble all the way around this bar and make me?”

Ezra laughed. “Shit. Fine. Water or juice or whatever healthy shit you got back there.” He laid his head on the cold steel of the bar top. “Damn, this feels good.” His skull was squeezing his eyeballs. She tapped the back of his head with a beer coaster and set a glass of orange juice on the bar. 

“Are you coming home tonight?”

He raised his head and yawned. “Maybe. I got a lot going on.” 

“Ezra, you don’t have a single damned thing going on.”

He drank half the glass and dug through his pockets until he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Miranda watched him struggle to remove one. Ezra gave up and threw the pack at the wall behind the bar. He put his head in his hands and his uneven shoulders slumped. She sighed and picked the pack up, pulling a flattened and bent cigarette out. He reached out with fishhook fingers and took it. Ezra pushed the cigarette into his mouth and stuck his head out for her to bring a flame to the broken thing.

“Are you having a flare up again?”

He took a heavy drag and held it long enough to make himself dizzy. He released it,  nodding.

Her lips pursed. “You know they got new medicine for that.”

“Do I look like I can afford that? 

“As your bartender and bookkeeper, yes.”

“Mmh.”

“If you were here more than once a week, you might have some sense of how things are.”

“Maybe. But that’s what I pay you for. So I can fuck off and walk real slow to nowhere in particular.” He took another drag and flicked the ash on the floor. “Hell, maybe you should give yourself a raise.” 

“Already did, Bud.” She pointed at the glass. “You need to finish this. And then go take a fuckin’ shower. You look awful.”

“Yes Ma’am.” 

Miranda took the cigarette from his hand and took a long drag. She pushed the hair out of her green eyes and leaned on the bar, her chest becoming more visible in her low-cut shirt. Ezra had always thought her beautiful, but looking at her body in such a way made him feel like a dirty bum standing in a fine art museum. 

“You stare long enough, you’ll go cross-eyed.” She pushed the smoke out of her nose as she said it.

He took the cigarette back from her. “Not a problem I’ll likely have. Besides, I wasn’t staring. I was thinkin’ and they were just in the way.”

“Jesus, I’m afraid to know what of.”

“Shut up.” 

Miranda laughed and disappeared into a back room. The gray smoke hung thin in the air. Ezra used his hat to shoo it away before putting it back on his head. The lights were too bright, but the room spun when he closed his eyes. He could still taste the whiskey in the back of his throat, and it threatened to make a reappearance. Nevertheless, he always kept at it. Probably because it was cheaper than pills. Miranda had made it sound like he was rolling in money. He sure as hell didn’t know, and didn’t really give a fuck one way or the other. The bar kept the house lights on and that was just it. Beyond that, everything was a tired haze. A slow fucking go of it. 

Ezra heard a pair of boots get up from a booth and walk his direction. He groaned, leaning on an elbow to reach into the darkness behind the bar. He came up with a bottle of something he didn’t recognize, and poured himself two fingers of it.

“Ezra my man. How’s it going, brother?” Jacob reminded Ezra of a telephone pole: tall and lean and sun soaked. Despite the war nightmares that still hung in his eyes, he was insufferably friendly. A friend Ezra felt he had done nothing to earn.

“It goes, man. Slow like a donkey in February molasses.” 

“Shit. That is slow. Say, we ain’t seen you down on the ranch in a while.” Jacob sat down next to him. “What gives?” 

“I mean. I don’t have much reason to go down there.You know I’ve got no stake in it. And the current ownership don’t take kindly to me.”

“Shit. Current ownership. You talk like they’re something other than your kin. Kin’s all we got in this life.”

“That is what they say. At least, those that send Christmas cards and go to family reunions.” He poured a finger for Jacob and pushed it in his direction. “All that’s anything but simple. Lot’s been said and done can’t be taken back or forgotten.” Ezra took another sip. “This is my portion of the ranch. You’re sitting in it.”

“I know. I can un’erstand that.” Jacob tapped his glass to Ezra’s. “To the days ahead, then.”
Ezra raised his, which was nearly empty. “May they be few in number and minimal in their torment.”

2.

Ezra put his truck in park, took a cigarette from behind his ear, and lit it. The farm looked like it always had. The long driveway was a question posed to him. You sure you want to do this? You want a moral flaying today, of all days? Showing up felt like penance for some unknown sin, and driving away never absolved him of it, though he always hoped it was the last time He finished the cigarette in three pulls and flicked the butt out of the open window. 

Ezra’ father and sister were twenty feet off the ground, adding the final framework to a barn loft. The sun shone sharply through the rafters and made a lattice of shade on newly-cut hay bales. Ezra breathed in the fragrance deeply and was again eight years old, scrambling up two hundred pale straw mountains to bathe in the summer perfume and stare down at the golden fields and endless patterned rows they were cut from. Ezra used his curled fingers to shield his eyes as best he could. Neither of them looked down at him.