the cowboy

it was the end of the summer of floyd and i was unemployed, under metaphysical house arrest in my childhood home.

the only reprieve were my long phoneless walks which i took every afternoon.

i would wander to the nearby park and watch the turtles sunbathe in the pond while i contemplated how shitty it was to be 22 years old.

one afternoon a barefoot toddler wandered across the grass towards me. she was chaperoned by an older gentleman in a cowboy hat.

the baby liked me. the cowboy was her father. he had an irish accent. he asked me i could babysit sometime. it wasn’t like i had anything going on.

i met the cowboy’s wife in the park the next day. she was young, mixed race. much younger than the cowboy. every inch of skin was covered. long skirt, long sleeves, and a scarf.

she pushed the baby on the swings and spoke to me about her life. the cowboy was her second marriage. the baby was her second child.

she had a nasty custody battle with her bipolar ex and then he killed himself. her mother helped her with her older son. she was a non practicing licensed masseuse. currently, she spent her days handling the many complaints filed against the cowboy’s construction company.

we walked together towards their house. there was a massive bulldog chained up in the yard. she showed me where everything was and then left me alone with the baby. we sat on the floor together and stared at each other silently. she was a silent toddler. we weren’t alone for long before the cowboy came home. he sat on the couch and i stayed where i was with the baby.

the cowboy asked me questions like what i studied in college and what i wanted to do professionally. when he found out i studied film he told me he had connections with a documentary filmmaker. i was sort of confused about why i still needed to be there when the cowboy was here. couldn’t he take care of the baby?

i received an angry phone call from him the next day.

he told me i was just like his older daughters and all the women he knew. he said he didn’t think it was going to work out with me babysitting. i was sort of confused and defensive. but i also didn’t want to go back to that weird house.

but i had to go back to that weird house to get the money they owed me.

his wife answered the door very cheerful, as if this happened all the time. she thanked me and gave me a wad of cash.

the cowboy’s house flooded and they had to move into a rental on my street.

he drives his truck around the neighborhood slowly and stares at me, unsmiling. sometimes i stare back and other times i stare straight ahead and pretend he isn’t there.

i worked at a restaurant and a man once asked me if i knew the cowboy. it would have been in 2011. i was in middle school in 2011, but i know the cowboy. i lied and said i had no idea who he was talking about.

probably for the best, he isn’t a good guy, the man told me.

the cowboy is never home. he sits outside the headshop smoking cigarettes and staring unsmiling at everyone. his wife had another baby. the kids play in the yard.

when i see him, i cross to the other side of the street, just in case.

the last thing i need is an irish curse.