I was sitting at the bar watching the beads of condensation run down my glass when the light dimmed. The other patrons looked around; I looked toward the door. It could be only one thing. Yep, I was right, Al Carty stood in the entrance adjusting his eyes to the gloom.
“Al,” The bartender yelled, “Take that damn hat off, you’re blocking the ambient light.”
“Ambient light?” Al said, “Where’d you learn that word, Mr. Funk and Wagnall?”
Al ambled over and hitched one huge butt-cheek onto the stool next to me.
“What does ambient mean? He said under his breath, then yelled, “Hey Mr. Funk, if you can drag your old bones this far bring me a long-neck Lone Star. You ready for another one, Dennis?”
“Don’t piss Hulshizer off. He’s pouring the beer.
“Better to be pissed off than pissed on, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, maybe so,” I said, “My glass is almost full, I’m good for a bit.”
“Damn I’m thirsty,” Al said and in one motion grabbed my glass, drained it, and slammed it on the bar. “Bring Dennis another one.”
Al and I sniffed the air simultaneously. “What’s that smell?”
“Smells like cow shit.“ I said.
“Sure nuff.” Al wrinkled his nose.
“Must be Arley.” I said.
“Arley! Scrape your boots off before you step through that door.” Hulshizer yelled. “You know the rules here. Damn ranchers,” He muttered. “They’re so used to that aroma they think nobody else can smell it.”
Arley ripped a couple chords off on his guitar, leaned it against the jamb, and took his boots off. He dropped them next to the steps outside and padded inside in his stocking feet. Everybody looked at each other. “Put your boots back on.” We chorused.
“Man, the things you put up with in cattle country,” Hulshizer said and opened another long-neck Lone Star.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...