Purple Cowboy

I went to the cowboy bar in Cheyenne. It made me sad. 

I got off work too late to go to the Eagle’s nest, where me and Kenny the bartender recently discussed the Sun Dance, mental illness and religion. He told me religion is mind control. 

I thought the Outlaw Saloon might still be open. They have live music. It was a $5 cover. The band was playing, but no one was watching. That’s how it always is at this bar. I think there are people enjoying the music, but they don’t show it. At this bar, while smoking on the patio and trying to share in conversation, I learned what it meant to be “punked”--to be challenged to a fight but not meet the challenge. I had been trying to share an anecdote about how as a truck driver I will often be playing pool by myself and some guy will want to play but it’s just an excuse to pick a fight. “You don’t want to get punked.” 

At the pool table, a red-headed girl in a skimpy white holtertop lined up a long shot with her knee up on the table. I pray God gives me the grace of purity  in mind and gaze. I am holier than thou and a miserable sinner. I tried not to look, but I did. I wanted to see if this girl had a pretty face. I saw enough to imagine her spirit animal. 

I sat next to a guy at the bar who looked like he would welcome conversation. He said nothing and neither did I. I thought how it would be a nice thing to do, but then I would be stuck. 

I got my drink—a shot of jack and a bud in a bottle– and then sat awkwardly in the middle of things and watched the band. This place was gigantic, and everyone was huddled in the corner by the bar trying not to watch the girl shoot pool. 

Now there were two people who clapped at the end of a song, and this seemed to liven up the band, or maybe it was my imagination. A couple strode onto the dance floor and did long, wide country swing moves, taking their time. The singer was a thick man in a ballcap, and his voice came from the middle distance. The bassist was lanky, spry, bearded and good. They were all bearded. The guitarist played a Sunburst Les Paul. 

I imagined how thrilling it must be to play live in a band. Worth it even if no one was watching. I suppose they were paid. How much would it be worth to be working at 2am on a Saturday? 

I finished my drinks and walked to the bathroom in the middle of a song, hoping the band wouldn’t take it too hard. I had an hour’s drive home and church in the morning. 

When I walked out the side exit, trying not to draw attention, I heard a guitar lick I recognized. 

“I never meant to cause you any sorrow,” echoed the singer’s voice. 

“I never meant to cause you any pain.

I only wanted one time to see you laughing.

I only want to see you laughing in the purple rain.”

It sounded polished, like a song you’d save for a special moment. I felt bad for leaving. Their other songs had been country I recognized but not enough to remember. 

In my old, leaky pickup–which I’m unable to fix, even though I’m a truck driver with a college degree, a wannabe writer, a wannabe rockstar, a wannabe everything–sitting next to my patient pitbull, I could see the band framed in the front door. I loaded and lit my tobacco pipe. I’ve been trying to quit smoking. 

Someone had turned on a fog machine and the band played under purple lights.