04.22.2002
"I killed a man once," I told the horse grazing across from me. She was unimpressed with my tears and grunted an unsympathetic response through her porthole-sized nostrils. "No, I really did," I said, trying to make her believe me. I was interrupted in my efforts though by an irate rancher, shotgun in hand, who demanded me off his property and away from his mare.
I ran with high steps though the grass as buckshot buzzed past my ear until I reached a well used, and obviously public, gravel road. With my thumb on my nose and fingers waving in the air, I displayed my tongue to the farmer as a salute before turning on my heel to continue along my path in search of a bar to complete my confession.
It took two hours of walking until I stumbled across a flea-bag town named "Frank." There was a population sign that said 100 but the date on it was over ten years old so I figured that the number was now nothing more than a rough estimate. There were only three buildings in Frank; the town grocery, which also served as a grill and restaurant – if the term could be applied to a place where there was a bar with three stools, two tables, one without chairs, and everything ordered had to be fried – the post office, and the bar. I was not surprised to find more cars in front of the bar than either of the other two.
I stumbled in though the heavy oak door that swung slowly on its large hinges and assumed a seat on a stool around the bar. The door returned from where I had left it until it was closed, groaning the entire way and filling the whole space with its noise for a good minute until it finally made it home. I sat on my seat watching the bartender as my foot twitched with a life all it's own until he eventually made his way over to me.
"What can I get you," the bartender asked.
"I killed a man," I said.
"It happens," he responded with a shrug. I looked at him wide eyed for a moment in an effort to discern whether he believed whether what I said was true or not but all I got in return was a gaze of a man truly disinterested. I decided to push the issue.
"I'm serious," I said, furrowing my eyebrows to show that I was. "I really did."
He didn't even pause in his movements as he placed a shot glass down on the hardwood bar between him and I and filled it with what I think was tequila. "Cheers," he said and walked away. I stood up from the stool and leaned over the bar. He never looked back.
"Don't you care," I shrieked at him, but he made no sign that he heard me. I sank into my stool and sulked for a few minutes until the heavy door sighed as it opened and a figure almost as big as the entryway saddled up to the seat next to mine. There was nothing small about the man. His head was as big as a beach ball and his cowboy hat was lager than any other I'd seen. On his belt was a gun so large, it might have been a sawed off shotgun. I watched his massive hand make the shot glass, put in front of him by the bartender with out asking, disappear as he brought it to his lips, each the size of a steak. When he'd had his drink, he gave me a quick glance then glanced at the bartender for an explanation.
"Guy says he killed a man," said the bartender. I nodded like a rag doll on a rollercoaster.
"That's right," the big man whispered.
"Yes I did, and I...," I said trailing off. I finally had someone who would listen to me about it and I didn't know what else I wanted to say.
"Shit," said the big guy. "I've killed three. It don't make no difference."
"But I'm a bad guy," I tried to explain. "I mean, good people don't kill other people."
The big guy turned around and I saw a badge pinned to his chest that was the size of a garbage can lid. "It all depends," he whispered, and I started to wonder what would happen if he were to talk above that. "How'd you kill him?"
I gazed at him for a moment and wondered if I should really say another word. I wanted to tell someone, but I also didn't want to be arrested for it. I twisted back and forth on my stool anxiously making little squeaking sounds each time I reversed direction as the debate raged in my head. With a quickness I wouldn't have expected from a man of hiss size, he put his hand on my stool, stopping it dead, and leaving me to nearly fall off from the inertia. After I regained my balance, I ran my fingers through my hair and said, "I ran him over."
"On purpose," the bartender asked with a smile.
"Yes," I said.
"Why'd you go and do that," the big man asked.
"My wife was sleeping with him," I explained. "He had come over to pick her up and take her away for good so I ran him over."
The big guy continued looking at me for a second then turned back to the bar where he pointed with one big finger to the tiny glass that had reappeared before him. "It happens," he whispered as the bartender served him up another drink. "Sometimes, these things happen."