Texas Crossroads Bar & Grill

Butte Varner Trish

Description

I own a small town bar and grill in the heart of Nowhere, Texas. My name is Mac McIntyre. My bar and I play host to the numerous characters passing through. First there's Hank, a well-known country and western star, who employs Jerry, a highly skilled and just as highly paid chauffeur. I've always wondered why a chauffeur would study Zen philosophy and every form of martial arts, but then again, I guess it's none of my business. Then there's Hank's sister, Sam, who just moved in, much to the disdain of Noreen, the resident air-head with a knack for sleeping around and hating girls prettier than her. Of course, I have no complaints against Sam, I owed Hank one. Besides, it's been a while and I needed a new waitress anyway, not that I'm trying anything. And Juan, the young boy living just over the border, can't be here every day to help. His English isn't even that great. Then there are the rest of the residents of my bar here at the crossroads, all just trying to enjoy a drink without having to kill each other, or maybe just Noreen, first. I've already been to Vietnam. I don't want to fight in any other wars.

Sujets

• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: First Edition Design Publishing
• Date de parution: 04 décembre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781622872336
• Langue: English

Extrait

A Texas Crossroads Bar & Grill
Trish Butte Varner


First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
A TEXAS CROSSROAD
BAR & GRILL

by
Trish Butte Varner
A Texas Crossroads Bar & Grill
Copyright 2012 Trish Butte Varner
ISBN 978-1622872-33-6

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
December 2012
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com



ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
Dedicated to Steve Ritchie
USAF fighter Ace, Vietnam

In loving memory of my longtime friend,
Martin Caidin
1927 - 1997

and
my Dad.

With special thanks to:
My husband Bobby, for the steady supply of coffee shoved
under the door -and his unflagging encouragement

“RISE ABOVE" is what you do instead of giving in to despair.
CHAPTER ONE
As usual, I was behind in my bookwork and as usual, I didn't care.
My books weren't all that big a deal so I decided to let them slide, opting instead to wash ALL the glasses behind the bar. Not that they needed washing, but it's either do the books or the glasses, I don't vary. I'm in a well-worn rut I know, but that's the way I like it -no surprises. I had enough of them in Vietnam with land mines, booby traps, and wired children. Nowadays, I like it slow, predictable, and stress-free. I own a saloon that sits out on a crossroad in the middle of nowhere. It was built back in the 1800’s and was probably called, "The Long Branch Saloon" or “Longhorn Saloon” –I don’t know, but if you'll just bear with me, I'll get around to telling you how I came to find it.
Right off, you’d think a place like this would be on a Texas ghost town preservation list but it isn’t. I suppose it’s because it’s located in a spot so damned hot and remote that nobody cares about coming here. Still -this is the kind of place that should be preserved. It's a piece of western heritage. At one time, the crossroads must've been a stagecoach stop because nothing's come by since, that's for sure.
The saloon is about a city block long and just as wide with a wooden door; (not swinging doors.) The bar is just like you see in westerns. It’s made out of solid mahogany with a mirror behind it running the entire length of the wall. Straight ahead further on down, is one of the biggest stages you'll ever see in a domestic bar. It still has a painted canvas backdrop hanging from the rafters and if you squint just right, you can make out the faded trees and mountains on its surface.
To give you some idea of how enormous the place is, it was an opera house as well as a gaming establishment.
Three opera boxes overlook the stage from the north wall. They're big and roomy and were designed to hold at least eight people comfortably. The sides bow out like a pot bellied pig; probably bent by someone who knew what he was doing like a ship builder. Each box is hand carved and built next to each other in a staggered design for the best viewing. They would cost a fortune to build today, but wood was plentiful a hundred years ago and the evidence shows throughout the saloon.
The real expense was in the “extras” like the chandeliers and red drapes inside each box. They would’ve had to be imported by ship from Europe to San Francisco -and then over land by stage. Getting them from there-to-here however, could take anywhere from ten months up to two years; depending on the outlaw-holding-up-stages situation.
One day I climbed up there to see what it was like. The chairs were covered in cobwebs, but still sitting exactly where they’d been left. Their legs had tilted some and the upholstery rotted, but they still had a royal air about them. A pair of dark red drapes was tied back on each side to give the opening a softer look. I’d forgotten how fragile things were in here and without thinking, I made the mistake of touching them and the material disintegrated in my fingers. I backed away from the drapes to test the floor with my foot. The dark wood seemed solid enough, but it had an uneasy springy feel to it and creaked when I walked across the boards. I was well aware that these boxes had long been unsafe, but it would take an act of God to make me tear them down. They were beautiful testaments to a bygone era that we’d never see again.
That was my first and last time in the opera boxes. Wanting to leave them undisturbed, I boarded them off and now all that occupies them is a few spiders, scorpions
...and maybe a ghost or two.
CHAPTER TWO
Back in its heyday, this saloon would’ve been the first stop for a cowboy after a long cattle drive. With six months back wages burning a hole in his pocket, he would want nothing more than to kick up his heels and drink himself into oblivion while pretty dance hall girls shilled for the house. He’d give no thought at all to gambling his earnings away on faro, poker and roulette. Naturally he’d be cheated out of every last cent he’d just spent a whole year in the saddle earning, but easy come, easy go. And before the night was over, I’m sure more than one cowboy wound up on this floor with his life’s blood leaking out over some black-eyed Mexican beauty -or an ace hidden up the sleeve. Somebody said Buffalo Bill once came in and sat in on a game-and I'd like to THINK he did- but I doubt it. The West is full of unsubstantiated stories like that but I guess that's why people like me are drawn to it. It must’ve been a hell of a time to be a man back in those days.
The mirror behind the bar reflects the room like a milky cataract. Brownish age spots look like cancerous growths behind its thick glass. But the most interesting flaw in the mirror is a crack down in the lower left corner. The crack originates from a hole made by a .45 bullet and zig-zags upward across the center. I often gaze into that mirror from time to time, hoping to discover some faint image still inside, however, so far, the only thing from that era I’ve seen reflected in it, is the old baroque gilded cash resister.
How I got here still isn’t clear to me -and probably never will be. All I know for sure is that I was more dead than alive in both body and spirit. Just living through each day was a hard won victory. But in time, things in me AND the bar, slowly began to come alive again.
…And I did it all without duct tape.
CHAPTER THREE
My name is Matthew Sean McIntyre. My friends call me Mac and I’m an ex-Vietnam vet.
My dad fought in the Korean War so when Vietnam came along, it was a natural choice for me to go. I’d heard stories all my life about the undying friendships he and his buddies formed in Korea as they slugged it out against the enemy. Most importantly, Dad told me about the homecoming parades and crowds of people lining the streets waving little American flags when they came back home. So naturally I went overseas thinking my country would be just as proud of me as it had been of my dad.
Only that’s not how it went. For whatever reason, it was a war nobody liked; made all the worse by draft dodging assholes back here and “Hanoi” Jane’s traitorous visit. What an idiotic thing for ANYone to do. Her cavorting with the enemy was thoroughly despicable and demoralizing to every soldier over there. But most especially to the P.O.W.’s that she could’ve helped -and didn’t . I personally, will never forgive her for that.
My tour in 'Nam was almost over when we got word that Saigon was just hours away from falling. Every American soldier that could still stand on both feet was deployed and I hope to God I never see anything like that again. What a nightmare! When the Americans started to pull out the panic escalated into sheer Hell. People back here have NO idea what it's like to suffer like that. What got to me the worst was the children; tiny things no more than two or three years old wandering alone in the blinding smoke and bombs going off everywhere. It was pure chaos; a stampede of madness, screams, and explosions -and these babies were right in the middle of it. I personally scooped up as many as I could and put them on choppers, but it seemed like I didn’t even made a dent. For every two or three I got on board, I’d turn around and see fifty more.
-and it's something that will forever plague me.
However, for as bad as Saigon was, I wasn't prepared at all for the reception I got here at home.
I stepped off the plane and was completely taken back by the sheer force of anger and hostility that greeted us at the airport. When the crowds broke through the police lines and rushed us, I freaked; it was Saigon all over again. As I tried to push my way past them, I was called a "baby killer," spit on, and had garbage thrown at my uniform. I couldn’t believe it; what the hell had happened to America? I'd never experienced such cruel mindless conduct; made all the worse by knowing that these were the very people I'd been over there fighting for. I’d just come through Hell in one piece, but this was too freaking much and it’s a damned good thing I didn’t have my weapon within easy reach.
It didn’t get any better either. I became a pariah if the subject of my being in Vietnam came up and people turned away and gave me the cold shoulder. I felt more and more like a stranger in my own country and didn’t take long before I stopped telling anyone I’d been there.
This just wasn’t right and I would’ve given anything to have my dad around to talk to; not that I think he could’ve understood it any better than I did. So much had been taken away from me while I was away. But –I was discovering that life is like those tire spikes you can’t back up o