Cowboy

Kent’s Market is the only thing for miles

down either side of Route 83. Rising from the midst of so much

desert dirt and stubborn grass, it’s an oasis of greenery and color

that makes your heart stop to see it. A small picket fence corrals

in the plants and flowers and vegetable carts that threaten to

overflow into the dusty road, and above it all the sign, painted to

look that cracked and weathered. Kent’s.

Annuals first, right by the road, lines of

pansies and wax begonias and nasturtiums, purple and red and orange

in the dry air. Then the shrubbery and taller plants, hostas and

hibiscus, a potted azalea or two. Old wooden workbenches line the

fence, overflowing with baskets of apples and strawberries,

tomatoes, green peppers, and at the back of the lot a tent stands

tall, its canvas flapping in the hot breeze that blows when a car

passes by. Behind the tent, a ways off to deter the shoppers who

stop for fresh produce and live plants, is a low, one-story ranch

house, its wooden fa?ade as worn and beaten down as Kent’s sign out

front. And behind the house, hidden from view, is the field of

vegetables and plants he sells.

Kent himself stands at the front of the lot

every morning as the sun comes up. Hose in hand, watering the

flowers, the plants, thinking things I’ll never know and he doesn’t

wish to share. With his black jeans tucked into faded boots, a

black cowboy hat pushed down low over his eyes, he looks like the

epitome of what I came west to find. A solitary man, a lone cowboy,

some nugget of a man’s man that managed to slip sideways in time,

straight off the range to me. I’ve always wanted a guy like that,

rugged, stoic, lean and muscled and damn fine in a duster and hat.

Too many westerns as a kid, my sister says. Searching for a western

hero that doesn’t exist, out here in the desert sun.

She never met Kent.

He’s the reason women flock to our meager

produce stand, out here a good ten miles from town. Sure, we

advertise in the local paper, on TV, but he’s the reason people

driving the back road from Laredo to Abilene stop and pick up a

pint of berries or a potted geranium to take home. From the road

he’s breath-taking in those jeans, that hat, no shirt and a tanned

chest the delicious color of chestnuts in season. Strong—you can

see that from your car window, how strong he is, how broad his

chest and back, how muscled his arms. Narrow hips that hint at a

tight ass, abs you think you saw on a NordiTrack commercial, a tiny

string around his neck so Marlboro you ache for a smoke.

The women look his way and imagine a slow,

shy grin curving into that tanned face, or how he’d tip the brim of

his hat just so and say something John Wayne like, “Howdy, ma’am.”

They read about him in their historical romances, see him on the

big screen—they know how cowboys like him are supposed to act and

they come racing in to pick over his irises and cucumbers, nudging

each other and giggling when he looks their way.

I know, I fell for it too. Only I wasn’t

holding out much hope when I stopped—a man like that usually

doesn’t go for a man like me, that’s part of the reason I think

I’ve always wanted one. But I was hitchhiking my way north and the

couple who picked me up outside of Carrizo Springs were old enough

to be my parents, and by the time we drove past Kent’s, I was more

than ready to get out. Away from the words of caution, how a young

man like myself should settle down with a nice girl, how I need a

job like their own son working for minimum wage in the school

system over in Dallas, how their daughter would like me but I’m a

bit too shiftless for their tastes…

When the missus saw Kent’s bare back, as

broad as the sky above, and developed a sudden craving for fresh

snap peas, I made my escape. Thanked them for the ride, dug my pack

out of their trunk, trotted over to the stand as if this was where

I needed to be. It was—I left Jersey looking for a man like Kent. I

wasn’t leaving Texas without finding one.

So it was a pleasant surprise when he turned

in my direction and I saw in his eyes that all the women in all the

world didn’t matter to him none, and when he asked if I had a place

to stay, I told him no. He had an extra room in the back, if I was

interested? Of course I was.