So yeah, two days to roll into Colorado. Snow flurries hitting the windshield as an old Brad Paisley song played on the local radio station. The state never changed. Not really. Obviously the geography would always be the same but the vibe was always stagnant. Maybe that was just me. Possibly I shouldn’t hold a grudge against the state for what had happened to me as a kid. Hell, the Rockies had nothing to do with my father whipping me like a dog all those years ago. Still, there were aftereffects of that kind of abuse. The body heals but the mind and heart always hurt.
Not as bad as this fucking shoulder but deeply enough that I found myself sliding into downtown Chance with the desperate need for coffee and a codeine pill stat. The main drag was the same. Show me a small town in America that deviated from the norm of snapping American flags outside every shop and I’d show you Canada. I slowed to a crawl as school buses lined up to make a turn to the high school. Memories flooded me of my childhood as I sat at the light watching the cool kids in the back seat being teenagers. That had been me at one time. Back before Abel had found out I was gay as a daisy. A cool dude with all the good looks that the Knox genes had provided. Abel had been a fine-looking man in his youth. Which was how he bounced from a dead wife to a new wife in no time. But a handsome face could hide an ugly underside.
A horn blew. I jumped slightly then pulled off the street into an empty parking slot in front of the Last Chance Lounge, parked, and took a deep breath to settle my nerves. The minute I’d crossed the state line the tremors had started. I’d chalked that up to needing a tablet but now I was in Chance, and the memories were thundering over me like an avalanche, I wondered if this was a good idea. Maybe a beer instead of acoffee was what I needed. I glanced at my phone lying next to me on the torn bench seat. Okay well, ten-thirty in Colorado meant it was well after eight p.m. in Russia. Like the old saying goes—it’s five o’clock somewhere. I took a moment to glance up and down Ole Main. Things sure had changed since I’d slunk out of this town all those years ago.
Antique stores, coffee shops, and a print shop, just to name a few new additions. Some of the older stores like the feed mill, the diner, and the library were the same, which made it a little less jarring. The mansions that had popped up on the southern outskirts of town had been a rude awakening when I’d cruised past them. Lots of big city folks with their fat wallets seeking the western life had gobbled up land from ranchers struggling to make ends meet. Not sure how living in a million-dollar place made you a cowboy. Climb onto the back of a bucking bull for eight seconds or drive a herd of beefers off range during a blizzard then we’ll call you cowboy. Those five thousand-dollar boots that had never had calf scours smeared on them did not make anyone a cowpoke. Just made them posers. In my humble opinion, which nowadays wasn’t worth enough to buy a cup of coffee at the Laughing Fork.
I slid tenderly from the truck, ignored the parking meter because who the hell carries change anymore, and strode up to the door of the Last Chance Lounge. A solid yank on the knob got me nowhere. I pulled again, and again. Same result. Great. Fucking bars should always be open. Twenty-four seven like a convenience store. Guess I’d not come to the pub often as a teenager so my knowledge of the hours was nil. Great. I’d have to double back to the Saddle Up Saloon outside of town to find a six-pack of Coors to wash down my next pill. All I had in the truck was an empty energy drink can or twelve. As I turned from the bar with a sigh a cold April wind kissed me in the face. The gust rattled a sandwich board with such strength it blew over.Being a kind soul I ambled down the sidewalk to stand it back up.
The sign was decorated with chalk. Lots of bright flowers at the top with some pretty handwriting under the bouquet of pink, purple, and blue posies that readSPRING INTO A NEW BOOK! HIGH NOON READS JUST DOWN YONDER!A big plum-colored arrow broke up the text.BOOKS, COFFEE, CONVERSATION. OPEN 9-5 MONDAY THRU SATURDAY CLOSED SUNDAY TO READ!
I glanced where the large purple arrow pointed into a small alleyway. My gaze flickered from the alley to my truck sitting there, tires a little soft, front fender a whole lot dented. My shoulder hurt now, a dull throb pulsing through me like an infection. Maybe it was infected. I should probably see if Old Doc McCleery was still practicing. Hell, maybe he was dead. He’d been ancient when I was a kid. Well, it was either beer or coffee. Maybe conversation. Being in a truck with only your past to keep you company for two solid days was fucking lonely. And depressing.So fucking depressing.
Feeling odd and melancholy I let my feet lead me down the alley. Sometimes the deities do like to poke the mortals with a godly finger. Now and again they dallied in the lives and loves of the plebes who toiled below Olympus just for shits and giggles. Not knowing why I was drawn down this skinny alley that chilly spring day I nonetheless found the bookstore. The windows were sparkly clean. Books galore were arranged on the other side of the glass, some in stands, some popping up out of hand-painted window boxes filled with fake pansies with a sign that called out in bright yellow paint,YOUR FAVE READS ARE POPPING UP JUST INSIDE,which was dorky but cute.
Cradling my left arm to my chest, I leaned in a bit to see what the hot new books on display were. Shockingly they weren’t Tic Toc reads or whatever the popular influencers were totingthis week. No, they were old westerns by Louie Lamour, tomes by Charlotte Bronte, George Orwell, Jane Austen, and J.R.R. Tolkien. Victor Hugo, John Steinbeck, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Another window held a small ladder with books propped on the steps. Poetry books. Some small, some large, some for children. Those were what propelled me into the shop. The warmth felt nice on my cold cheeks. A soft subtle aroma of old leather, rich coffee, and the sweet smell of paper greeted me. As did the sound of a man singing along to “Boom, Shake, Drop” by DJ Laz with Flo-Rida and Pitbull. Whoever was hitting that song knew every damn word and was not ashamed to belt them out with feeling. I tipped my hat back as I listened for a moment.
Smiling softly, I stepped around a small display with horror books by Shelly, King, Poe, and Stoker. A large Lovecraft book sat inside a plastic cauldron. I spied a lean guy, brown hair to his shoulders in a baggy pink sweater and jeans, stacking books on a shelf while shaking his tiny little ass. The music flowed down from a few speakers atop old shelving units of oak and cherry. Worn wood. With fine details of the grain shining through.
“Sorry to interrupt your drop,” I called out.
The guy spun around, winded, and I stared into the prettiest brown eyes I ‘d ever seen. Granted, the glasses those eyes were behind were smudged but even that couldn’t dim their beauty. The fellow was adorable. Dark stubble, hair that needed a combing and a trim, and a look of shock that quickly morphed into embarrassment. He hugged the book in his hand to his chest; cheeks pink as his sweater.
“Oh shit! You startled me. Sorry, I uhm…sorry.” He yanked his phone out to lower the volume to non-filling rattling levels. “Sorry, that was…I like that song.”
“I’m more a Randy Travis sort myself,” I confessed, intrigued by how he clutched that thick book of Greek poetry to his chestlike armor. His dark eyes darted from the speakers above us to me then flew to the front door.
“Oh, he’s classic. We like the classics here! Sorry again about the door. I keep meaning to buy bells for it but there’s so much to do before the official grand opening next week I keep forgetting. Between the new shop and a new house I’m all sorts of befuddled.” He poked at his nose piece with his finger to shove the dark plastic glasses back where they belonged. “Right, welcome to my shop. My name is Aubrey Lancombe. No relation to the French cosmetics and perfume house. I have a B and they don’t. Although they do have a circumflex and I don’t.” He blinked brown eyes at me then grew even redder. “What can I get you? Are you looking for something to herald the joy of spring? Or are you perhaps wishing to say fare-thee-well to winter.”
“Yeah, saying goodbye to shit sounds about right,” I muttered and got the most sorrowful look from the bookstore owner. Aubrey. What a quirky name. It fit him. I didn’t feel right just admitting to this twinky little bookworm I’d come in because I was lonesome. “You got any western poetry? Or notebooks?”
“Oh yes, I just got some in. They’re still in boxes. Pour yourself some coffee while I go rummage them out. Do you have a particular poet in mind? I always find myself drawn to Badger Clark or Curley Fletcher, although Bruce Kiskaddon is always wonderfully evocative.”
“I like them all.” Which was no lie. I’d read all their works over and over again while I fiddled about in the dark of night trying to pen prose as glorious as the names Aubrey had just mentioned. Hiding in my trailer writing poetry. Hiding my queerness. Hiding the failure of my life from the world. Seemed I did a lot of hiding…
“Yay!” Aubrey flashed a smile that lit up the somewhat overcast day. “Let me see what’s come in. Please, have somecoffee. I don’t have cream. The old fridge in the back room is dead so I need to buy a new one but I do have powdered creamer.”
“Thanks.”
He stared at me for a long moment then dashed off like a rabbit spying a pack of beagles coming round the corner.
Moving around the shop, I finally found the coffee pot—a Mr. Coffee drip machine, which felt right here in this shop surrounded by books from centuries past. The only new thing I could see within this space was the cash register and shelf of romance novels with some very sexy man chests on display beside the checkout area. I poured myself some coffee, vanilla-scented which worked for me, in a brand new store mug. The brew was hot, sweetened, and washed down a tablet with ease. A few bangs and curses floated out of the back room as I waited, reading over the back jacket of a gay historical romance. After a moment or two Aubrey burst through the dusty curtain blocking the store room from view of the customers, four or five books in his arms. His pink sweater had slipped from his shoulder to show off a fucking sexy as shit clavicle.
“You’re in luck! I do have some writing journals in stock.” He passed a small leatherbound journal over to me after I placed the romance back on the stand. “They’re very nice. The woman who makes them lives in Alaska.” I gave the journal a long look, enjoying the stained-glass wildflower motif. “She’s a wonderful painter. The watercolors are hers. It’s a well-bound journal as well with space for daily reflections.”
“Mm, yeah, it’s nice.” I gave him a weak smile. His eyes flared then his ears grew red as a radish.
“Nice, yes, pretty.” He stared up at me for a moment then shuddered like a wet cat. “I’m uh…I’m trying to only sell items from small businesses and artisans here. Although sometimes you just cannot avoid having to order things fromthe big publishers and such, like these books. They’re very nice collections of some of the older poets of the West like we touched on but have some additions of newer works from the likes of Wanda Coleman, Robert Hass, and of course Allen Ginsberg. Some people say they dislike his use of long lines like Whitman but I rather enjoy his style. And he was not afraid to touch on the taboo subjects of the time like drugs and sexuality.”
“I’ve never read any of his work,” I confessed, lifting the Ginsberg book from his hand with care. “I tend to stick to the more conventional poets Fletcher or Barker. Campfire tales and cowboy life, that sort of thing.”
“Sure, those are great! There’s so many wonderful works from the American West that are always overlooked by the masses in favor of the British poets like Byron, Keats, Tennyson, and the like. And I love their prose, truly I do, but there are so many wonderful tales and poems of life in this country that need to be read.”
“I agree.” I smiled down at him. He smiled back, then that deer in the headlights expression reappeared. “I’ll take the Ginsberg book and the notebook. Maybe once I get healed up I’ll get back to making my own poems about roan ponies and dusty trails.”
“Yes, I saw the sling. I hope it heals quickly. And if you find you dislike Ginsberg for whatever reason you can return the book to me, in good condition, and I’ll find you something less beatnik.”
“Much obliged.” He studied me closely then nodded, slipping around me with great care taken to ensure no part of him touched any part of me. “Coffee is good.”
