Arizona Blue—Gunfighter, in: Maggie O’Brian, Compromised Episode #29
Arizona Blue—Gunfighter, in:
Maggie O’Brian, Compromised
Episode #29
Blue was resting, lying, elbows down, motionless, undisturbed, examining his thoughts (on the bar), bruised knuckles from the fight he had a few weeks ago along the rim of the Grand Canyon. Just a few trifle thoughts, is all, his whole body was aware of the endurance it had taken, soreness throughout his whole body, he was getting old, he told himself. Maggie O’Brian came to mind, the gal that he met at the log cabin, along the rim of the canyon, her husband had died, and she was taken captive by the Indians, he could not sleep peacefully because of that, because he was questioning his actions, his motives. He had confused dreaming, and he questioned his mind, his cerebellum you could say, I suppose it did its trick, it maintained balance and muscular alertness. (It was now June of 1976.)
It occurred to Blue, that this impetuous girl named Maggie, had compromised herself in more ways than one by staying in a cabin on the rim of the canyon after the odds of her husband being alive was ten to one. He told her to leave, but she wouldn’t hear of it. He could have played the angle of mercy and tried to get her back, but it was too dangerous, again the odds were one in ten, and he was a gunfighter, not a mercenary.
He was contemplating her face now, relaxed at a bar in Flagstaff. She was prompted by strong impulses, he told his second self, you know, the one we all talk to, and the one that tells us our desires of a woman, wanting a woman, he had really never felt an itch for a woman as he did this one, hell, he kind of was hoping he’d find her husband dead, that is why he returned, thinking he could perhaps comfort her, and then, who knows what. Well, this is what was going on in his mind.
“You sure you want another drink?” asked the barkeeper, knowing Blue got mean when he drank too much, or was in a depressive mood. “How do you feel?” he asked, smiling.
Jake Cody, wound the clock, and gave Blue another beer with a shot of whiskey, squint-eyes, watching Blue in case he gave a sign of craziness, and he’d simply duck; he noticed Blue’s ungentle fingers rubbing his gun, he did that when he was thinking, unfocused; simply as it may be, it reminded him, he was unfocused, a life saving tick you might say, he picked up along the way.
“Oh, I should have, should have?” question Blue to himself.
“Should have what?” asked the barkeep.
Angelina sat down abruptly by Blue, yawned a bit, it was close to midnight, “Honey, we can if you want?” said the young prostitute. She was pretty thought Blue, but her sleep-swollen eyes were defacing, and his mind was too busy thinking, and his thirst was too intoxicating to make love, so he smiled and said nothing, but ordered a drink for her nonetheless.
In a clap of an eye, Blue shot out the lamp near the bar, the several folks in the bar jumped up, then trying to move away from his blind spots they stood stone still against the wall, puzzlement filled the bar, it was quiet, why did he do what he did (thought the wall folks), but no one cared or dared to ask. Blue shook his head, Angelina still sitting next to him, “I never saw one like you,” she told Blue. He looked at her, she must had been less than 20-years old, he told himself, but there was something in her eyes that reminded him of Maggie, a proper looking girl (but this one was a prowler).
“Sure,” he said in a mild tone, “let’s go up to my stall, I mean room honey, and do it, it’s number #13, I like that number, it follows me around.”
Note: This can be considered the third part to the story of “Death along the Canyon’s Rim,” but to be honest, it simply was not written with that excuse in mind, so I have not categorized it that way. It was meant to be a story of its own, simple as it is about Arizona Blue, reflecting, as often we all do, and question our motives and actions.
Written at home, 5-9-2007, 11:39 PM
Maggie O’Brian, Compromised
Episode #29
Blue was resting, lying, elbows down, motionless, undisturbed, examining his thoughts (on the bar), bruised knuckles from the fight he had a few weeks ago along the rim of the Grand Canyon. Just a few trifle thoughts, is all, his whole body was aware of the endurance it had taken, soreness throughout his whole body, he was getting old, he told himself. Maggie O’Brian came to mind, the gal that he met at the log cabin, along the rim of the canyon, her husband had died, and she was taken captive by the Indians, he could not sleep peacefully because of that, because he was questioning his actions, his motives. He had confused dreaming, and he questioned his mind, his cerebellum you could say, I suppose it did its trick, it maintained balance and muscular alertness. (It was now June of 1976.)
It occurred to Blue, that this impetuous girl named Maggie, had compromised herself in more ways than one by staying in a cabin on the rim of the canyon after the odds of her husband being alive was ten to one. He told her to leave, but she wouldn’t hear of it. He could have played the angle of mercy and tried to get her back, but it was too dangerous, again the odds were one in ten, and he was a gunfighter, not a mercenary.
He was contemplating her face now, relaxed at a bar in Flagstaff. She was prompted by strong impulses, he told his second self, you know, the one we all talk to, and the one that tells us our desires of a woman, wanting a woman, he had really never felt an itch for a woman as he did this one, hell, he kind of was hoping he’d find her husband dead, that is why he returned, thinking he could perhaps comfort her, and then, who knows what. Well, this is what was going on in his mind.
“You sure you want another drink?” asked the barkeeper, knowing Blue got mean when he drank too much, or was in a depressive mood. “How do you feel?” he asked, smiling.
Jake Cody, wound the clock, and gave Blue another beer with a shot of whiskey, squint-eyes, watching Blue in case he gave a sign of craziness, and he’d simply duck; he noticed Blue’s ungentle fingers rubbing his gun, he did that when he was thinking, unfocused; simply as it may be, it reminded him, he was unfocused, a life saving tick you might say, he picked up along the way.
“Oh, I should have, should have?” question Blue to himself.
“Should have what?” asked the barkeep.
Angelina sat down abruptly by Blue, yawned a bit, it was close to midnight, “Honey, we can if you want?” said the young prostitute. She was pretty thought Blue, but her sleep-swollen eyes were defacing, and his mind was too busy thinking, and his thirst was too intoxicating to make love, so he smiled and said nothing, but ordered a drink for her nonetheless.
In a clap of an eye, Blue shot out the lamp near the bar, the several folks in the bar jumped up, then trying to move away from his blind spots they stood stone still against the wall, puzzlement filled the bar, it was quiet, why did he do what he did (thought the wall folks), but no one cared or dared to ask. Blue shook his head, Angelina still sitting next to him, “I never saw one like you,” she told Blue. He looked at her, she must had been less than 20-years old, he told himself, but there was something in her eyes that reminded him of Maggie, a proper looking girl (but this one was a prowler).
“Sure,” he said in a mild tone, “let’s go up to my stall, I mean room honey, and do it, it’s number #13, I like that number, it follows me around.”
Note: This can be considered the third part to the story of “Death along the Canyon’s Rim,” but to be honest, it simply was not written with that excuse in mind, so I have not categorized it that way. It was meant to be a story of its own, simple as it is about Arizona Blue, reflecting, as often we all do, and question our motives and actions.
Written at home, 5-9-2007, 11:39 PM
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 10:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home