High Noon at Work, and It's Not Time for Lunch

Monday morning of last week and my barn was burned down, the stream had been dammed up and my cattle run off. And there was my co-worker smelling of kerosene, pants wet to the knees and cow-poop all over his boots. Being an even-dispositioned kind of man, I figured he'd had a bad day and accidents do happen.

Tuesday morning and the well's been tainted, my wife and kids sold to Indians and my best dog lured away with bon-bons and Scooby snacks. And there was my co-worker again, sipping on a chilled Ozarka, a pocket full of chips from the Indian casino, and sporting a new 'I love my dog' T-shirt. When a man's had a bad Monday, sometimes it's hard to bounce back on Tuesday, so I could let an little grouchiness on his part slide.

And then he criticized my writing. That's enough to get a normal man riled, but for me, it means the clock is ticking toward high noon. I looked to my role models and pondered, 'What should I do?'

Taking their best advice, I load up the pearl-handled pistols, strap on the hand-tooled leather holster, tying it on the leg, snap the brim of my Stetson, and call him out in the street. I stood there in the dust and the mud, and shouted to the saloon, 'I'm callin' you out, you barn-burnin', stream-damming, poopy-booted, well-taintin', wife-and-kid-discountin', dog-stealin', writing critic (I was nearly exhausted and breathless by this point)!

The sun high overhead and the Clint Eastwood music cued up, I motion my co-worker out into the street (okay, into his office) and townspeople begin running for cover (okay, I close his office door). I look him in the eye and say, 'You seem to have some issues with me during the last couple of days. What seems to be the problem?'

He looks back at me, his hand twitching near his holster and says, 'I do have some issues, but they're not with you. I'm sorry. You're the only one I can count on to help me through this.'

Well, I don't need a barn anyway now that my cattle are gone, and I can always buy my own bottled water. I never liked the dog anyway, and I probably rate my writing higher than it deserves; so I unbuckle the holster, kick up some dirt, and say, 'Oh. Okay.'

I just hope my co-worker has a better week this week. These boots are killing my feet.

By the way, the 3:10 from Yuma photo at the far right is for my friend Kristi. She's already written the Russell Crowe Caveat for her wedding vows. If Russell Crowe ever shows up, she's outta there.