by Rusty W. Mitchum
Now, bein’ a cowboy is not as easy as it might seem when you’re ten or eleven years old because it takes a lot of studyin’.
No, I’m not talkin’ about book studyin’. I’m talkin’ about studyin’ the cowboys on TV. You had to learn to walk bowlegged, and talk with a drawl, and give steely-eyed stares at bad guys. It takes a lot of work.
Back when I was a kid, on Saturday nights all the good cowboy shows were on TV and this was my learnin’ ground. I’d be glued to the set watchin’ all the intricacies each cowboy made, so I could copy them. I’d have on my boots, my Nichols Stallion .45 cap revolver, which was holstered and strapped to my leg, and of course my cowboy hat perched on my head at a slight angle to give me that dangerous look. I had the routine down pat.
I remember this one Saturday night when my folks had gone to visit someone and had left my sister, Teri, in charge of keepin’ an eye on me. Her only rule for me was to stay out of her room and leave her alone, which I was more than happy to oblige.I was in my parents’ bedroom lyin’ on their bed watchin’ a little black and white TV they had mounted in a little cubby hole in the wall. As soon as a commercial would come on, I’d jump off the bed, run over to my mom’s closet where she had a full length mirror attached to the door, and I’d practice my fast draw. I’d stare at my reflection, watchin’ it try to out-draw me, but it never could. I was just too fast. As soon as the commercial was over, I’d jump back on the bed, and go back to studyin’.
Well, the show I was watchin’ that night was about some cowboys who had just gotten off of a three month long cattle drive. After they had penned all the cattle, they whooped and hollered, and headed to the nearest waterin’ hole (That’s a saloon for all you non-cowboys out there). They’d hit those swingin’ doors, rush in and grab a pretty saloon girl around the waist, and head to the bar.
“Bartender! Whiskey!” they’d holler. The bartender would bring a little bitty glass over and into it pour some dark liquid out of a bottle with three X’s on the label. The cowboy would pick up the little glass, look at it, put it up to his nose, sniff it, put his lips on the rim, and with one fluid motion, tilt his head back and drink it all down. Then, dependin’ on which cowboy it was, he would either smile and smack his lips, or slam the glass down, shake his head and grimace. Man, I thought that was so cool. I just had to find me some whiskey.
Now, findin’ whiskey as a ten year old boy is not as easy as it might sound, especially in a house that didn’t have whiskey in it, so I figured I needed to find a substitute. At the next commercial, I left the bedroom and headed to the kitchen. I looked into my sister’s room as I passed to make sure she wasn’t goin’ to catch me, but she was talkin’ on the phone to one of her friends about some “dreamy” boy.
I walked into the kitchen, opened the icebox and there on the top shelf was my whiskey. Okay, it wasn’t real whiskey; it was a bottle of Lucky Leaf Apple Juice, but it looked like what the cowboys were drinkin’, so I figured it’d do. All I had to do was find a little glass.
I looked around and finally spied one on my mom’s knick-knack shelf. Well, it wasn’t really a whiskey glass; it was a little glass candleholder, but it was close enough. I grabbed it, dug the little candle out of it, and with a butter knife, scraped as much of the wax off of the inside of the glass as I could. I grabbed the apple juice and the little glass and headed back to the bedroom. I pulled mom’s ironin’ board out of her closet and made myself a makeshift bar in front of her mirror, so I could watch myself to make sure I was doin’ it right.
I was ready. I poured myself a glass of “whiskey,” picked it up, looked at it, sniffed it, and then slurped it down with one gulp, just like a cowboy. Well, it must have gone down the wrong pipe or somethin’, because I spit and sputtered and blew a stream the size of your thumb out of my nose. I spent the next 15 minutes cleanin’ apple juice, wax, and snot off of Mom’s mirror.
After the cleanup, I tried again. I knew I had to get this down right. The second time went a lot smoother, as did the third and forth. By the time I had finished the bottle, I was an old pro.
Before the folks got home, I had hidden the empty bottle, put the candle back into my whiskey glass, and climbed into bed. I just knew I’d be dreamin’ about herdin’ cows or havin’ a gunfight, or somethin’ good. Boy was I wrong.
About three o’clock in the mornin’ I woke up rather quickly. Somethin’ was wrong. Somethin’ was bad wrong. My stomach was makin’ funny noises. Noises that sounded a lot like the noises comin’ out of the jungle in a Tarzan movie. There were growls, grumbles, and what sounded like an elephant tryin’ to trumpet through a trunk with a knot tied in it. You know, I think parents ought to warn kids about the side effects of stuff like apple juice.
Anywho, although I knew time was of the essence, I eased out of bed as not to jar anything loose. The bathroom was just down the hall, but it might as well have been across town as slowly as I was havin’ to move. I shuffled out my door and down the hall like a penguin with my heels together and my feet splayed out at right angles to each other, clenchin’. I don’t know how I did it, but I made it. I made it just in time. I was havin’ to hold onto the seat with both hands, so I wouldn’t be shot up against the ceilin’.
Well, you catch the drift. Needless to say, I became a teetotalin’ cowboy after that. Man, to this day, just the whiff of apple juice and I break out in a cold sweat.
