There hadn’t been cowboys in The Valley since the early nineteen eighties, but they were re-emerging. At shopping malls stocked with shoe stores, cell phone kiosks, jewelry retailers, and airbrush photography studios, you could find them. Even though it had been forty years since their boots clicked against the cold, shiny floors, the cowboys were comfortable because the shops hadn’t changed much. And shoppers still had fancy hair, big earrings, and credit cards just like in 1983. On any given day in 2017, there would be a cowboy leaning up against the wall of an ice cream vendor or with his arms propped up on a corn dog stand. It was home.
To be sure, the cowboys of the modern era didn’t ride horses; they were into motorcycles. And they didn’t rob saloons with double-barrel shotguns while patrons drank whiskey; they did it with semi-automatic rifles even if every customer was sipping a top-shelf martini. Maybe even, especially then.
I met one of them on a March day I wish I didn’t remember. He was wearing a wide-brim hat that was dark black and his eyes didn’t seem dangerous. It was a normal Thursday after work and I was on my way to the candy counter to get my favorite bag of honeycomb chocolate squares. I noticed him eyeing me as I waited in line. He was in front of the sporting goods store with a toothpick between his lips and a casual scowl on his face. Then he walked over.
“Today’s my birthday,” he said evenly.
I was tapping my foot and waited before looking up at him. “Happy Birthday,” I responded.
“Have you ever been to this mall before?”
My foot found this confusing and tapped harder. “I come here all the time.”
I really tried to brush off his presence, but there was no way to do it. His voice seemed to erupt into my ears and his body was energizing me. I thought I’d lose my balance if I didn’t get close to the counter.
“What?” I managed. “What’d you say?”
**
The influx of cowboys caught on in the news. All the networks were talking about the grand resurgence of westerners dressed in spurs and chaps.
My own wide-brimmed bad boy was asleep on the couch, his heels wedged into a pillow. Two months had passed and now we were at the mall every day, eating two-scoop sundaes and throwing dollars away in the movie theater photo booth. But during the third month, my cowboy stopped being an outlaw and started to be a magician. He disappeared. In an instant.
From then on I saw him every few months, when he was near enough, even though we lived next door to each other and he had never left town. He’d hit a hard road, he said. I asked if he wanted to visit the department store windows, but he told me he had to get back to his front porch.
**
Five years went by. Cowboys lingered around, but their day had passed and many were catching rides to Miami, New York, and San Francisco.
The next time I went to the mall, I thought about the cowboy I’d known. He’d been so demure and then so extravagant. He wore his hat so proudly then hid at home behind a fly-screen door. Boots were always polished and always at the mall, but nowhere else. There was a night when, together, we took one too many shots of alcohol and got angels tattooed on our shoulders. His was simple and mine more majestic, but somehow they matched. He told me I was just like that, an angel. He said it in his big hat. Then he stopped talking altogether.
**
The cowboys have left The Valley, but it’s not considered a mystery or even a news article. They were more like a fashion trend, gone with the times.
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