The Little Cowboy

I heard it before I saw him.  Not the low rhythmic bass and rattling of a passing car, the bass getting louder and louder and then slowly dissipating. No, it was familiar. I knew the song but it was out of context and getting louder and louder –tinny and trebly.

Parked in front of the Quik Stop, I craned my neck left and right. Nothing. In front of me a man poked his index finger at the Red Box screen. From experience, I knew the screen was troublesome and was a bit perturbed they never fixed it. A cardboard sign the size of a refrigerator box was hammered to a pole near the entrance – the head of a three-inch nail protruding from the top of the sign – saying “Lost Dog 510-5623-696.” No description of the dog. To the left of Red Box a digital sign boasted lottery winnings; below the sign propane tanks stood locked in a white, steel meshed cage. Like grocery stores offering rental carpet and hardwood floor cleaners, gas stations and convenience stores are taxed with the burden of keeping barbecues in propane. It seems to me that a hardwood store is better suited for this type of thing. It’s just one of those things you don’t question.

I should’ve been in the store refilling my 44-ounce recycled cup with Diet Pepsi, but I wanted to see where the loud sound was coming from. It was getting closer and clearer. I sat in the car, knowing it was heading my way.

A new Honda Civic with lightly tinted windows pulled in the parking lot and parked immediately to my right. The driver turned off the car and looked at his phone, his shoulders and head tilted toward the device.  Silence. It wasn’t him, obviously.

Through the passenger side window, the car came into view. Turning left into the lot, past the “lost dog” sign, the car pulled next to the new Honda – windows open, volume loud. All three of us were lined in a row: me looking at the old Honda driver, the new Honda driver looking at his phone and the old Honda driver staring directly at the new Honda driver. I appeared to be the only one

Knowing something transpired that brought both of them here, to a convenient store parking lot in Castro Valley, CA., I stayed put and waited them out, delaying my 44 oz. soda.

I stole glances at the two: new Honda still on his phone and the other staring directly at the new Honda driver, music still permeating the parking lot like fog.

I started humming the song.

He came on a summer’s day

Bringing gifts from far away

I knew it, I knew it.

The sailors say, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"Yeah, your eyes could steal a sailor from the sea”

My mind flashed to Michael Stipe sitting in the back of a limousine, sporadically singing Brandy by Looking Glass. A camera zoomed in on his face while he sang.

The sailors say, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)

He hums, looks out the window and then turns to the camera. “Sexist,” he says. Yes, it is, Michael.

A staple of mellow gold 70’s rock, Brandy was a one-hit wonder from a band called Looking Glass. I think they were Scandinavian. I know this because I had the single when I was young. I still remember it: yellow label on Epic records.  It got lots of play.

Appearing that the standoff was going nowhere, I exited the car and lingered, discreetly looking in the direction of the old Honda, as not to draw the ire of the old Honda. At first glance, it was obvious he possessed “the anger.”

Even though he was sitting in the driver’s seat, window open with his left arm leaning out the window, I was able to get a pretty good composite of him: late 70’s, bone thin, under 5’ 8” with straight grey hair to the ears and a rare, straight devil beard, the kind you can brush and style. Even with the advanced age, his face was boyish and his wiry disposition gave off a “don’t fuck with me” vibe. Given his looks, he would do well in a tight pair of Wranglers, old Durango work boots, a western shirt and a straw cowboy hat. Maybe at one time he was like this, but his bucolic days were behind him, replaced by Walmarts, urban trailers parks and an old Civic with bondo on the door.

Appearing nothing was going to happen, I entered the Quik Stop and filled my soda, gently placing the lid, with the straw already inserted, on top of the cup, to avoid spillage. I was a pro.

Walking to the counter, I slurped the soda that slipped through straw hole. Overfilling will do this. The man behind the counter and I exchanged our dance of “hellos, thank yous and have a nice days,” as we have 100s of times. Neither of us willing to further the relationship with the truth of “how are you?”

I push open the left glass door with my right palm, avoiding my fingers touching the glass, like a germaphobe. Expecting for all the players to be in position upon my return, the little cowboy in the old Honda was gone. But Brandy was still present, albeit faint, like it was coming the other side of the building.

 I was a bit disappointed that the little cowboy was gone, but the story was going nowhere – just three cars in a parking lot.  Nothing was going to happen.

I got in my car, rolled down the windows and exited on the east side of the parking lot. The faint sound of Brandy was still in the air and getting louder.

In my rearview mirror, I see the old Honda pull into the parking lot and park in his old spot. The window is down, Brandy is on loop and the staring resumes.