Bathroom Monologue: A Still Moment

In the last moment of the game, every piece on the frontier chessboard is in motion.

Red Casey looks north up Main Street. The sun is against him, but his eyes are keener, and he is righteous. His fingers splayed at his hip, he can feel the temperature of his iron, though not yet the touch. At touch, they’ll both unholster. He will put a hole in that thieving Kid before his former partner can even finish the draw.

The Kind Kid looks south down Main Street. The sun is vindictive on his neck, burning old rope scars. He knows he doesn’t have Red’s draw speed, but his six-shooter is lighter and the parts are filed down. He doesn’t want to have to gun the best partner he’s ever had, but he will not abide a thief.

Double K, the ten-year-old adopted Kid of the Kid, clutches his cowboy hat to his mouth. His eyes peer out from the side of the road. He wants to yell at Red that he was playing cards with his daddy all night and there is no way he could have stolen the money. This close to guns, though, Double K has no breath with which to yell.

On the opposite side of the road cluster whores and drunks, spilling out of the saloon for the best show all year. The scoundrels who robbed a train without killing a man are going to shoot each other down. The saloon owner doesn’t know what this is over, but watching through the window he wishes he could sell tickets. It’d be an instant sell-out.

Near the center of the mob, like the blossom on a hedonistic rose, is Anne-Marie. Her eyes and bosom are pink from weeping and worry. She has breath this close to guns, and screams an alibi for Red. The Kid simply will not hear it.

On the north side of the saloon’s porch, Deputy Randolph hangs his hands. A rifle is leaned against the banister, and he could use it to stop this, but he hasn’t the authority. Only the sheriff does. And so Randolph must wait, though how long Red and Kid will hold their standoff is a matter of moments.

Sheriff Motley sits on the second floor of his house, the biggest on Main Street. His three hundred pound girth makes his rocking chair creak for mercy. He hears the churn of the mob down the road and chortles to himself, counting dollar bills. All this, he thinks, for a two-bit tip to the saloon owner on when both Kid and Red wouldn’t be in the room with that burlap bag.

The sheriff’s wife watches him from their drawing room. She does not introduce herself into this business, even now. She is forty years and two hundred pounds his junior, just a slice of patience and a chestpang away from inheriting money nobody knows is there. She could almost kiss her husband for keeping it so secret. She won’t do that. Then he’d know that she knows.

On the first floor of the biggest house on Main Street, the Motleys’ butler sprinkles poison into their tea. He’s seen their cash loaf and doesn’t care where it came from; it’s enough for him to finally flee this dusty town. If he can serve the refreshments in time he’ll run down the street. He’s heard there might be a gunfight today, a splendid way to finish his time here. He may even wager some of his newfound riches before catching the next train east.