photo by Cole Martinez

The Cowboy and The Old Man

There’s a cowboy outside my house. He tips his hat and gives me the same look every day when I walk past him. I think to myself that maybe one of these days he’ll belt out a “Howdy” but I know he’s not that kind of cowboy. I don’t suppose I deserve it either, I never sit outside anymore. He’s horseless and yet he stands with a saddle in his hand draped over his leg. He’ll never look away, he doesn’t have to because he knows I’ll turn my back on him and walk away first. He knows I’ll keep moving on to better things. Just like his horse, I suppose.
I got the same look from an old man about a month ago. I was on the sunset limited train from New Orleans to Los Angeles. At around the twenty-sixth hour we passed through El Paso. Mexico was walking distance from the train. I could see the border from the lounge car window. We were so close to the fence I could’ve hopped off the train and ran to Mexico without breaking a sweat. The homes on the Mexican side of the fence were close-knit, stacked, and colorful like a game of Tetris. The inhabitants were outside embracing the sun. They sat in fold out chairs, hung their clothes to dry, cooked, and mingled with one another. When I looked to the American side there were houses spread out across a grid, identical in shape and size, and each equipped with backyards and clay tile roofs. There wasn’t a man, woman, or child in sight.
Minutes passed and we crossed over a solitary road in the desert somewhere in New Mexico. It was at this crossing where I saw the old man. His baggy jeans were held up by a belt spotted with knife holes and a black tattered jacket covered his baked brown skin. He flaunted a lush grey head of hair and a scruffy beard. He must’ve dressed warm because he knew the cold nights in the desert were worse than the sunny days this time of year. He waited for the train to pass, and I saw him wave. I didn’t think much of it at first. I mostly thought about my bed and my future: the same two things everyone thinks about when they’ve been on a train for over a day. But over the next eighteen or so hours, I kept picturing the old man and his wave. I had just spent five days celebrating Mardi Gras and partying on Bourbon St. but all the beads, boobs, and booze seemed to drift further from my mind every time I thought of the old man and his wave.
Forty-four dreadful hours on the train and I was finally walking up to my door at 5:30 in the morning. Before I stumbled into my house and sprawled out over my bed, I caught the look from the cowboy outside my house. I think about the cowboy and the old man a lot these days. If they could both tell me anything, I think they’d say the same thing, “Son, the future ain’t nothing to look forward to, but have a nice day anyway.”

Cole Martinez was born and raised in North East Los Angeles, California where he grew up playing sports and hating books. At 18 years old he changed his mind about books, read a handful of them, and graduated from Northern Arizona University with a degree in English. He prefers short walks from his bed to his desk where he writes, reads, and makes music for his brother’s podcast. His work has been published in The Tunnels Magazine and culturedvultures.com.