“Excuse me, ma’am; could you direct me to yer shitter?”

says the large white man with twitchy hands.

so I rustle through the cabinet and next to the pistol

I don’t know how to shoot is the bathroom key.

“There you are, sir,” I say, gesturing out the door to

the right.  I wanted to laugh real loud after he left

to drop a load, but he was so earnest – like he was

really tryin’ to be a gentleman just how his momma

taught him.  five minutes later he returns the key

with a shaky tip of a Montana Troutfitters cap and a

“Thank ya, ma’am.”  squinting out glass

double doors at vehicles choosing which

direction to drive,  I decide the podunk little

7-Up and Cheetos oasis I’m holdin’ down ain’t

so bad, you know?  it’s alright.


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