(A while ago ago I decided to convert some of the comedy sketches we did onstage in our improv troupe, Illustrated Men, into short stories. To try to preserve them in a literary form because, being totally improvised, there were only video recordings to mark their passing. This one here was a western parody we did in the 80's.)

Incident at Backhandle

The bright sunlight that streamed in through the window woke Hap Johnson from a deep slumber. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep but he knew it was too late. His head hurt, it had a been a long night playing piano at the bar and despite his rule never to hang about after work, he had slung back more than a few with Hevern Darden who had traveled all the way in from the Double K to see him. So, what could he do? He looked at the clock on the dresser. Two o’clock. He’d better get going.

He threw off the thin cover and stood up. He walked to the washstand by the open window and using both hands, splashed the icy water over his head and unshaven face. He shivered, took down the dirty towel and dried himself off as he regarded the long view across the plains. He put on a clean shirt and a vest and his scuffed bowler hat and left the room. He had slept in his trousers again.

The wind was blowing dust and tumbleweed down the main street of Backhandle, Nevada and few people wandered the boardwalks. A couple of riders went by heading east towards the ranch lands, their faces covered with their kerchiefs. A buckboard was being loaded up outside the general store and a couple of ragged children were laughing and trying to push each other into the horse trough outside the sheriff’s office. Hap could see the sheriff inside at his desk doing some paperwork. The deputy was sweeping the pine floors with a long straw broom.

He crossed the street and strode up to the front door of the Golden Pony saloon and peered over the swinging doors before entering. There was nobody inside but the bartender, Gus, cleaning glasses at the far end of the long mahogany bar. Gus looked up as Hap came in. Gus was a heavy man of about forty-five and balding but what hair he had left was jet black. He wore an apron done up around his waist and the red straps of his suspenders were wide and stood out against his blue cotton shirt.

“Mornin’ Hap,” he said, turning and putting some of the old glass mugs up on the shelf.

“Mornin’, barkeep,” Hap replied and walked over to the bar. “Mighty quiet around here today.”

“Yep, real quiet for a western town, circa 1890,” Gus mused.

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