ABOUT TIME

So for all my friends and others that don't read this, here's a story I wrote for school over a year ago. It was for a basic, run of the mill Fiction Composition class so it's not the most complicated story. In fact, I stayed up one night and wrote it all in a matter of a few hours before I had to go to class, but i still think the idea behind it is kick ass, it just might need a little more work...


Twin Peaks Veiled

I arrived at Twin Peaks around one o’clock post meridiem. It’s a small town just outside of Salt Lake City, due west about fifty miles. My day had been long, and my ass was sore. I needed a break from riding Abacus. The sun was hot. I was thirsty. He was thirsty. We stopped at an old run down bar in this ghost town for a glass or two of their finest whiskey. The place was called Maggie May’s. The building looked like it barely held itself together. Two of the three front windows were broken out, the right saloon door was hanging by its bottom hinge, and even the sign, Maggie May’s Saloon, was missing one of the ‘O’s. My kind of place.
I tripped up the stairs and fell face first just outside of the doors. I seem to have overlooked that one of the steps was missing. This better be damn good whiskey. I used the left door to enter the bar, avoiding making the right one any worse. The place immediately went silent as I entered. I looked around. There were maybe nine or ten dusty and sun-worn looking people randomly scattered about with not one female in sight. I can tell these people aren’t used to strangers. I continued up to the bar with only the sound of my stirrups as company. As soon as I established my presence at the bar these drifters continued on with their small talk. Regardless of what everyone else thought, I knew I was going to leave in a good mood.
I sat on the third farthest stool from the right side of the bar. It was my best view of the room, in case I find myself not welcome here. The bar tender was facing away from me; it looked like he was cleaning a glass. I cleared my throat to get his attention. No response. I did it again, with much more force. Still, no response. ‘Hey!’ Not only did my outburst get the attention of the barkeep, but again the room went silent. He turned toward me. He was a tall white man with jet black hair. He had random patches of hair all over his cheeks and chin which seemed to be his excuse for a beard. “What’ll it be, bub?” He asked, setting down a dirty glass between my resting forearms. “Your strongest whiskey on the rocks, I’ve had a long day.” I replied. He looked at me and gave me a smirk and proceeded to fetch his choice from his surprisingly vast wall of booze. “This is the finest whiskey west of the Mississip.” He was shaking up the bottle; I guess some settling may occur. “Salt Lake Pride,” he declared. He filled up my glass which I downed immediately. He laughed and filled me up. He seemed like a friendly guy amongst these drifters; a diamond in the rough if you will. I took it slow this time and started surveying the setup. The place was pretty dirty, as if it hadn’t been swept in months, years even. There were no decorations on the wall and if it were not for the sun coming in through the broken windows, this place would be very dimly lit due to the fact that I only see one light bulb. The tables and chairs were old, crudely fashioned, and look to be on the verge of tipping over. There were only four sets, and clearly weren’t being appreciated. The only commodity that seems to have any money invested in it was the liquor shelf and I can’t say that I would disagree. There’s no women around, so liquor was the next best escape.
As I was half way through my second glass I started some small talk with the barkeep. His name was Arthur and he has been the owner of the bar for the past half dozen years. We got into some interesting stories, the first of which was about Maggie May, the original owner of the bar.

* * * * *

Maggie May Oswald moved to Twin Peaks, Utah when she was seven years old. Her father was a successful gold miner and struck it rich a few years prior. They built a large mansion in an uncharted territory just outside of town. Maggie had a normal life of a young rich girl; she went to school, received good grades, and followed in her mother’s footsteps to be a loving housewife, knowing that she would inherit wealth and not have to work for it. As she became an adult, her father was stricken with an incurable lung disease from smoking tobacco. As his health declined, her father decided he wanted his legacy to continue, so he opened a bar and named it after his only child, Maggie May. The day they opened the bar, her father’s health declined severely. They hired a young doctor in a green hat to save him, but there was nothing he could do. Her father’s passing left Maggie May and her mother to survive on their own. The years passed with Maggie and her mother running the bar, being not only the bartenders but also the waitresses and busgirls. One day a man came into the bar out of the hot Salt Lake sun. He was a clean shaven, tall white man with jet black hair.
Maggie May was bartending when this man approached her at the bar. Their eyes met and they immediately felt like they knew each other’s entire lives. He introduced himself as Clyde Turner. They conversed well into the late of hours of the night, well after the bar was closed.
The two were married in Salt Lake City on August 15th, 1885. They were happily married for four years, but decided not to have children. Clyde was in favor of kin, but Maggie didn’t want the responsibility.
On August 15th 1889, Clyde took Maggie May Turner out to a show and dinner. That night, while leaving the show, Maggie was shot dead.

* * * * *

Arthur abruptly stopped the telling of his story. He had a guilty look on his face that made me wonder what happened. I yearned to know but he refused to tell. I finished my second drink and asked for a refill. I could tell I was going to leave here in a good mood. I asked Arthur about one of the drifters in the saloon. He was across the room in a green hat with an Abraham Lincoln beard all while drinking what looked like blood. “That’s an interesting story my friend,” he began.

* * * * *

In 1885, there was a duel outside of a general store in San Francisco. One Shot Joseph Mravik and Paul West of the Carolinas, two of the fastest hands in the land, got into a scuffle about a girl they had been eyeing doing laundry outside next to the store.
Meanwhile, in the saloon across the way, Martin Marshall slumped over a bottle of bourbon at the bar. He bore a green hat that he told many a tale of. His most famous story involved him killing Robin Hood and stealing his iconic head piece. No one believed this drunkards tale.
He was half way into his bottle when he crossed paths with his old object of lust. The woman was beautiful, her hair was red as fire, and looked as if it was spun into the finest silk. Her skin was white and soft. Her name was Maggie May Turner and she had broken his heart years ago. She tried to walk past Marty but he forcefully grabbed at the frills of her dress. She fought him off and turned around immediately to see the face of lover’s past. They talked for a moment until Marty Marshall opened up his heart and decided to cross the line with questions of her new love. She left, leaving him a dramatic mess.
Marty stumbled outside, pistols drawn, ready to kill anyone that gave him an awkward look. He walked forward and wobbled off the front steps of the saloon. When his face plastered the ground, his guns went off, ironically killing both men that were in the midst of a duel. As Marty Marshall gathered himself to his feet, he looked up and saw the mess he had created. The townsfolk gasped at the events that had unfolded and immediately started yelping for the sheriff, for the law to come into play. Marty ran. He ran as fast as his drunken legs could go until he was out of town. He stole a horse from a barber shop just outside of San Francisco and dug his stirrups in it without relent, getting out of town like an intoxicated lightning bolt.
Marty Marshall headed for the hills of Twin Peaks, Utah, where he could not be located. Poor and humble, Marty found himself helpless and hungry. He recognized relief in the book of Mormon and followed the faith back to Salt Lake City where he was forgiven for his sins.

* * * * *

Four glasses down, I asked the barkeep why he allowed Mr. Marshall in the saloon. He answered the best way a gentleman could, “Everyone deserves a second chance.” He smiled, “even if he does like goat’s blood.” He let out an innocent booming laugh, hinting at sarcasm. He asked me if I needed a top off; I agreed without hesitation. I looked around the bar. A few of the regulars began to clear out, including Marty Marshall and his green hat. I saw a new face. He was dirty, which seemed to be the norm around here. He looked tired and needed a stiff drink. Arthur walked out from behind his barricade and gave the man a strong hug. The man asked for a drink and Arthur gladly obliged, serving the man a cheap glass of rum, saying it was ’on the house.’ The man finished the glass on the spot, as fast as I did when I arrived. The man got a refill and relaxed in the dark mysterious corner of the bar. “That man looks like he’s had his share of bad luck,” I told Arthur. “My boy,” he responded, “You have not a clue.”

* * * * *

Chester Potter was born into the world as an orphan. His parents left him when he was born in a forest in Northern New Mexico; the Navajo Indian tribe came across him and took him in as their own. He was raised like a son of Chief Longwater, learning the ways of hunting and surviving as taught by his tribe. When he came of age, which was sixteen years old, they let him go on his way. Chester headed northeast to Salt Lake City where he met a man named Clyde Turner. They joined the railroad business in 1885, helping connect the First Transcontinental Railroad from southern Colorado through Salt Lake City. While in Twin Peaks, Utah, Chester joined his friend at a local bar, Maggie May’s Saloon. There, he watched his friend Clyde sweep the bartender off her feet with his undeniable charm, only to marry her a few months later.
They grew apart after this incident and Chester Potter moved to San Francisco. He opened a general store called Railroad General. Business flourished for a few years. One day a man in a black cowboy hat and with long brown hair started a duel with another man; this man was bald and always carried a menacing look with him wherever he went. They were fighting over a black woman Chester had taken a liking too; she worked next door in a house as an indentured servant, doing chores until her years were up.
Chester watched from the safety of the store as the men stared each other down, ready to take the life of their recent enemy. Two gun shots when off, Chester Potter watched with glee as the two men dropped to the ground.
The following night he decided to capitalize on the capturing of the black woman’s heart. He came to the front door toting flowers and heard a gun go off. He burst through the door to see the woman of his dreams lying dead on the ground. Her owner shot her over the disapproval of her cleaning. Chester shot the man, instantly killing him. He left town knowing he would be sought after.
Heartbroken, he returned to the tribe that raised him back in New Mexico. For the next few years he was a broken man, seeing the object of his desire slain. He didn’t know what to do. He returned back to Twin Peaks in hopes of starting a new life with his old friend, Clyde Turner.

* * * * *

I finished my fifth glass of rum and felt very tingly and content. As I asked for another top off, Arthur turned to me and asked what he had been thinking the whole time: “What’s your story, bub.” I smiled.

* * * * *

I was a Midwestern boy, born and raised in the Land of Lincoln. My father was the Sheriff of the small community of Dekalb, so I followed in his footsteps and I became the deputy of our quaint town. Being a town known for the invention of barbwire, nothing big ever happened in our territory.
In August of 1895, the United States Postal Service delivered us a list of the most wanted men in our young country. One name on the list was easily recognizable. His name was Clyde. Clyde was a handsome tall white man with jet black hair and random patches of hair all over his cheeks and chin which seemed to be his excuse for a beard; his charm worked wonders. He used this to his advantage and began to rob from the townsfolk. He broke into two orphanages and robbed from countless elderly couples. He escaped the grasps of this county in 1883 and word had it that he settled in the west, leaving a trail of dead on his way, six lawmen, four children, and two woman to be exact. I left Dekalb, promising my father that I would put an end to Clyde’s inferior lifestyle and make him pay for the crimes, pain and suffering he had caused.

* * * * *

I finished what would be my last drink. I looked around; the saloon was empty. My eyes met Arthur, staring daggers into his conscience. “I’m here to arrest you, Clyde.” He dropped the glass that he was cleaning and it shattered on the floor. I stood up, gun drawn and slightly intoxicated and repeated his name. “Clyde.” I could tell the name rang through his head like a tuning fork against a steam engine. He walked closer to me and let his hands hang at his side beneath the shield of the bar where my eyes couldn’t venture. I didn’t take my gaze off him, being as intimidating as a drunken deputy could be. Maybe I had one too many. Clyde gave me his gentle smile, as he had been delivering for the past hour or so. I had given him enough time and he had confessed to me enough evidence to keep any sort of criminal in jail for life; it was time for him to reap what he had sown. “Did you hear me?” I repeated, “Clyde Turner, you are under arrest for burglary and the murder of Miss Maggie May Oswald.” The time bomb in his body erupted. He raised his hands quickly, cradling a loaded double barrel shotgun. My gun went off faster than my mind could work. I injected a bullet between the eyes of Clyde Turner. Our eyes met one last time. An innocent guilt washed over his lifeless face as he dropped to the dusty floor. The smoke billowing out of the barrel of my gun ceased and I returned my revolver to the safety of its holster on my right side.
Abacus sat silent outside. I carried the body of Clyde Turner through the shambled saloon doors and down the broken steps and laid him across the back of my horse. Abacus was ready to leave, as was I. I hoisted myself up onto the back of my closest friend and started the long journey back to Illinois.

Come Back safely noonchach

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Dear Chipotle

Dear Chipotle,

Oh how I miss you so! It feels like decades since I felt your gorgeous, South Western touch and I fear you will neglect my overwhelming long for you! I yearn for that fortunate moment our paths cross again!

The first taste of you sends my mind wandering an endless landscape of hope; a place that I feel safe from the world’s problems, where happiness is a way of life and anything is possible. That moment your caress touches my lips I feel like I know everything yet, at the same time, feel like there is so much more I can learn from you. Moments like this I lock away in my heart to be brought out years from now to remind me that I once felt joy in my life. I want others to feel this joy yet, I feel I’m in no mood to share. Your kindness and generosity is breathtaking enough for me and if other’s can’t see this side of you then they do not deserve such a delicate and passionate meal.

When I see others approach you, I get extremely jealous and envious. I want you all for mine. Maybe it’s the apprehensive person in me, but no one deserves you like I do. You do things to me that would make gods feel unappreciated.

Chipotle, I’m sorry about Qdoba. It was a one time thing and I was young, immature, and confused! It tempted me with promises of quality and quantity comparable to your unnatural delicious ways, but I was fooled. I was fooled by the Devil in disguise. I beg you to forgive me and take me back with warm, open, sour cream and chili-corn arms!

I don’t know what I would do with myself if I was to lose you, Chipotle, but I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I know the feeling of betrayal all too well and it’s a difficult situation to overcome. I just hope you can overlook the foolishness and stupidity in a young, hungry male like myself and we can get over our petty quarrels and at least be acquaintances again [although going steady would be my first choice :)]. Come back to me, Chipotle! There will be many sleepless nights until your return.


Always and Forever Yours,

Donny