“Everywhere we go, there’s a picture of Wyatt Earp. Do you think it means something? I feel like I’m just following in his footsteps.”
My friend was about to bite into the grossest hamburger ever served on planet Earth. I’d already experienced mine and fought the urge to spit it out. I had already laid it to one side of my plate and decided to have fries for dinner.
“You’re in the West. Wyatt Earp is legendary and he traveled.”
“Remember when we took my dad to Tombstone?”
“That was fun. That trip made his whole LIFE I think.”
“Gah, this awful.”
“Mine too. I guess it explains why this is the only restaurant here in Glenwood that has any seats at 6:30 on a Friday evening.”
“The onion rings are OK.”
“You can’t fuck up onion rings. You just take them out of the freezer and pour them out of a bag into hot oil.”
“How do you know that?”
“Working at A&W back in the day.”
“Now THAT’S a gourmet establishment.”
“More than this. ”
“How’s your dinner?” asks the waitress.
We both look at her with expressions that say, “Do you really want to ask that?” and say nothing.
“If you can’t say something nice,” I murmur as she leaves.
“I’m not leaving a tip.”
“Hey, the food isn’t her fault.”
“Yeah but if everyone quits working here, they’ll have to close down.”
“That won’t happen. Everybody wants to live here and they need jobs. ”
“Up there.” I gesture left, over my shoulder. “Aspen.”
“Really? It’s HERE? Why aren’t there pictures of Hunter Thompson on the walls? WhyWyatt Earp?”
“I guess the Wild West is more saleable to tourists than is a notoriously wasted and boozed up writer with a shotgun.”