Here’s a snippet from one of my solo summer rides. I think it occurred 2017. Or maybe it was 2018. Can’t remember. Anyway . . .

 

I was in Mt. Vernon, Illinois sitting on a bench in the Agave Restaurant waiting for my takeout. An old-timer walked toward me. A cowboy old-timer. US Army cap, crisply ironed cowboy shirt and pants, and sharply pointed cowboy boots, two-toned leather with a star cut on the top. Flawlessly trimmed moustache and beard, weather-beaten face.

His back was straight but his gait slow. And his teeth were absolutely perfect. I figured him to be rich and in his 70s. He stopped next to me, looked at me, smiled, and nodded. I smiled and nodded back.

Then we both watched his wife as she went to the cash register girl to pay for their meal. Walked like she owned the place. Haughty. Arrogant. Generous bosom. Late-twenties to mid-thirties. Dressed like she was a billionaire’s mistress and tonight was her night to show off. Pants like they’d been spray painted on, a knitted top one size too small, six inch spiked heels.

 

The cowboy old-timer leaned over.

      Old-Timer Cowboy With Perfect Teeth: (Whispering in my ear) Know how to turn a fox into a pit bull?

      Me: Uh … how?

      Old-Timer Cowboy With Perfect Teeth: Marry her.