The Ballad of Trevor Dykeman – Part 3
In the interest of trying to kick-start another round of writing, I’m going to throw some random content on here… This is a silly piece I wrote to perform for a Theatre Smash (look them up!) fundraiser with a Wild West theme… Presented here in three tantalizing parts…
Part 3 – The Reckoning
On Sunday, Trevor called Rogers and ordered the Wild-West channel. All westerns, all the time. He bought Coop some snacks and settled him in front of a spaghetti western marathon. Trevor had a soft spot for Westerns, but unfortunately, he had to get some work done from home.
“Why ain’t you watchin’?” asked Coop, “This stuff’s great. Although, in my experience, it ain’t as easy to shoot through a hangman’s noose at 400 yards as it looks.”
“I’d love to, it’s just.. well, remember I told you about my supervisor? I’m done my work for next week, but now I have to do his.”
Coop snorted. “Ain’t no reason you should do any such thing.”
“Yeah, well, I know… but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Coop sat up. “Trevor, haven’t I taught you nothing? Do not tell me that I seduced a buffalo for nothing.”
“No, no,,” said Trevor, “I should stand up to Conrad… in fact, you’re right. I’m gonna watch movies with you.”
“Weell Sheeeit”
On Monday evening, Trevor tried to get Coop out of the house, but the cowboy had really taken to the TV. He had sat on the remote control during the day and figured out how to change the channels. By the time Trevor got home from work, Coop was three hours into a Jersey Shore Marathon.
“You are not going to believe this,” said Coop excitedly. “These kids are wild. I’ve never seen the likes in any saloon in Arkansas.”
“But, let me guess, you’ve seen stranger sights?” asked Trevor hopefully.
“No, don’t believe I have… don’t believe I have.”
Trevor didn’t care for this development. He was enjoying having his own cowboy to help him gain in testicular fortitude. But he didn’t like seeing Coop so entranced by modern media. And the cow-poke seemed particularly vulnerable to advertisements. The only way he would consent to leave the TV that night was for a trip to Mac’s to pick up all the snacks he’d seen in commercials. When they got back to the apartment, Coop settled back into the cowboy shaped indentation on the couch and opened a bag of Funions. Trevor shook his head.
Tuesday passed in much the same way. Trevor was starting to worry about when the portal would close. He decided he’d have to talk to Coop about it, but when he tried to bring it up, Coop changed the subject, saying, “Hush up now, the bachelor’s coming on.”
On Wednesday, Trevor arrived home from work, full of excitement. “You’re never going to guess what happened!” he shouted. Coop looked up from the couch, lying there in his long-underwear the front stained orange with cheeto dust. “I finally did it,” said Trevor, “I stood up to Conrad, just like we talked about. I looked him right in the eye and said, “You’re going down… bitch” It was just like the buffalo, well not exactly, but you know what I mean. I went straight to my boss’s office and told him I’d been doing all the work. And guess what? He fired Conrad and gave me a promotion!”
“Good on ya!” said Coop. “Now that is the cowboy way, I’m proud of ya. Now, you mind makin’ me a couple those microwave burritos?”
Trevor looked down disdainfully at the junk-food stained cowboy. He realized that the modern world had quickly taken it’s tole on the old rustler. Something stirred inside him. He didn’t like seeing his hero this way. “Listen Coop, I’ve been thinking.” he said, “That portal’s going to close in the next day or so, you’d better get ready to head back or you’ll be stuck.”
Coop rolled over onto his back. “Yeah, Trev, I been thinkin’ bout that. Been thinkin’ I might stay on here actually.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I mean, this is a pretty good life. No blisterin’ sun, no dust-storms, no disease riddled whores. And these Jersey Shore kids, I mean, I gotta know what happens next. No brother, I ain’t going back.”
Trevor was incensed. It was one thing to have a real-life cowboy teaching him the ropes for a few days. It was quite another to have a lazy, cheeto-stained slob on his couch forever. “That,” said Trevor, “is not the cowboy way.”
“You watch yerself, boy” said Coop, sitting up.
“Why? What are ya gonna do… you… you.. yeller-bellied, lilly-livered, waste o’ space.” Trevor had been watching a lot of westerns after all.
“Just who do you think yer talkin’ to?” shouted Coop.
“I dunno,” Trevor shouted back, “Some lazy, good fer nothin is what I’m seein. Call yourself a cowboy. You couldn’t hit a bull’s rump with a handful a banjos. Ain’t yer Mammy raised you right?”
Trevor had crossed a line. “No one,” shouted Coop, “No one talks about my Mammy!”
He lunged across the room to his pile of clothes, fumbling for his holster. With one quick motion, Trevor took two steps and kicked the bent over cowboy square in the ass. Coop stumbled forward, tripped over an end-table and went flying through the portal in the corner. The fabric of time and space zipped up neatly behind him. Trevor felt a slight pang of remorse when he imagined the pissed-off, half-naked cowboy in the middle of Arkansas, but he shrugged, picked Coop’s hat up off the floor and said, “Oh well, that’s the cowboy way.”
Two weeks later. Trevor sat on the couch, staring at the corner. The portal had been open for an hour, but no one had come through. Slowly, he stood up and walked over to the pile of Coop’s clothes, now neatly washed and pressed. He put everything on, step by step, and found that things were only slightly too baggy. He picked up the hat last, dusted it off out of habit, and placed it squarely on his head. Taking a deep breath, he stepped up to the portal, cleared his throat, and said, “Weelll, Sheeeit.”
And with that, Trevor Dykeman stepped boldly into the unknown.
