The Problem of Distinction

CW: This story contains crass, well-meaning humor.

The gloam of late evening bestowed the withered sage grass with a tinged vermillion sheen as the stranger rode into town high atop his spotted appaloosa. He was grateful for the reprieve the setting sun gave from the furnace of peak summertime heat on the high desert plains. Removing the brick hat from his head and wiping the sweat and dust from his brow with the back of his forearm, he confirmed with quick glances all he had suspected to find in this out-of-the-way pisshole. One dirt-packed road was the only thoroughfare, and all the town’s buildings were situated on its periphery. Wooden facades on the structures and plank board sidewalks lined each edge of the darkening avenue. Shades of brown were ubiquitous, from the layer of dirt crusting the eaves to the exterior walls of each of the edifices to the single dusty road itself. Even the horses hitched to the post in front of the saloon, which happened to be the only building in town with any stir of activity, were each a different muted hue of brown. There were drab quarter horses, muddy morgans, palish paints, and even a mighty chocolate mustang, but all nondescript in contrast to his dappled mare. Perfect, thought the stranger, as he dismounted and tied his speckled pony amidst the gaggle of nearly indistinguishable mounts. It was just as he had hoped.

Slowly rocking in a creaky antediluvian-looking chair sat an old-timer, his weather-beaten and age-scarred face attesting to the unspoken fact that he had seen a thing or two in his time. The stranger looked the old-timer over as the stranger untied a large leather valise from his saddle bags, tucking said pack tightly under one arm as he approached the tavern. It was a sore mouth looking establishment with a dilapidated sign over the awning proclaiming it to be ‘Blue Lou’s Saloon.’

“Howdy,” intoned the stranger.

An expectoration of tobacco juice was all the reply he received from the old-timer. The gush just barely missed the stranger’s oddly patterned black-and-white snakeskin boots.

“That’s a new one,” the stranger casually remarked.

“New what, pard?” came the old-timer’s throaty reply.

“New cast of brown I hadn’t spied in this cardboard cutout of a town yet,” the stranger answered, letting his words linger without retort as he passed through the bat-wing doors and into the saloon, giving the old-timer something new to ponder over for the first time in a long time. Pretty soon, they would all have something new to think about.

Those dime novels sure knew what they were talking about, thought the stranger as he took survey of the barroom’s interior. Positioned behind the bar and wearing a pair of spectacles and a white apron stood the proprietor and bar tender, a man no doubt equal parts confidant and mediator. He was one who would listen to your problems, but if those issues inspired anger or violence, he would be just as likely to tell you to “Take it outside, fella.” The barkeep was wiping out the insides of a few glasses, fighting a seemingly losing battle as his cleaning rag was dirty enough to fit comfortably on the brown palette this whole town was painted in.

On the stool opposite the bartender sat an obvious regular at the establishment: the town drunk. Although himself a man of inaction, he probably knew which closets in town were hiding all of the skeletons. Undoubtedly, he could be persuaded to divvy out those secrets for the small price of a fifth of whiskey or a few slugs of rum. The drunk glanced in the stranger’s direction, and a quick smile confirmed the drunk to be a few teeth shy of a Kodak smile and to possess breath one could smell all the way from West Texas.

At a felt-lined table across the room, a rowdy card game was in progress. Voices were escalating in pitch and volume. Apparently, two aces of hearts were face up on the table. A burly Mexican, the owner of ace #1, took a look at the fidgety cowhand next to him who was pleading a case for the legitimacy of his cards. Deciding conversation wasn’t worth the effort, and before the barkeep could even muster a “Hey, take ‘er outside, fellas,” the Mexican floored the cowhand with a right cross that came all the way from Nebraska and shook dust from the rafters. The cowhand crashed to the floor in another spray of dust, the Mexican swept up his earnings, and play continued as though nothing had happened.

“Delightful,” announced the stranger to no one in particular.

Seated across the table from the Mexican and the now empty seat of the cowhand was a well-dressed man with a pile of chips bigger than the others. He wore all black in contrast to everyone else’s earth tones, and instead of three days of scruffy beard (the adopted look of almost all of the town’s denizens), this man sported a silky black mustache, greased at the ends and twisted up in a dandy fashion. He deftly dealt the cards, bypassing the cowhand’s spot, continuing the game smoothly as though nothing had happened.

So far, everything he was seeing was matching the stranger’s expectations. The setting and characters were near carbon copies of the other mining towns he had already transformed out here on the frontier. Calico, Bodie, Virginia City, and Rhyolite had all been just the same when he had arrived. Of course, none of them had been the same when he had left. None of them would ever be the same.

The stranger set his valise on the bar after thoroughly searching the entire surface for a spot clean and dry enough to be trusted. He signaled the owner over with his eyes and a down pointing finger.

“What’ll it be, fella?”

“Whiskey. When in Rome, right?”

“This ain’t Rome, bub. This ‘ere is Goldfield, Nevada.”

“Goldfield, eh?” replied the stranger. “I do like the prospect of that, if you’ll pardon the pun. Fortuitous sounding, one might say.”

The barkeep poured his drink, looking at him quizzically, and the stranger made an effort not to inspect his glass too closely before throwing it back.

“Here’s to shared fortunes, friend,” the stranger said in salute before drinking it down to the dregs in one big gulp.

“Ya sure talk funny, fella,” the proprietor said in reply.

“Two years of misspent youth, I’m afraid,” the stranger explained. “I did some time at a place called Harvard College.”

“Well, that explains ‘er then.”

The stranger spun on his stool, putting his back to the bar and taking in the rest of the room. The gang, as the novels liked to say, did indeed seem to all be there. A man in a vest and shirtsleeves was drinking alone in a corner booth. That would be the banker, the stranger surmised. At the next booth over, with star and badges conspicuously pinned on their chests, sat the sheriff and his two deputies. None had so much as stirred from his seat to check on the unconscious cowhand, demonstrating the caring concern of the law that the stranger had come to expect in these corrupt little boomtowns. A set of wooden stairs ran the length of the wall adjacent to the bar, leading up to a number of second-floor rooms that could be rented by the night or the hour. Leaning on the railing of the upper level and looking down on the bar scene was a cute little blond piece, appearing almost too young to fill the role in town she assuredly played. The stranger shrugged her presence off with equal parts acceptance and disgust.

There was just one final character to find, and the stranger knew with everything else coming together so perfectly that this scoundrel would be along anytime. Once this last guest arrived, the whole scene could properly begin.

The voice the stranger was expecting to hear burst in on a gust of wind like a tumbleweed across the mesa, and every head in the establishment turned to appraise its owner.

“Who’s the deadman that parked his ugly ass horse on my hitchin’ post?” it bellowed from without. And then in walked the town’s resident outlaw, dressed in an open leather trench coat on his shoulders, a conspicuous six-shooter with ammo belt on his hips, and a crooked grimace on his swarthy face.

“If you’re referring to dear Petuniabell,” replied the stranger, “that glorious little appaloosa, she would be mine.”

“And who in da’ hell’r you, and what’r ya doin in my seat?” asked the outlaw, approaching the stranger with obvious bad intent.

“I was hoping you might ask that,” replied the stranger, rising from his seat to greet the oncoming menace.

“And why’s that?” came the outlaw’s response, the rascal now right in the stranger’s face, showering him with spittle and rancid onion breath.

“Because, what better way exists to get the show started?”

Before the outlaw had time to voice a questioning “Huh?”, the stranger had him grasped firmly in both hands. One of the stranger’s paws was grabbing a handful of hair, yanking for all it was worth, and the other hand had both testicles in a vise grip of terror! The outlaw, totally unprepared for the attack and experiencing pain in places he never had before, screamed like a boiling teapot. A simultaneous twist from both hands dropped the outlaw to his knees, and then a fist across the chin sent the outlaw sprawling to the floor. Much like the fight between the Mexican and the cowhand, this one was over before one of its combatants realized it had begun.

“What in tarnation did ya do that fer?” came the startled exclamation of the barkeeper.

“Well because,” replied the stranger, “history’s shown the best way to get everyone’s attention and respect is to take out the baddest man in town as soon as you arrive. It’s all been done before.”

“Before?” the barkeep asked, a puzzled look on his face.

The stranger responded, but speaking now to the whole room and not just the man behind the bar. “You see, gentlemen, you are living in a world of drab muteness, of redundancy.”

Everyone was listening closely, but few understood what he was saying. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to dumb things down too much. The eloquence of his pitch was half the magic.

“The problem,” he continued, “is one of distinction. All things ‘western’ suffer from it. Consider this town. It looks like every other town in this part of the country. Look at you all. You look like you were tinkered together at the western archetypes factory.” He pointed at the people in the saloon one by one, identifying them by their roles. “You, with the mustache, are the gambler. You three there, playing at billiards in your filthy clothing, are the unsuccessful miners. You there,” he said, pointing up to the girl on the balcony, “are the town whore.”

“I’m twelve!” the young girl replied, shocked.

“That’s my daughter!” the owner exclaimed at the same time.

“Ahem, well, you catch my drift anyhow, gentleman,” the stranger continued on unabashedly unruffled. “There’s no personality to your existence. There’s nothing that has not been done a million times. People keep coming back to this well, but there’s nothing new to find here. The well ran dry ages ago.”

“So what?” asked one of the miners, setting down his pool cue.

“So,” responded the stranger, now reaching for the clasps on his valise. “I have the answer to all of these problems. No longer do you all need to live in this world of uncolored conformity. No longer do you need to distinguish your steeds from the condition of their teeth or the musculature of their flanks. No indeed. I have the answer to the great problem of distinction!”

“Well, what is it sir?” inquired the sheriff, now equally intrigued as the rest of the room’s residents. Each had made his way to form a circle around the stranger, excited to see what he had in his case.

“Behold the invention that will forever change the west,” the stranger pronounced while pulling a handful of big, colorful sign boards from his pack. Each one, they could see, had some sort of writing on them in different scripts and fonts.

“What’r those?” asked the confused cowhand who had apparently regained consciousness sometime during the sales pitch.

“These, my friends, are a little thing I call ‘Rumper Stickers.’”

Shocked exhortations and gasps of astonishment greeted his prestige.

“Let me explain,” continued the stranger, now in full salesman mode. “You see, each of these little sign boards is perfectly sized and shaped to fit directly on your horses’ haunches, and each has a clever saying that allows you to express yourselves in a unique and colorful way. Take this Rumper Sticker for instance. You can see that it says, ‘HUFF IF YER HORNY.’ This is perfect for anyone with a fun sense of humor and a sex positive attitude!”

Loud peels of laughter rang out from various members of the raucous crowd.

Feeding on that energy, the stranger continued demonstrating his wares. “Here’s one that is punny: MY HORSE ALWAYS VOTES ‘NAY’ and here’s one for those donkeys you use while mining: IF YOU CAN SMELL THIS ASS, YER RIDIN’ TOO CLOSE.”

“I could use that a one,” said one of the billiards playing miners in appreciation.

“Indeed!” came the joyous rejoinder from the stranger. “There’s actually a whole donkey collection. This one’s popular.” He fished around in his pack and came up with one that said: ASS LOVER ON BOARD. The miners looked on with great interest, ready to dig deep through the special ass line.

Turning to others in the room, he continued his pitch. “I’m sure to have something for everyone. Here’s a good one for the law officers in town, a notable quote.” He sifted through his wares and pulled out a sign that said: “SKIN THAT SMOKE WAGON, LET’S SEE WHAT HAPPENS.”

“Classic,” commented the sheriff, appreciatively.

Slapping the outlaw back into consciousness, the stranger even got him in on the event. “Sorry about earlier, friend. Are you looking to save some face now and announce your bad-assery to the world? Here’s just the Rumper Sticker for your horse!” Then he pulled out a card that read: MY OTHER PONY IS A BIG OL’ PECKER…WANNA RIDE?

The room was ablaze with excitement, with everyone wanting to see the whole collection and to find the saying that fit their personality perfectly. But first, a prudent question arose from the saloon keeper.

“How do ya get ‘em to stick to the horses?”

“I’m glad you asked, sir!” jovially replied the stranger. “Now, you’ll have to pardon the irony in the application method, but each Rumper Sticker comes with its very own little bottle of horse glue.” He shook a number of bottles forth from the valise’s side pocket. “You just use the little brush built into the lid of these horse glue bottles to apply the paste to the back of your stickers. Put it on liberally, and then slap your sticker right on your horse’s bottom for all the world to see!” With the verbal explanation he paired a slap of his hands, one on the other, producing a whip crack of a clap that echoed throughout the room.

Everyone began excitedly placing their orders, and the stranger could see the town distinguishing itself with color and humor already. Just as he had claimed, he seemed to have the perfect Rumper Sticker for everyone. The Mexican card player got one that said: I CAN DISAPPEAR WITHOUT A TRACE! UNO, DOS, POOF! The bartender purchased one that read: MY HORSE IS TIRED OF ME ASKING ABOUT HIS LONG FACE. The gambler debated between options but finally settled on one that said: TACO TUESDAY? I’M ‘ALL IN.’

The drunk was the next person to look through the selection, unsure what to purchase or where he would even display it (since he was often too inebriated to ride his horse).

“Perhaps I can suggest something of utter uniqueness to you, my friend,” the stranger said.

“What’r ya thinkin?” asked the drunk.

“Well, I’ve got this simple saying. It’s kind of nonsensical, I’ll admit, but I think it will really catch on one day. Perhaps you can help to be the catalyst for such a movement?”

“Alright, let see ‘er.”

From the bottom of the valise, the stranger pulled out a yellow sign with big brown lettering. It read neatly: DEEZ NUTZ.

The drunk looked from the sign to the stranger and then back to the sign, whatever thoughts he had running through his head going unvoiced. Then, seeming to reach a critical decision, he looked at the stranger and made his order.

“Okie dokie, bud, I’ll take two of DEEZ NUTZ.”

“You would like a pair of DEEZ NUTZ, sir? Is that right?

“Yep, I’d love to take two of DEEZ NUTZ. I think I can handle ‘em. Might put ‘em on my hoss.”

The selling went on all night, with each resident of the town being paired with their perfect saying. In the morning, the exhausted stranger, having sold every last Rumper Sticker in his collection, walked out of the tavern and into the sunlight of the dawning day. Goldfield was a town transformed. Every horse’s hind quarters had something fun to announce. Where previously all had been drab and dreary, now the entire community was bright, colorful, fun, and changed forever.