Good Shoes by Sarah Sarai

A horse walks into a bar. Bartender says, good shoes. Pour me a big one, the horse responds. Lowers his head, slightly. They were a gift. Raises his not unmonumental head and through tired eyes studies the bartender, who is staring at him. You want something, pal, the horse asks, adding, Like what you see? Want some of this? You going to pour me one or not. The bartender measures out a whiskey, his best, although it should be noted his best is just good enough. This is not San Francisco. This is the sticks. A cowpoke bar. The bartender has cow-poking in his blood, by way of his father and brothers. Himself? Never poked a cow and sure never served a horse before but these days you can’t say anything or else some libtard’ll accuse you of violating their rights and want to take a punch at someone, the bartender or a lame-ass drunk. Maybe at the horse. No, surely not that. Too risky. This is no small creature. You ever been punched, the bartender asks. The horse reflects. Noses his glass over for another double. Depends what you mean. His eyes roll back and the bartender thinks he might be sick but the horse is fine. A few times some kid has thought to make use of a tree branch snapped off, he says, a sapling. But I can kick. Never touched any kid although I assure you I have scared them off. Generally, all I have to do is switch my tail and the kid thinks like a fly and buzzes off. This horse likes to talk, the bartender notes. He tops off the horse’s whiskey. Have I been manhandled? The horse’s lips pull back, revealing a set of teeth no one would look forward to having visit their person. Stupid question. I’ve worked most of my life. Of course there’s been stuff. What do you care? You a freak? You want to sneak into the stable at midnight to see what could happen? Bring a woman? I bet you hate all of them except your mother and she’s not around to say what a no-good louse you have become. The bartender shudders because the horse’s insights are accurate and offbase. Bring a lady to me for servicing. Please. The horse notes a sudden quiet in the bar which has almost emptied. No one wants to meet the horse’s gaze. I’m a horse and horses are equipped like horses. It’s the way of the world. What do I owe you? The bartender says he is working on a barter system and conversation will be bartered for whiskey. Snorting, the horse carefully turns around. I traveled from the ranch by the old oak to get here, he tells the bartender who responds, Well, then it’s a good thing you have good shoes. The horse shakes his head in agreement and begins his journey home.

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Sarah Sarai saw Gene Autry on horseback when the cowboy and his horse visited her grammar school in Southern California. She writes poetry and fiction and flash. Her most recent poetry collection is That Strapless Bra in Heaven (Kelsay Books). Sarah Sarai is an independent editor of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Join her at https://www.facebook.com/farstargirl