Prairie, Parlor, Purple

He grew up on the prairie. He was used to things being a little harder to do then they should have been in the first place. That is why he still liked to drive his old pickup, with the manual transmission and manual steering, into town when he needed to.

His car was from a different age. An age when things were built to last as long as their owners. Things were made out of steel, not the plastic and carbon fiber of the new automatic cars. His car was, also, unique in the fact that it had actual purple paint on it, not the color infused surface of the current vehicles had. His car was like him, old, worn out, and leaving people wondering how it was still alive.

He had become used to the stares once he got to town. Not just the stares at his ancient car, but the stares at him. The stares at his gate as he limped through town. He never did understand why people were so quick to have their joints replaced these days.

He limped his way up a couple of streets from where he had stopped his car, and wandered into the restaurant that had become his second home. As he entered, all the children using the virtual shooting parlor stopped and looked at him. You could hear the faint noise of astonishment from them in seeing what they had only imagined to be real. An honest to goodness cowboy. Some of the children even gathered together to whisper to each other about him. He never did mind that part.

He took his usual seat towards the back where none of the tourists would bother him. The waitress that he had know for going on twenty years now brought him his usual drink. He sipped it slowly and wondered how many more years he would get to enjoy this place.


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