This morning as I rode the train into work I saw a cowboy.
Or at least someone who should be a cowboy. He was older with graying hair past his shoulders. Though he wore no hat, his hair had flattened around his head as though it were used to being pressed down. He had a full mustache, also gray, drooping past the corners of his mouth. And he was dressed in a light blue button-down dress shirt and dark blue denim jeans. I couldn’t see his feet, but would like to think he was wearing something in the leather boot department.
I expected at any moment for him to don a sherriff’s star and Stetson and say, “I’m the law around these here parts” while staring down some fellow train passenger. He would continue with, “Move along now. We don’t want no trouble,” and they would hastily depart, intimidated by both his steely gaze and superior mustache grooming skills.
Alas, he did not. I exited the train feeling a little disappointed.