Today,
it's my second post focusing on the fictioneers part of Western Fictioneers.
Every month I'll put up a free story, guaranteed to be less than a month old,
and take a look behind the scenes at where it came from.
This one turned up easier than usual --though I was behind
at the first of the month and had no idea what I would do for April's post.
Here's the straight dope:
I was at my regular table in the local coffee shop typing
away at something when this man walked in and picked a fight with the guy
behind the roaster.
Now the young people who burn the beans in this place are
just that: young. And not to sound like somebody's ageist grandpa, but when you
talk to them there's usually some sort of overblown drama going on in their
lives. Money, parents, grades, money, love interests, money. We've all
been there or soon will be. Nobody escapes.
So, drama. Slightly raised voices. A few swear words. I
didn't worry about it.
Until the guy turned out to be a nutcase. No kidding.
He stomped outside, was gone a couple minutes, then banged
the door back open. His return didn't take him to the roaster. This time, he
yelled at us --the customers.
Unlucky us.
I thought of the old horseshoe my grandpa had hanging open
side up on his barn door. In my mind, the shoe turned upside down.
There were five of us in a relatively small space. Me at
one table, a retired business type at a table in the corner, a Mary Kay lady
just in front of him, and two teenage girls in school uniforms doing their
homework beside the fireplace.
The crazy man started calling the roaster guy names. Then
he chastised us for breathing the same air as such a scumbag. The nice girl
behind the counter told him he should leave.
And she called him by name--which meant she knew him, which
made it that much worse. If you talk to cops, they'll tell you domestic
confrontations, fights between friends and relatives, are just hell on
earth.
She said it again, "I think you should leave."
And what the guy said next sent a jolt through me and
forced the five of us customers to lock eyes.
He said, and I quote: "I don't give a ____ about what
you think. I don't give a ____ about you. Or any of these people. You're ALL in
for some deep ____ now." (Fill in with the expletive of your choice.)
Right there, the girls by the fireplace just about lost
it.
Me, I had my phone out and was thumbing 9-1-1.
So many stories hit the media about public shootings that
this seemed like a replay of the same old script. Obviously the guy went out,
got a gun, and came back right? Now he's pointing his anger at the crowd.
We all know what comes next.
But I never actually saw a gun. There was no gun.
And then--just like that--the guy turned and stomped out of
the place.
It was over as fast as it had escalated.
Just as fast as you read it --that's how fast it started
and stopped. This time instead of initiating a grisly news
story, the crazy man peeled out of the parking lot in a snit.
Believe me every one of us payed very close attention as he
drove off down the street.
Then we looked at each other again. Lucky survivors.
The horseshoe was again right side up.
Finally, the business guy in the corner broke the tension.
He said, "Y'know, for a second there, I sorta thought our number was
up."
Everybody nodded and smiled and agreed, chuckling with
relief.
Then the Mary Kay lady said. "I thought so too. In
fact, I probably would've bet on it."
And there --POW--in my imagination was the entire story: "The
Oddsmakers." What if something like this happened in the old west?
Some kind of confrontation that promised violence? Rather than freeze in
terror or call for help, what if somebody decided to bet on it?
I immediately saved what I was working on, opened a new
document and started typing. I got about 400 words into it, then quit for
the afternoon.
That night I wrote the rest of the story. Hope y'all
get a kick out of it.
After growing up on a Nebraska farm, Richard Prosch
worked as a professional writer, artist, and teacher in Wyoming, South
Carolina, and Missouri. His western crime fiction captures the fleeting history
and lonely frontier stories of his youth where characters aren’t always what
they seem, and the windburned landscapes are filled with swift, deadly danger.
In 2016, Richard roped the Spur Award for short fiction given by Western
Writers of America. Read more at
www.RichardProsch.com