A man wearing a New Zealand themed shirt is tuning his guitar. We’re in Austin. Not that one. The one in Colorado. It’s a tiny town that disappears if you blink. Dusty and dusty and dusty. There’s a wind warning today. I like walking around here and standing in front of the big wall of colorful barrels. Now he’s playing scales on a Martin. His New Zealand themed shirt is tucked into his jeans. He has a black belt. There’s another man reading in the booth with a cowboy hat on. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a pair of Asics. There’s a tattoo of a peacock on his arm and he’s drinking a dark beer. The walls are green and white and yellow and the chairs are orange and red and the tables are black. A man with dyed blonde hair whom I know walked in. His name starts with an A but I can’t remember it exactly. It’s 4:33 in the afternoon. Friday is emerging from the mountains. A man with a pon tail stands outside waiting at the food truck. This week it’s called Southern Belle and they sell a lot of different types of macaroni and cheese. You can get it with bacon. I don’t get anything, but I think a lot about it. I guess this is how you lose weight. Or maintain it. Or whatever. Now the man in the New Zealand shirt is waiting at the Southern Belle. He’s got a green cap on, too. A maroon truck drives by. The flag in front of the bar flaps aggressively in the wind. I notice another man in the gravel parking lot across the street walking around in sandals. I’m sorry but why are we wearing sandals? It’s no disrespect but I don’t think men should show their toes. Just one of those things. Now a CrossTrek drives by and I think about how everyone in Colorado drives a Subaru. Everyone in Colorado makes jokes about how they all drive Subarus. I fucking hate this joke. The woman I love sits in the window typing on her computer. Now I’m wondering about the book the man with the peacock tattoo is reading. It’s thick. I’m guessing some sort of fantasy. Only fantasy books are that thick. I eye my keys sitting on the black table. There’s a tiny key on the chain that was for a mailbox at an apartment in Brooklyn I haven’t lived in in 10 years. Good for cocaine. That’s why I keep it around. I don’t do cocaine anymore. Except sometimes when I do. You get it. Anyway this beer is nice and I’m enjoying the light floating through the big windows and I’m wondering about what will happen tonight. Friday at Linda’s. There’s a big show in town but I don’t want to go. I don’t really know why. Everyone in town is excited for it but I think that’s just because everyone in town likes music a lot. Like, a lot. Maybe even a little too much if you ask me. But that’s not the point right now. The point right now is, well, fuck man, it’s Friday afternoon. A big dude in a tie-dye fishing shirt just walked in. He has sleeve tattoos and gray hair. I like his trucker hat and I like the way he waddles. Now there’s an older blonde woman outside who is waiting for her Southern Belle. Her hair whips in the wind and she looks like she’s smoked 12,000 cigarettes this year alone. I like it a lot. I like this place a lot. I like the west. The hills are full of wonder and I like to wonder. Now my New Zealand friend is back inside and he’s got his food. It’s in one of those little cardboard boxes you can compost. The fork is plastic though. It will last for the next 10,000 years. He digs in. I dig the fish on his hat.