Starry, Starry Night

Roy Pollard lay in the dusty gravel, his head aching and spinning. The dust came into his nose and mouth and his eyes teared up as he regained hissenses. There was a man pacing back and forth, telling Roy to get up.

"I ain't going to kick nobody while they on the ground, mister," the man said, "I don't do folks like that." Roy slid his hands together in the gravel, and lifted himself up on his hands and knees. A thin strand of dust covered saliva hung from his mouth as he struggled to find his balance. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. On the steps of the porch shards of glass glinted in the light coming out of the windows of the bar and the neck of a quart bottle lay in the dust behind the pacing man.

Roy reached for a piece of glass and held it up to his face, his balance wavering on three points of contact. He held the shard up to the pacing man, asking, "You do folks like this, instead?" His voice seemed to come from a hundred miles away; his tongue was thick in his mouth, and he could taste the gritty dust as he worked it around in his mouth and spit. Roy looked up and the man was still pacing back and forth and he pushed himself onto his knees and rocked back. The ringing in his skull had lessened and he recognized the man. He'd been staring hard at Roy all night over his beer.

"What's your name, friend?" Roy asked, his voice firmer.

"I ain't no friend of yours, mister," the man spat. Roy rolled his eyes. "You can call me Terry," he said.

"Then maybe you might tell me why you hit me with that bottle, Terry," Roy said, and the pacing Terry stopped, his face incredulous.

"You was lookin' at my girl funny, mister, and I don't take kindly to no strange men eyein' her all night," Terry said through clenched teeth. His hands were balled into fists, and his feet were spread apart solidly. The gravel crunched under each foot as he shifted his weight.

"The waitress? Listen, friend, I'm just a regular joe, out to get a drink like the rest of these guys," Roy said and jerked his thumb at the bar. The waitress's silhouette was framed in one of the windows, and it disappeared after a second glance. Terry looked over his shoulder at the window, but the girl was already gone. He turned back to Roy.

"Maybe you ought to do like the rest of the regular joes around here then, mister, don't be callin' me 'friend' and keep to yourself. Otherwise, you get to deal with me." Roy thought he could see the young man's chest puff out.

Rising slowly to both feet Roy stood as straight as he could manage. He could feel his legs wobble beneath his weight. "Maybe I ought to," Roy said as he rubbed the back of his head with one hand. He didn't feel the sticky blood he'd expected. "Maybe I ought to learn you to respect your betters."

Terry came forward on his left foot and swung with his right hand, catching Roy on the chin, spinning him to the ground. He rose quickly, shakily stepped back and then lunged forward, hitting Terry low, knocking them both to the ground. They rolled in the gravel for a minute and Roy came out on top and punched Terry three times before the man went limp. Roy rolled off of the younger man's still form and lay on his back and looked at the stars he'd been admiring before he'd woken up on the ground.

The door of the bar opened and a long square of gold spilled out onto the porch and down the steps. The bar girl stood framed in the doorway for a moment before walking slowly over to where the inert men lay sprawled. She knelt down between them, her fingers tracing the line of Terry's face and the shallow cut he'd earned over his eye. It had already started to swell. Her hands ran the length of his body, lightly pressing here and there. She put her face down close to his mouth, and reassured Terry was still breathing, turned to hover her face over Roy. Her plain features were stretched and bunched in odd places, and without looking Roy in the eye she lifted his head up and felt for an open wound. Her fingers pressed gently on the spot where the bottle had hit him and he winced and reached for her wrists.

"Easy, girl, easy," he said, and smiled. She struggled against his grip without success.

"You ain't no hero, mister," she said, and tried to pull away before whining, "You better let me go."

Roy pulled her in close. Her balled hands were on his chest, and he lifted his head off the gravel and looked her square in the face. "You're right. I ain't no hero, but nobody said winners was required to be heroes." She pulled again, but this time he let go and sent her spilling onto her rear with a squeal. Roy lifted himself up on his elbows and laughed.

"That'll be enough of that, son," said a voice from the porch, and looking up, Roy could see the bartender's wide, backlit frame holding a shotgun across his chest. "I think it's best you move along now, before Terry wakes up. Last time he hit you was with a bottle. Next time I guarantee it'll be with the hunting knife he keeps."

The girl stood angrily and stomped up the porch steps, "He ain't got the knife tonight, I already checked," she looked down at Roy on his back in the gravel, "but that don't mean you shouldn't be moving on. His pop is a big man in the county, and Terry hates losing, mister. He'll find a way to get you if he can, whether his pa puts the law on you or he tickles your ribs with his knife."

Roy placed one hand over his heart, "The man does not live who is more devoted to peace than I am," he said solemnly, and winched himself onto his feet.

The bartender gave him a hard look, "No need to be funny, mister, just move along. I won't tell him which way you went, and neither will Gloria here, will you darlin'?" he asked and the bar girl nodded. "Just get on, and keep your head down for a few days. You'll be all right."

The bar was situated at a crossroads of sorts, nestled in a saddle between twin buttes that formed a low rolling ridge that rose gently from the flat, dry farm country that surrounded it. Roy climbed to the top of the ridge and gazed down at the fields cooling in the evening after baking all day in the sun. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and the stars provided enough light to see the square shape of the fields, the brown dirt of fallow plots and the rustling gray-green of the orchards that stretched to the edge of a civilization whose distant lights wavered in the heat rising from the earth. Roy stretched himself on the brown grass and promptly fell asleep.