Had to make another swing through the Sooner State this past week.
On my way to the last round-up, as it turns out to be.
I am hanging up my shower curtain rings, you see.
Deciding to take another vocational direction.


But, before that happens, well
Oklahoma calls.

Or of a sort.
That kind of empty-trailer-park, injured pig, tornado-siren-at-3am
Kind of wail.

Anyway, yonder I venture once again.
Headed up into the nether parts of the state to make a call.
While there, talking with a shop owner
They invited me to a local event

Seems that a couple of counties over, there was fixin' to be
An annual festival, of world-wide renown.
That where fecal matter gets thrown in a general direction
And prizes are awarded.

Oh, I have long since gone past being surprised these days
Just crooked an eyebrow, and looked at the speaker
"No kidding?"
Or, rather,

Something similar in the local vernacular.

I decided to pass on the opportunity, as I had a scheduling conflict.
And, since I live in Texas, well
Flying feral flotsam is somewhat of a state-sponsored custom.
And I had hoped to escape said tradition for a few peaceful  and scent-free time

On the other side of the Red River.

Soon thereafter, I found myself contending with another set of emotions.
Looking across from my shower curtain ring booth
To my neighbor across the way.
They of some association or another

Selling memberships.

Seems that their group was the last of a dying breed
And needed support for their own preservation
That of this vague "American way of life" that was seemingly
At stake in our modern and sophisticated times.

As I was watching the gentlemen manning the booth
I noticed an accessory to their rather local attire
Attached to each of their Western-style belts
Those with the leather etchings depicting any number

Of culturally appropriate events
That usually involved animals, beef,
And likely a poor unsuspecting Native American

Framing a turquoise-encrusted centerpiece of silver in front
The size of any enchilada plate
Or Texas county
That this Expat has ever seen.

And, threaded carefully alongside was

A gun.

Yes, dear friends, these good old boys

Were packing.

All perfectly legal, mind you.
This being a "carry" state.
With the proper education and license, one can
Sport said firearm as you please.

Now, this was my first encounter with said freedom
That ensconced in our Bill of Rights, yet
I found myself suddenly, inexorably, viscerally
Uncomfortable.

It did not sit well with me that these fellow were able,
At a moment's notice, or so I imagined
To make a life-or-death decision, depending upon
The events that they would perceive, perched over there

In their little booth.
In their director-style chairs, straining
To hold all those ribeyes and fajitas
And fine Western wear adorned on

Said corpulent carcasses.

Yes, I have a certain level of respect for law enforcement
Particularly that of the experienced, educated, trained sort
You know, the kind that wears a uniform
Maybe wrap-around shades, perhaps a motorcycle

But not, as it suddenly occurred to me
For the ranch hand
Cowboy
Shit-slinger-cum-gun-slinger

Who could decide on the spot who lives and who dies.

So there I was, staring across the way
Wondering all the while
Of what might occur, should someone
Decide they needed to accost me here in my little 10x10 booth

You know, forcibly wrest control of my Flaming Hot Chee-tos
Or perhaps abscond with my precious little Dodger Stadium paperweight,
All the while, the Expat screams in futile protest
Flinging one of his worn flip-flops in the general direction

Of the perpetrator.

Only to have the yee-haw and the yippiee-kai-yay
Emit from the booth across from me
The subsequent report of some finely-etched revolver
And a falling, gagging-on-a-Frito Lay product

Supposed felon

Watching as I limp over and remove my footwear from his
Cold, hard grasp.

Does this scenario make me feel better?
I even asked my booth-mates, they of the shower curtain ring company
And of a certain religious affiliation, that which
Applies Old Testament equivocal justice, even to this present day and age.

"Oh, yes!"  One of them replied to my question.
"I absolutely feel better knowing that those guys are over there!"
Well, there are other mitigating and differentiating factors out there in this world, I guess.
Than left and right, Liberal or Conservative, Evangelical or Agnostic

So it appears.
And most definitely feels to this writer.

There is a visceral difference, I have learned.
Between those of us who find that our gut responses are often
Not always of the exacting exchange of and eyes and a tooth variety.
But rather, waiting upon

Other forms of justice, of vengeance,
Of law enforcement.

After a couple of days there, I found myself
Constantly looking askance at these dudes
Thinking of those scenarios that might entice them to act
And gripping my stomach unconsciously as I did.

No, I decided, it was better
At the close of the show
That I climb back into my truck
Drive south across the Red River, and

Dodge what suddenly seems far more innocuous
As it flies by my head, even grazes my ears
And the familiar scent that always accompanies
Makes me highly prefer this excremental incursion

To that of the metallic variety.