Our dusty, parched travelers happen upon a sign of life in the midst of mesquite and misery.
Major’s Place, somewhere just this side of Ely, Nevada.
Warning: Enter at your own risk. And leave as soon as you can. Not all do. Just look at the heads.
We walk in.
Debbie, with some minor trash in her hand asks the stoney faced barmaid, “Do you have a trash can/”
“No” – Debbie gulps and puts the trash in her purse.
Keith asks, “Do you have Corona?”
Just a glare and no answer.
Keith asks, What’s on tap?”
“Nothing” – Keith gulps and orders a Coors.
Debbie asks do you have Sam Adams?”
(looking like she wants to strangle Debbie) “No” – Debbie gulps and orders a Coors.
High on the walls, filling every available space were the heads of dead animals – they were all looking at us. Their glass eyes said, “Run.”
At the pool table was Larry, Daryl and Daryl. They were looking at us too. Between shots they’d whisper and sort of laugh.
The barmaid starred.
I put a twenty on the bar and we left. Oh, I bought a shirt. Says Major’s on the back with a Elk head. Doesn’t fit.