Steve Braunias: The Secret Diary of ... Lonesome Cowboy Chip

Lonesome Cowboy Chip has begun to forget what company looks like. Photo / AP Mark Mitchell

OPINION

MONDAY

Lonesome Cowboy Chip rode his old tired horse down the main street of Dodge and shivered. It had been the worst winter following the worst summer. He had begun to forget what sunshine looked like. Worse than that, though, he had begun to forget what company looked like.

He rode a lonely road. A sad cowboy lament sounded in his ears, something slow and thin, that high lonesome sound of so much country music. A steel guitar, a loping bass, a heartbroken fiddle - he could make out a tune, but it had no words in it. No one sang the song of Lonesome Cowboy Chip.

He hitched his horse and stepped into the saloon. A few good old boys were playing cards. An old-timer sat by the fire and smoked his pipe. No one looked up.

The barkeep said, “Why the long face?”

Lonesome Cowboy Chip looked around. He thought maybe his horse had come in. But he was alone at the bar just as he was alone in this old damned world.

“Hard day,” said Lonesome Cowboy Chip.

The barkeep poured him a shot of whiskey and made himself scarce. He didn’t want to hear anymore.

He sipped his shot, and the temperatures dropped.

TUESDAY

Lonesome Cowboy Chip put his feet up on his desk and looked at the empty chairs in his office.

There was the chair Crazy Michael Wood used to sit in before he slipped out the back door.

There was the chair Shifty Stuart Nash used to sit in before he slipped out the side door.

There was the chair Hellcat Kiri Allan used to sit in before she kicked down the front door in a fit of rage because she couldn’t open it and then blamed her staff for closing the door in the first place.

At least good old loyal Two-Cakes Grant Robertson remained in his chair. He didn’t say much, and he never came right out and gave the impression he gave a damn about Lonesome Cowboy Chip. But he was always there. Always.

There were times when Lonesome Cowboy Chip figured he stayed in his chair because he had no place else to go.

WEDNESDAY

“I been thinking,” said Two-Cakes.

Lonesome Cowboy Chip nearly fell off his chair. It was the first thing Two-Cakes had said in a long, long time.

“Yeah? What about?”

“Well,” said Two-Cakes, “how ‘bout we tax the rich?”

“I’m listening.”

“It ain’t a capital gains tax. And it ain’t a wealth tax. Well, it is, but it only applies to folks who earn over $5 million,” said Two-Cakes.

“How many folks is that?”

“About 25,000,” said Two-Cakes. “We tax them a mite more, and about four million other folks will benefit.”

Lonesome Cowboy Chip struck a match against his handsome jaw and lit a cheroot. “Look into it, Two-Cakes,” he said. “We could use four million friends.”

He blew a perfect smoke ring and leaned back in his chair. The temperature had risen.

THURSDAY

“Sorry,” said Two-Cakes, “but it won’t fly.”

Lonesome Cowboy Chip looked at him.

“It’d make them 25,000 rich folks mighty angry,” said Two-Cakes.

Lonesome Cowboy Chip looked at the floor.

“We don’t want to upset them kind of folks,” said Two-Cakes.

Lonesome Cowboy Chip looked into the distance, into the darkness, into the realms of the void.

It didn’t look great.

FRIDAY

Lonesome Cowboy Chip rode his old tired horse down the main street of Dodge. He watched as the saloon got ram-raided. He saw old-timers starving in the streets. Some two-bit woke punk shouted out, “You coulda taxed the rich, but you ain’t got the guts!”

He tried to strike a match against his jaw but it wouldn’t flame. He sucked on the end of his cheroot. It tasted of bitter ashes. His horse turned around and looked at him, and said, “Why the long face?”

He shivered all the way down the damned road.