The Buckhorn Bar

On my first night in Laramie I stumbled on a street fair. The young lady at the stand where I bought a hot dog said the fair happened every Friday in the summer. Vendors hawk their wares in front of the nineteenth century buildings on Grand Street, where they sold food and produce and arts and crafts. Laramites turned out in great numbers and appeared to be freely spending their money. One thing they did not sell at the street fair was beer, so I quickly lost interest and walked north on Front St. while a Union Pacific freight train rumbled by on the tracks just a few yards to my left. I turned right at the next block and there I found the Buckhorn Bar. The Buckhorn is old, unpretentious, authentic, and it has many decades worth of character-enhancing wear and tear. It is also a shrine to the craft of taxidermy. It is the kind of place I normally like. Unfortunately, on this afternoon anyway, the crowd assembled at the Buckhorn included some of the homeliest, sloppiest, noisiest, drunkest middle-aged white people with bad teeth I have ever seen at 6 o’clock on a Friday, or any other day of the week. I could not finish my beer and get out of there fast enough. Only later did I learn the place is notorious for it’s drunken patrons, fist fights and occasional gun play. There is still a bullet hole in the mirror behind the bar from some long-ago altercation.

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About Truman

I find myself on the downside of my sixtieth year, older but not old, wiser but not wise, and still wondering what I want to be when I grow up.
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