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The Lone Night Cantina

The Lone Night Cantina DON LEE he Lone Night Cantina was not a real cowboy bar. In those places, imagined Annie Yung, in those roadside joints outside of Cheyenne or Amarillo, just off a two-lane highway with pickups made in the good ol' u.s. of a. parked in the dirt lot, the men angled their sweat-stained Stetsons over the eyes and were the picture of stoic reserve. They stood leaning the small of their backs against the counter, an elbow crooked behind for support, pelvis swung out, a boot crossed at the ankle to touch the floor with a dusty, permanently curled toe. Once in a while a cowboy removed the Camel dangling from the corner of his mouth, flicked some ashes, and raised his Bud for a slow swig, condensation from the bottle leaving a wet imprint on his jeans, but otherwise there was no movement, no justification for the odd sense of expectancy and danger in the bar, the feeling that with a single misguided look, anything could happen. "You're dreaming," Annie's sister, Evelyn, had told her. "This lonesome cowboy thing, it's all a myth. It's something straight out of the movies." At thirty-eight Annie was old enough to know http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

The Lone Night Cantina

Lee, Don
Manoa , Volume 14 (2) – Mar 13, 2002
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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2003 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x
Publisher site
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Abstract

DON LEE he Lone Night Cantina was not a real cowboy bar. In those places, imagined Annie Yung, in those roadside joints outside of Cheyenne or Amarillo, just off a two-lane highway with pickups made in the good ol' u.s. of a. parked in the dirt lot, the men angled their sweat-stained Stetsons over the eyes and were the picture of stoic reserve. They stood leaning the small of their backs against the counter, an elbow crooked behind for support, pelvis swung out, a boot crossed at the ankle to touch the floor with a dusty, permanently curled toe. Once in a while a cowboy removed the Camel dangling from the corner of his mouth, flicked some ashes, and raised his Bud for a slow swig, condensation from the bottle leaving a wet imprint on his jeans, but otherwise there was no movement, no justification for the odd sense of expectancy and danger in the bar, the feeling that with a single misguided look, anything could happen. "You're dreaming," Annie's sister, Evelyn, had told her. "This lonesome cowboy thing, it's all a myth. It's something straight out of the movies." At thirty-eight Annie was old enough to know

Journal

Manoa – University of Hawai'I Press

Published: Mar 13, 2002

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