“She’s trouble!” yelled the cowboy as he loped across the parking lot shaking a finger at the old woman in the wheelchair.
“Don’t do it!”
What I was doing was giving her a dollar. Fumbling in my purse to help out a woman with swollen legs, walking her chair forward from her seated position.
“Not your business!”
“Everything here is my business,” he boomed. “I own this building!”
No way, I thought. No way the building that houses Tower Theatre and Tower Cafe could have been commandeered through the decades by this, this…interloper.
“She looks like she’s IN trouble,” I said, handing her the bill and watching her wince away from us.
Bearded, old cowboy—maybe more than 6 feet tall in his stiff-brimmed hat and western belt buckle—took three giant steps with snake arms flailing and landed in front of me.
“Back up! You’re harassing me!”
“I wish you weren’t so generous!” he boomed.
“I’ve been stabbed in this parking lot! I’ve been attacked by people like her!”
“Maybe it’s because you’re an asshole!”
He whipped around to view real trouble—my early dinner date, a purple-haired activist who still wears tie-dye and swings her purse like a boomerang.
“I think you’d better get in your car and leave,” she told the cowboy.
He turned and headed for a gold, Porsche SUV, and then turned back, came within breathing space of us, and began shouting again.
“I own this building! You don’t understand! YOU’RE THE ASSHOLE!”
Au contraire, I muttered as I fumbled for my large cell phone. He watched as I tried to find the camera app.
Oh, shit! Who am I fooling! By the time I find the video feature, he could pull out a gun….
“OK—get in your car, Cowboy, or I’m calling the cops!” I heard myself say.
“Hello, 911—we have a threatening man who says he owns The Tower and is harassing us in the parking lot.”
Cowboy turned as I dictated the license plate.
“He’s in a rage. A small crowd is gathering, but no one wants to get involved….he’s screaming and could be leaving, but that’s no comfort to other drivers….He is out of control and now, it looks as if he’s driving into the sunset!”
With his exit, we stayed home on the range where we have chosen to break bread for nearly 30 years in a garden of statuary and foliage.
They make a mighty good jerk chicken at Tower Cafe. Jim Seyman should consider re-naming that signature dish after himself.