All My Shortening

An afternoon like any other, Tom and Barbara had made their way to the front porch, drinks in hand. I’d just returned from gumbo and reading in the French Quarter. We sit outside and listen to the river boat calliope play playful, ghostly melodies as the sun sets.

He rides up then. Drunk and on horseback, the modern cowboy sits at the front gate, trying to convince one of us to don cowboy boots and join him for a trot around French Quarter. His words are slurred as he tells us he just wants to ride around and see how long it takes before the police arrest him, even though he’ll do nothing wrong, just ride his horse. But they’ll tow it anyway. (Tow it?)

Stella’s back stiffens at the sight of a horse 5 billion times the size of her Chihuahua frame. But Barabara keeps him talking, asks where he lives, how long, does he always just ride around drunk as a skunk on Sundays, and does his horse have a name, what are the names of the other horses?

The horse’s name is Lightening. The other horses are named Thunder and All My Shortening.

Yes.

Shortening. All of it.

Love it!