Read Online Blind Your Ponies by Stanley Gordon West - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stanley Gordon West
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a few minutes and gabbed about the gossip of the day. When Diana first met Vera, the wrenlike woman’s nose was flushed as if she had a cold. But after a month, Diana realized it always looked like that. After calming down and chastising herself for not doing a better job of hiding her feelings, Diana convinced Vera she was fine and ordered a taco salad.
Vera scooted off with her order and Diana exchanged chitchat with some of the people she knew. She soon found herself wishing Sam had been eating at this hour, imagining how she might invite herself to sit at his table.
Axel Anderson, a balding barrel of a man in his late fifties, lived upstairsabove the kitchen and dining room with his high-strung wife, Vera. They took over the Blue Willow with the hope of making the inn prosperous, much like the former owners, who themselves had hung on as long as possible before succumbing to the predictable fate of businesses alongside dead-end highways. Axel had a gnarled ear and the left side of his neck had a rugged scar traveling down under his collar. He spit and polished anything connected with the property as though a spotless and inviting restaurant off the beaten path would have the power to draw hungry customers out of thin air. As owner he was also bartender, waiter, dishwasher, cook, janitor, and anything else it took to keep the ship afloat. On any given day you’d never know whether that ship was sinking.
One of the relics Axel and Vera inherited with the place was the aging bicycle built for two that sat on the front porch throughout the year. Diana had found that the locals were protective of the old bike’s history and it was often difficult for a stranger to get an answer regarding the bike’s origins. The peculiar bike had become almost sacred in the eyes of the townsfolk, a trademark of the town, leaning there against the wall on the porch of the Blue Willow Inn, to be borrowed by whoever would like to take a turn around the town.
The story went that one day, many years ago, a happy young couple rode the tandem bicycle from Bozeman on an all-day outing, and stopped at the Blue Willow for lunch. Local people were touched by their affection, by the look of their gentle faces as they gazed across the table and held hands.
Then, something came up between them.
One of them revealed something—people who tell the story are uncertain here—and the young man, it was said, stood up abruptly, knocking over plates and spilling water all over the tablecloth and onto the dining room floor. He stomped out of the inn, and soon afterward the lovely young woman quietly followed. In their anguish and hurt, they both ran off and left the bicycle leaning on the porch. For days people hoped the couple would make up and then, back together again, would remember that neither had taken the bicycle. Weeks went by, summer became fall, and finally, when the winter snow dusted the seats of the bike, the townspeople began losing hope.
That was over twenty-five years ago and still the bike rested there asthough the community expected that the couple would forgive each other and come back for it. Successive owners of the inn kept its tires inflated and replaced as needed and all parts in working order. Since neither of the lovers ever returned for it, the common sentiment was they never got back together, coloring the local legend with the bittersweet shades of a tragic love story. But Diana figured that tourists who noticed the timeworn bicycle would just assume it was decoration, like the many antiques inside the inn.
She’d lost her appetite and gently pushed her half-eaten salad away. Just when she felt determined enough to dare the drive home, Sam Pickett walked in, wearing his running outfit. On his way to the back counter he nodded and smiled.
She settled back in her chair and thought about how she’d see him running out the gravel road that curved past the graveyard, how she always got the impression he wasn’t jogging for
Vera scooted off with her order and Diana exchanged chitchat with some of the people she knew. She soon found herself wishing Sam had been eating at this hour, imagining how she might invite herself to sit at his table.
Axel Anderson, a balding barrel of a man in his late fifties, lived upstairsabove the kitchen and dining room with his high-strung wife, Vera. They took over the Blue Willow with the hope of making the inn prosperous, much like the former owners, who themselves had hung on as long as possible before succumbing to the predictable fate of businesses alongside dead-end highways. Axel had a gnarled ear and the left side of his neck had a rugged scar traveling down under his collar. He spit and polished anything connected with the property as though a spotless and inviting restaurant off the beaten path would have the power to draw hungry customers out of thin air. As owner he was also bartender, waiter, dishwasher, cook, janitor, and anything else it took to keep the ship afloat. On any given day you’d never know whether that ship was sinking.
One of the relics Axel and Vera inherited with the place was the aging bicycle built for two that sat on the front porch throughout the year. Diana had found that the locals were protective of the old bike’s history and it was often difficult for a stranger to get an answer regarding the bike’s origins. The peculiar bike had become almost sacred in the eyes of the townsfolk, a trademark of the town, leaning there against the wall on the porch of the Blue Willow Inn, to be borrowed by whoever would like to take a turn around the town.
The story went that one day, many years ago, a happy young couple rode the tandem bicycle from Bozeman on an all-day outing, and stopped at the Blue Willow for lunch. Local people were touched by their affection, by the look of their gentle faces as they gazed across the table and held hands.
Then, something came up between them.
One of them revealed something—people who tell the story are uncertain here—and the young man, it was said, stood up abruptly, knocking over plates and spilling water all over the tablecloth and onto the dining room floor. He stomped out of the inn, and soon afterward the lovely young woman quietly followed. In their anguish and hurt, they both ran off and left the bicycle leaning on the porch. For days people hoped the couple would make up and then, back together again, would remember that neither had taken the bicycle. Weeks went by, summer became fall, and finally, when the winter snow dusted the seats of the bike, the townspeople began losing hope.
That was over twenty-five years ago and still the bike rested there asthough the community expected that the couple would forgive each other and come back for it. Successive owners of the inn kept its tires inflated and replaced as needed and all parts in working order. Since neither of the lovers ever returned for it, the common sentiment was they never got back together, coloring the local legend with the bittersweet shades of a tragic love story. But Diana figured that tourists who noticed the timeworn bicycle would just assume it was decoration, like the many antiques inside the inn.
She’d lost her appetite and gently pushed her half-eaten salad away. Just when she felt determined enough to dare the drive home, Sam Pickett walked in, wearing his running outfit. On his way to the back counter he nodded and smiled.
She settled back in her chair and thought about how she’d see him running out the gravel road that curved past the graveyard, how she always got the impression he wasn’t jogging for
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