He Rode A White Horse

In my room resides not only me, but a photo of a cute little boy of eight, astride a white horse, in his Cub Scout uniform. Confident, not at all scared of being on the beast.

Someone commented on how well I handled the animal and didn’t look at all uneasy. I pointed out to him how the horse was actually fake and the fence next to me hid the stairs which allowed us to get up on the contraption. “No,” he said, “that’s a real horse; I can tell.” He can tell? Really? How perceptive.

“You are quite mistaken,” I replied. “It’s fake; I was there. I went up the stairs behind that fence and onto the lifelike horse. I was there and you weren’t. It was in Howland’s Department Store basement, in Bridgeport.” He was insistent, knowing far more than I about real horses (and not much about fakes).

I wonder what he would have thought of the picture next to it, of younger me in a cowboy outfit, gun in hand. I remember that weapon of terror; it wasn’t a cap gun like all the other kids had; this one punched perforations in a roll of paper and made a mighty good sound. It was also hard to pull the trigger, but the result was worth it.

“That’s a real cowboy,” I can imagine him saying. “A little on the short side, and he must have been photographed in a western grove town where there are trees.” Silly me; my brother posed in a baseball uniform and I got the cowboy duds. He was professional while I looked as if I’d nail you first chance I got.