The Sundancing Kid

         All those months preparing, waiting, contemplating, debating, worrying about the plethora of potential outcomes. Putting his hand to his forehead to shield his vision from the blinding rays of midday sun, Jim looked out at the dusty road before him. Miles and miles of endless nothingness, he thought, an expanse of purgatorial desert. Behind him, the bar which he had lived in stood on its foundation like an old man leaning over his walker. “Michaelson’s”, the establishment named aptly after the constructer’s family name, which happened to be his own, seemed to bleed history. Or rather absorb the history of its original town, he thought. Ceiling logs and support beams littered the surrounding area around the bar; an area forgotten by its country. Planks of wood rose like masts of sunken ships out of a sand-filled sea. And, like other explorers before him, Jim Michaelson was going to set out in search of something new. Something fresh.

         “You headin’ out, boy?” A guttural voice asked. Turning, Jim saw Uncle Pete approach the porch with a case of Three Floyd’s Dreadnaught under each arm. Uncle Pete was the cornerstone of a character he drew out for a comic book; the character being Heimlaff the Barbarian. Heimlaff was a perfect mirror to his uncle: a tall fellow, with arms resembling battering rams and a gut like a cask of wine.  “Cause if you’re not leavin’, you can sure as shit help me with them cases.”

         “Yes sir,” was the reply as he trekked towards the beat-up pickup. What used to be a blue Ford now seemed to have garnished a rusty tan from years of elemental exposure. 

         “Before you pick that case up,” Uncle Pete called, jogging towards the truck, “I gotta ask; are you sure you wanna leave, boy?”

         “Dad’s got you, and Aunt Wendy, and your twin boys to boot. I’ve lived here and worked here for so long now. You’ve seen my sketchbooks Uncle Pete; you’ve seen the stuff I come up with.”

         “I understand that, but this is family we’re talkin’ about here. Think long and hard ‘bout what you’re doin’,” Uncle Pete said as he hoisted a case on his shoulder and turned towards the decrepit-looking bar.

         Uncle Pete is right though, Jim thought. Even though I’ve been saving hard earned tips and drawing every day before my shift, working hard to hone my craft, what comes first? Would I be abandoning him? Dad said he’s ok with me leaving, but he said it the same way he told me Mom died. It was all in his face. Dad’s mouth would talk, he realized, but his eyes never met his. They bore holes into his feet instead. Jim watched as a brown and white spotted roadrunner darted behind the aforementioned wooden spires, and consequently thought about his own feet bolting for the big cities, walking down a path of artistic fame with his father watching him leave.





         “He’s growin’ up, Danny. You know this.” Pete commented as he stacked case after case behind the bar. Daniel Michaelson nodded in contemplation, wiping down the bar counter.

         “I did have a talk with the kid. Mentioned how important family is. We’re all we’ve got and all that.” Pete said as he exited to bring in another case. Daniel’s washcloth stopped mid-wipe as he sighed. He’ll stay, Daniel thought, he’s my son. A chip off the old block. “Michaelson’s” has been in the family for five generations. Hell, its Jim’s birthright to inherit this place one day.

         Daniel continued wiping down the oak counter top as he thought about how he worked hard to build “Michaelson’s” up. The interior was completely refurbished, with the wooden walls giving off a rustic feeling, while relics from the bar’s past hung on the walls and behind the bar itself. A stuffed black bear stood upright one corner; its maw open in a vicious roar, while pool cues rested on mounted racks against the opposite wall. A picture of Theodore Michaelson, Daniel’s great-grandfather, lay propped against a bottle of McCarthy’s Single Malt Whiskey. Daniel looked around at all the improvements to the bar he made. This place looks great, he thought. Even though the customers consisted mainly of bikers and some local folk, Daniel didn’t seem to mind. He liked the fact that “Michaelson’s” was a well-kept secret. It let him appreciate his work and accomplishments. But what of Jim? Daniel picked up Theodore’s picture and looked at the ancestor who started all of this. He stood tall and proud on the bar’s porch and, even in the grainy grayscale photograph, Daniel could make out a smile. It was then he realized that the two of them looked remarkably similar since he has decided to grow a moustache a few years back. He smiled, and appreciated following in his father’s footsteps, as well as his great-grandfather’s.







         Like a yellow-bellied scallywag, I’m jumping ship, Jim thought. He lay, for what could be the last time in a long time, on his twin mattress, staring up his very own Iron Maiden artwork he slaved over for days. He loved the painstaking detail he put into every wrinkle on Eddie’s undead face, much more than he loved serving drinks on a busy night. He wanted to shanghai his own ship and sail away on brushstrokes and multicolored panels, without abandoning his crew of desert sailors for a life beyond the heat.

         Jim leaned over and pulled out a large sketchbook from under his bed. Sitting up, he grinned as page after page of his artwork appeared before him. He didn’t just treat these drawings as comically doodles; they were artistic. He slaved over the dynamic shading of his work, making sure to get everything just as he wanted it. When it came to his art, Jim thought, he was a perfectionist. Every contour line and spot of ink had to be right. Glancing over to his small stack of comic art books which introduced him to Jack Kirby, Carl Barks, and Neal Adams, Jim started gathering his sketchbooks. As he piled his most recent drawings together, he paused as his hands came upon a frame. It was a photograph of him when he was 18, standing next to his father. Wow, Jim thought, that seems like ages ago. They were standing in front of the bar. Row after row of bottles were lit up by the backlight. This must’ve been just after the renovation, Jim concluded. As he was about to put the picture back down, Jim noticed something. Something he hadn’t really seen before in the picture. He studied the photograph more closely. While he was looking at the camera, giving the photographer a huge smile, his father was not looking at the camera. He was smiling of course; the reconstruction of the bar had been a massive feat, but his eyes were locked on to Jim. He was smiling at Jim.



         “Pete!” Daniel called as he walked up from the cellar to stock the shelves, “Get your ass in gear!”

         “Aw, come on Danny.” Pete said as he leaned back against the bar, “You and I both know that the rush ain’t gonna be here for another few hours. Take a load off, big guy.” As Daniel put bottle after bottle under the counter, he knew his younger brother was right. The main crowds from the nearby town didn’t show up until ten usually, and it was only six. But everything had to be just right.

         “Take some pride in your family name, will ya?” Daniel retorted. Pete stood a little straighter.

         “I beg your pardon?”

         “You heard me. We did all this work on Dad’s bar, on Granddad’s bar, and it’s like you don’t even care. I’m the one doing all the preparations! What do you do? Serve drinks and gather tips.”

         “Danny. You know I love ya, bein’ your brother and all. But I am bigger than you. I could lay you out faster than you could say Albuquerque. What’s eatin’ ya?” Pete asked as he approached Daniel.

         “Nothin’. Just thinking about all this work. There’s always a lot to get done. You know?”

         “Yeah, I hear ya.” Pete nodded, “But sometimes no matter how hard ya work, in the end, you gotta realize ya did what ya could. It was like when we went shootin’ at Rhine’s Field. We hit as many cans as we could with one clip, and that was that. There were times when we both missed a few, but hey, that’s life buddy. Use what ya got in the clip, cause there sure as shit ain’t much else ya got.”

         “Yeah…” Daniel said automatically as he put the last bottle away. He felt Pete’s hand on his shoulder.

         “I’ll bring up some ice. Breathe for a second.” Pete said as he turned and walked to the cellar. Daniel stood up and sighed. Use what you got. That’s definitely what Theodore Michaelson did, Daniel thought as he grinned. He used all the pennies he had to build a business for himself and his family. He’s the one that started all of this, Daniel reflected as he looked around the interior of the bar. This all started with him. Daniel remembered sitting on his father’s lap among the barrels in the cellar when he was young, listening to tales about Great-Grandpa Theodore.  His father regaled him with stories of Theodore Michaelson setting out to provide comfort and entertainment for people, while making a living for himself and his new family. He gathered some men from the local area, farmers and tradesmen mostly, and constructed the first “Michaelson’s” bar. Sighing again, Daniel thought about his ancestors as well as himself. He used what he had as well. When he realized the bar needed to be fixed, what did he do? He acted just like Theodore Michaelson and got the job done. Life is like that a lot, Daniel pondered as he straightened some bottles so the labels were facing the customers, just doing what you have to do.

         What would Miranda say about that kind of thinking, Daniel thought as picked his wife’s picture off of the mantle. What a woman; dark brown hair, like the wood used for the bar, traveled down her back. It had the most perfect flow to it, he thought. Like a surprise downpour, Daniel remembered his wife vividly. The cloud that was Miranda consisted of numerous quirky and unique drops, one of those drops being her love for collecting different kinds of cacti. Daniel always asked her about that every time he saw her lightly watering her spiky plants.

         “Why a cactus, Miranda?”

         “Easy,” Miranda would say grinning, “a cactus just is. They do what they can to survive. They’re just themselves, and nothing more. They don’t ask for a lot of space or a lot of water. They just are, and if your patient with them, sometimes a flower will bloom.”

Daniel placed the picture of his lovely wife besides a newly bloomed Orange Cactus. He sighed once again as he went to go on preparing for tonight, knowing exactly what must be done.







         A few hours later, Jim stood in the doorway of Michaelson’s, peering out at the darkening vista and enjoying the cooling temperature. Conflicting thoughts swirled in his mind like a maelstrom, but the sound of jangling spurs tickled his eardrums, breaking the spell over him. Jim turned to see his father cleaning a glass mug in the doorway. The slow circular motions of the dishcloth did nothing to hide the emotion surging out of his aged eyes. The barkeep nodded towards his son, his only son, and turned away to continue his tasks. The tired man stopped suddenly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning once again, Daniel looked at the young man standing in front of him.



         Daniel Michaelson remembered when his son was born. He remembered his son running around in overalls chasing little sand tornadoes, or as he called them “sand poofs”. He remembered his son climbing up on barstools and being overjoyed when he could sit proudly at the bar like a big boy. He remembered when his son started getting into heavy metal and saved up enough money to buy his first albums, and proceed to redraw the album art on each and every one. He remembered his son learning how to bartend with flair; flipping shakers and glasses like a professional member of a touring circus troupe. Now, as it dawned upon him that Jim was 22, Daniel forced this image into his head as another memory to cherish. Jim embraced him, and although the surrounding area was one of earth and their clothes were adorned with patches of dust, water entered the scene like flash flood. They let go, and tears streamed down on to Daniel’s thick mustache.

         Jim Michaelson smiled at his father, this big proud man who he managed to make cry. Taking the glass from his hand, he flipped it behind his back and handed it back to him. His father smiled as the glass exchanged hands. Jim mouthed the words “Good-bye” before adjusting the pack on his back and turning to walk down the dust-covered road, towards the setting sun. Daniel watched his son trek onward from the creaking porch before putting rag to glass once again. Curious, he found a small folded piece of paper wedged towards the bottom of the bar glass. He looked towards his son again, walking against the browns of the sand, the blues of the sky, and the reds and oranges of the fiery sun, and grinned as he opened the note:



I'm confident that when I stand on my own,

You'll see the truest form of a man when I'm shining through