Harper, Colorado, is a tiny town about fifteen miles west of Durango with no more than five hundred residents. Zelda and I lived in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, about fifteen miles outside Harper. The vet clinic was in Durango, twenty-five miles away from the cabin. Which meant, on the drive back, we passed through Harper.
Whitman’s General Store sat along the highway, just like almost every other business in Harper. And the highway wasn’t really even a highway at all. It was more like a heavily traveled two-lane road. Most people only saw Harper in passing as they breezed past at sixty miles per hour.
When we pulled into the lot, there were two motorcycles parked out front. Not Harleys, but those flashy crotch rockets the kids liked to ride.
I opened my door and stepped out, and Zelda crawled across the seat and jumped down from my side. Her nails clicked loudly against the asphalt. It made me want to kick myself for not asking Dr. Snyder to trim them during our visit. Next time.
In front of the store was a pile of firewood, shovels, rock salt, the usual winter fare. Sale signs hung over each product. Like most mom and pop stores, Whitman’s couldn’t undercut the major retailers, but Darrell still liked to put as many items on sale as he could. Even if it was only a few cents, he wanted people to know he cared.
I placed my hand on the doorknob, but before I could even turn it, I heard the voices inside. Loud voices. Angry voices.
Beside me, Zelda growled. A soft growl, kept back deep in her throat.
I looked down at her. She looked up at me.
I said, “It’s okay.”
And opened the door.
“Bullshit. Complete, fucking bullshit.”
There were two of them, kids just like I had suspected, no older than twenty-one. One had his head shaved to the skin. The other had a close-cropped mohawk. Both had tattoos and earrings and studs sticking out everywhere. Their appearance wasn’t what bothered me about the two. To be honest, I could have cared less how they were dressed or what they’d done to their bodies. But acting like assholes to other people, especially friends of mine? That didn’t fly.
Darrell’s voice quivered.
“Again, I’m sorry, but there are signs clearly stating—”
Skinhead cut him off.
“Who gives a fuck? It’s still bullshit.”
There wasn’t a bell above the door signaling new arrivals, but still our entrance was apparent to Darrell and his two customers. Both of the kids glanced back over their shoulders, uncertainty in their eyes, but when they saw it was just an old man with an old dog, they continued like we weren’t even there.
Darrell said, “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
He was about my age, a light-skinned black man, tall and frail. Some days it seemed like a strong wind could knock him over.
Zelda stayed put beside me. She didn’t sit at attention but stood on all four paws. She growled again.
Mohawk looked back at us.
“If that dog bites me, I’m gonna kick its fucking head in.”
I said nothing. I was tempted to give some kind of rebuttal, but that was what this punk wanted. Any excuse to cause even more trouble.
Skinhead said, “Just what kind of fucking business is this?”
I asked, “Everything okay, Darrell?”
Mohawk said, “Everything’s fine.”
I ignored him, keeping my gaze on Darrell.
Darrell nodded, slowly, and swallowed.
“Everything’s fine. These two, uh, gentlemen are upset that I only accept cash.”
Skinhead snorted.
“Cash. Who the fuck uses cash anymore?”
Darrell was traditional in the way he did business, and he got by just fine. Like he told the two punks when Zelda and I first walked in, there were signs all over the place. On the door leading in, and several posted around the store, all announcing that Whitman’s General Store did not accept credit cards. Cash, check, money order, sure, but no credit cards.
Darrell’s voice still quivered.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you. There’s an ATM at the bank down the highway a bit. You can take cash out there.”
Mohawk said, “All we want is some sodas, and you think we’re going to run to a fucking ATM for cash?”
Darrell didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. It was not entirely clear what these two punks wanted other than to complain, but whatever it was, they weren’t going to get it here.
Beside me, Zelda’s growling grew louder. She didn’t like these two at all.
Mohawk eyed us again.
“Seriously, old man, you better keep your dog in check, or I’m going to crush its skull with my boot.”
I don’t care for bullies. Not one bit. In the past, I dealt with the bullies in an appropriate manner … and sometimes in a not-so-appropriate manner. Part of me wanted to respond with something smart, something to get this kid’s goat, but punks like them were a dime a dozen. Let them talk themselves out, and they’d go away. It was that simple.
Skinhead tapped the sodas with his finger.
“You know, we could just take these. I figure at this point we’re owed that much for having to put up with this bullshit. I mean, Christ, it’s only, what, three dollars for the two of them?”
Two 20oz bottles of soda currently stood on the counter between Darrell and the punks.
Even from where I stood across the store, I could see the slight hesitation in Darrell’s eyes. He was considering it. Thinking that giving them the sodas would be the easy solution. Just send them on their way and hope to never see them again.
Darrell glanced at me, and I shook my head slightly, just enough for him to catch my meaning.
Don’t do it.
There was a silence. Even Zelda had stopped growling.
Finally Darrell cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, but it will be three dollars for the sodas. And we only take cash. Or a check if you have one.”
Mohawk said, “Fuck this.”
He hit his friend on the arm, nodded toward the door.
“Let’s go. I’m tired of this place.”
But Skinhead didn’t move. His back was to me, but I could tell he was staring down Darrell. Or at least trying to stare down Darrell. It’s hard to do that with people who have been to war. Like me, Darrell was a Vietnam vet. If either of these two punks were veterans, it was from a video game war.
Skinhead said, “You know, it would be a real shame if something were to happen to this store of yours.”
Darrell didn’t say anything. To his credit, he stared back at Skinhead, didn’t look away.
Mohawk hit his friend’s arm again.
“Come on, let’s just go.”
Skinhead still didn’t move. He kept his staring contest up for another couple seconds, then finally shook his head, blew air out through his teeth.
“Fucking ridiculous.”
He turned and started toward the door.
As the two punks approached, Zelda moved to hide behind me. But still she growled.
Now it was Skinhead who glared down at her.
“That thing bites me, I’m going to sue the shit out of you.”
I knew I should remain quiet, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Then for my sake let’s hope she doesn’t bite you.”
Skinhead looked at me again with renewed interest. He squinted, took a step forward.
Zelda, peeking at the punks from behind my leg, growled even louder.
Skinhead said, “You want to start something, nigger?”
I saw what he planned to do before he even did it. It’s one of my abilities. It was like with the fox, how I knew when it was going to strike right before it did. My body may be growing old, but still my mind works just as it always has. I knew exactly what Skinhead planned to do next. So when he leaned forward, jerking his head toward my face, I was already closing my eyes and turning my head away. It was the response he wanted, after all, the punk needing to show dominance. I could have just as easily stood there without reaction, not flinched at all, because I also knew based on his body language he wasn’t going to follow through with the threat. But that would have created more problems. And right now the only thing I wanted was for the two punks to leave.
Skinhead laughed.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He pushed through the door.
Mohawk started to follow his friend outside but paused. A spinner rack stood next to the door, small bags of pretzels and chips hanging on the pegs. Mohawk eyed the rack for a half second before he made his decision. With one smooth sweep of his arm, he knocked the rack over and, with a laugh that matched his friend’s, walked outside. The door closed behind him, and seconds later both motorcycles started up.
Zelda growled again, moving out from behind my legs. I placed a hand on her head. She was trembling.
I whispered to her.
“It’s okay, girl. It’s okay.”
As the motorcycles’ engines faded away, so did her growls.