Bohemia Village Voice

Believe it or Not

Andy and me swung on the playing field’s gate. We watched him swagger along in his magnificent Stetson and yellow neckerchief.
His thumbs were stuck into his belt and his gun was slung low. He was short and fat.
“Goin’ to a fancy dress party, mister?” Andy called over the squealing gate.
The cowboy stared at us. Andy got off the gate and strutted, mimicking the cowboy’s swagger.
“I seen better cowboys in them ol’ films. You wanna lose a bit of weight, mate.” He got back onto the gate, grinning.
I dug him in the ribs. “Leave it, Andy.” Andy’s trouble is, he never knows when to stop.
The cowboy straddled over to us. Andy looked at the gun pointing at him.
“You don’ scare me. I don’t believe them guns even shoot. You ain’t a real cowboy.”  Andy never knows when to leave a thing alone.
The cowboy took aim and a pigeon keeled over in a flurry of pain. I slid down and sidled off. Then I ran like fury.
I should’ve gone for help. I could’ve run to the corner shop. I ran home.
The sound of that next shot all mixed up with Andy’s screaming – I can’t get it out of my head.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I told the police. Andy is stopped now, for good.
“I couldn’t have saved him.”
I wish I could believe it. It wasn’t my fault – was it?