"Not too many western-dressed people at this western-themed party," I say, looking around the kitchen, "except for you."
The man with the blue eyes giggles. He is wearing a cowboy hat and an Indian blanket shirt. "This is all how I used to dress back home." He says.
"Back home?"
"I grew up on a ranch in northeast Wyoming. Near Devils' Tower."
"Oh yeah? I never made it up there but I meant to. I lived in Colorado for a while myself - Denver."
"Aw, I didn't much like it there. I lived in that place called Aurora, worked there for a summer, stayed with my girlfriends' grandparents mowing lawns. It was right when they were starting to fix up the downtown, you know, the way downtown, by the railroad station, what was it called?"
"You mean Union Station? Larimer Square?"
"Yeah, Larimer Square. I was just out of high school and then I got drafted, but I was lucky. Not a lot of people know this but even in 1971 they were winding down the war."
"Yeah, you were lucky. So where did they put you?"
"Most of my year got shipped to Germany, but I was shipped here."
"To Dayton? You've been here that long?"
"Almost. I've been with my Lover for 27 years - it's that guy over there."
"The guy that made the venison chili? Wow. Cute."
"Yeah, my roommate brought him home, ha ha. He thought he was going to trick, but all my guy wanted was to get high. I took one look and said that's it. And at first he said no. But then later that week he came over and we've been together ever since."
"Huh. That. Is. Something."
The guy is grinning, very pleased.
"So are you going to the movie?"
"No, I saw it last night - loved it. It captured all the reasons I left the place."
"...Oh. Well. Heh heh heh."

---

"This is Hugshyhermit, he's our neighbor--"
"Oh yeah, yeah, I've heard all about you--"
"huh?"
"--Yeah! Your tenant's my nephew." He is eagerly shaking my hand, a shock of white hair and goatee. Santa's skinnier brother.
"No way - and you know these guys? What a small world. I bet Tenant will love that."
"Oh yeah. And his kids..." ("Spoiled" he mouths.)
"He calls them the 'Screaming Mimis' and that's a good choice. I hear them nonstop running back and forth and up and down the stairs." I laugh, "Nonstop." Is there a family resemblance? "Better than the alternative." Maybe the eyes.
"Oh yeah, people screaming and yelling--"
"--That was the last tenants."
"So he tell you about my neice, his sister?"
"Oh yeah, he's mentioned her - He would party with her up in Toledo I guess."
"Uh huh. She's one of us. Or... maybe I should say was..."
"(huh?)"
"She killed herself. It was rough."
"Well, yeah,"
"He took it quite rough."
"When did that happen?"
"Oh, years ago now. She had moved out to the Bay area but she still couldn't deal with It."
"I didn't know. He's mentioned her a couple times -- but not that."
"Yeah, it was sad."
"No. I didn't know."

---

After the movie, we go to a bar. A bar I've never been to before. It is in an old house on a side street in an abandoned industrial neighborhood, like something out of Fight Club. There are paintings of naked cowboys on the walls. Original oil paintings. But maybe they are prints. It's kinda tough to tell after six beers. Mixed with Leatherman posters and rainbow flags.
The man with the french accent is telling me about his divorce.
"So where you from? Kentucky?"
"Oh ho ho, no. ho ho, no. I am Quebecois."
"Oh yeah? What brings you here?"
"I get on to the internet and I ask 'Where is there to go out in Day-ton?' and they say 'here' and so I come -- only one other time -- and I sit over there and then I meet D and J..."
"My neighbors. I see."
"...this is only my second time here. But look, those people over there want to talk to you I think,"
"Ya, I saw them wiggling their fingers at me. If they so hot to meet they can come over here and introduce themselves."
But a moment later, I am grabbed by the elbow, "What are you doing? These guys want to meet you." So long, Frenchie.

"My friend thinks you're cute," says the guy with the mullet and dangling earring.
"Oh yeah, well tell your friend I think he's cute too." His friend is just shorter than me, with a shaved head of red stubble and some kind of uniform, but I can't figure out what. His pants are tucked into black boots almost to his knees, and he has epaulets and wings on his shoulders and a brass name-plate on the pocket of a black shirt.
"Thank you," says the shave-headed friend.
"My friend is the owner of this bar."
"The owner, huh? Cool." I take a swig from the bottle Frenchie had bought me, "Nice place."
"Thanks," says Shaved-head.
He is suddenly interrupted by the bartender, a tall lean guy dressed as a ranch-hand with black hair and a black cowboy hat, who pulls him back with a hand on his shoulder. He begins whispering in his ear.
"Excuse me," shaved-head says, "I won't be long."
That leaves me with Mullet-head, who is looking at me, blinking as if he's startled. "So are you also an owner of the bar?"
Now the rest of my party including my neighbors interrupt. "We're leaving, but you - you can stay."
"I don't know if I want to stay."
"No no, you're talking and all you're doing is talking. If you're not interested you say you're not interested and then you can walk out of here."
"I think I already know I'm not interested," I try to say in a low voice.
Mullet-head's eyes are ping-ponging and his earing is glinting as his head twists around, "Let me go see where my friend is..."
"Cool," I say, calling after him as he is flipping up the movable wooden panel to get behind the bar, "You have a good night."