He studies himself carefully in the small bedroom mirror. The nose is ample, but not too big, no Semitic drop at the end. The lips are not too full, the hair brown and straight. Maybe the eyes. No, the eyes are alright as well.
He puts his hands up to the brim of his hat, presses the curling straw edges upward. Just right. It almost never rains in the desert so he had to use hot water to make the front of the hat droop. Now it sags, dips down, shading his eyes from the sun. It looks battered, hard days on the range trailing the dusty cattle herds. The bootcut Levis are sharp and clean, worn a slightly lighter shade of blue, but not too faded. That's for beach bums. Malibu guys. He sits down on the bed and pulls on the rough-out Tony Lamas. Three whole weeks boxing groceries at the Safeway for these. The toes are already getting shiny, losing that too-new look, the nap of the leather flattened forever. The white shirt sets off his tan, the red packet of Marlboros showing through the top pocket. He stands up and fastens the silver buckle of the leather belt. He squares his shoulders, hooks his thumbs in the top of the Levis, leans back on one leg. Nonchalant. Hard. Beautiful. He's ready.
‘Get him, a regular cowboy. Oye! If your grandfather could only see you. This is what he came to America for?! This?! So his grandson should be a cossack?’ [for full story click here]