Shoot Out

        A nice old western draw. Sounded like the perfect way for two men to settle their differences. That is, after all, the way things are done around here. We each had a pistol, loaded and held around the waist by a thick leather belt. Two hands hovered an inch above the handles of said weapons. Both of us were ready, waiting, wanting. wanting to live, waiting to die, ready to kill. There was only one problem. I am from the north, I’ve never done this before.
         Let me jump backwards a bit. My name is Michael Linenberg, I am a banker from Chicago.  The year is 1870, and even though the Civil War is over, its effects are very much alive in the south. That is why I was so very confused as to why the senior partners of the bank were interested in opening a branch deep in the south. Alabama, the kind of place a civilized man like myself would guffaw at the very mention of. Saying “Alabama!? what the hell would they know about political reform? I doubt any of them could even spell political!” Well, on that cold January morning I learned exactly what they knew of “reform.” They knew that the rest of the world was coming around. Some wanted to be a part of the soon to be modern world. Most however, knew that the bulk of the southern population only wanted to be ignorant hicks for the rest of their lives. That was also my stance, but my voice did not carry enough power to sway the partners' choice. Therefore, I was quickly put on a train to Birmingham, perhaps the only place within the entire state where I had a chance to maintain a sense of intelligence. Though, I doubted that would be the case.
         I arrived at 8:30pm in a small town an hour outside of Birmingham. My  train to the city was not until 10pm. Tired, hungry, and tragically sober, I sought out one of the famous “speakeasies” I had heard so much about. From what I learned on the platform at the station, there was a great place a short walk down 19th street. I beat my heels and was there in no more than ten minutes time. The name above the door was simply “Saloon,” but I was told here one could get a home style meal and the best whisky this side of Tennessee. Upon entering, I found myself immediately thrown into sharp contrast. Myself, in a black pinstripe suit, bowler hat, and finely polished leather shoes; the rest of the clientele in brown shirts, dirty pants, and cowboy boots. Most caked in mud and ‘other’ substances. I did my best to shake off the staring eyes. It was quite obvious that I did not belong here. The tip I had gotten on the platform was, evidently, a joke. Despite my discomfort, there was an empty seat at the bar and my appetite was reaching the point where I feared it would cripple me. I sat myself down and placed my heavy suitcase on the floor behind me. The men to my left and to my right settled in staring at me, making no effort to be candid. Even the barkeep stood frozen. “I say, my good sir, might I have an lager and a menu?” The tension in the room was so thick you could nearly taste it in the air. “Ain’t got a menu, just the dinner plate. No lager ‘nether, ale or whisky.” He spat a thick wad of chewing tobacco on to the floor and fixed his eyes on me. “Well then, one plate and an ale if its no trouble.” I refused to be swayed, however at this point the painful silence in the room should have swayed me. A small glass was place just to my right side. The barkeep took a bottle of whisky from a high shelf and poured a generous measure. I reasoned it was nothing more than a challenge to a stranger. I looked right back at him as I reached for the glass. A hand came from behind just before mine reached it. Snatched the whisky and it was gone. I turned to face the man behind me, but before I was all the way around there was a fist in my face.
         Now, although I am a banker, I am far from a coward. likewise I am far from weak. My response was exactly that. I only wish I could say the same for my aim. I hit the bastard right in his throat. You could actually see the blood boiling behind his eyes. Immediately men on either side were holding me down. “You rat bastard. Take my seat, try and take my drink an’ gonna take a swing at me?!” you an’ me righ’ now ou’ side.” If the tension was thick before it was palatable now. He drew a pistol and glared at me. “We’ll do this’un our way.” Quickly I was being shuttled out the door. Someone said “get the city boy a gun.” by the time I was in the street there a was a gun strapped to my waist, a man standing 20 yards or so opposed me and an entire town's worth of people standing watch.
         So now we are back to the beginning of the tale. My heart pounding so hard in my chest I feared it would burst. However, that probably didn’t matter at all. in a few moments there would likely be a chunk of led ripping through it. Go on and burst I thought. Save me the embarrassment. I knew I had no chance. I had never fired any gun at all before.
         “Draw on three!” someone shouted.
         Damnit. Think. How does this thing work.
         “One!”
         I know I’ve seen it before, the hammer goes back, I-
         “Two!”
         Pull it back with my right thumb, aim, and pull the-
         “Three!”
         There was no time to think. I jumped at the sound of two gun blasts and fell over into the hard dirt. there was something warm on my leg, then the pain came. Searing red hot like someone was cutting away at my leg with a dull knife soaked in lemon and salt. I heard a howling sound but could not make it out over the ringing in my ear. I reached down to my leg, blood was flowing across it and onto the ground. It was still there though. My heart was beating slowly now. I could hear each beat, drawn out like an hour was between each one. I looked up, the crowd was still standing on either side of the road. The man 20 yards down was standing, one arm at his side, one pointed at me. I went for my gun. At first I thought it was his gun pointed, but no that was in the hand at his side. He was pointing a finger at me. My bloody hand found my gun. It was still in its holster. Just above the gaping wound in my leg. The howling became clear now. It was laughter. I had shot myself in the leg.