Lobey

Lobey Dosser stares intae his pint. ‘Jeez,’ he cries. ‘ I must be getting auld.’

He sips anither moufay. Sips. ‘Aye.’ he thinks, ‘here’s me. Nae mair sluggin. Sweetheart stoot instead ae McEwans. Whisky jist a memory…’

Ootside in the driech, Elfie is standing, patient. Her twa legs havnae let her doon. Aye bit she’s a horse. Noo-adays, there’s nae need tae even tie her tae a post. She’s a bit o Partick heritage. Still waitin, still hingin on. Meanwhile, Lobey’s inside the Rock there, lost the wull tae live. ‘Jeez-o,’ she thinks, as if horses hid opinions.

A figure brushes past. Heidin on in. At the door, which disnae swing on its hinges ony mair, he shaks the draps aff his lang duster. At’s nae a coat tae wear doon Hyndland Road, is it? El Fideldo has nae opinion aboot that either. The weet spatters on the doormat an glisters in the cauld barroom licht.

Ower by the fan heater, in below the big-screen boax, that’s rattlin oot some MTV shite, Lobey Dosser’s still starin oot his pint. He’s nae winnin neither.

Rank Bajin gaes ower. Their days o’ feudin’s lang past. Rank’s heard tell his rival’s nae up tae the mark these days. Wid ye credit it, leaving his twa-legged horse outside on a nicht like 'is. He widna hae deen that even ten year ago.

‘Ho, Lobey,’ pipes Bajin, ‘Whit’s worse wi you?’. Plenty, he kens fine.

Lobey says zilch. The big zero, Nith.

‘Whit’s eatin you?’ says Bajin, ‘Toffay Teeth and Rubber Lugs wis askin for ye.’

Lobey looks up, his face white an' his beard mair like the airse o a bull he’d tried tae swally an nae managed. ‘Aye,’ he says.

‘Whit’s the deal?’ Has thon Texan Hart O’Gold been gien ye a hard time again?’

Bajin pulls up a stool and sits. Lobey, lookin like he’s near tae greetin, tak’s a scoof o stoot and pits doon his gless. ‘It’s nae that,’ he peanges, ‘Fairy Nuff’s jist telt me: Bud Neil’s deid.’

‘Oh my Goad!’ say’s Bajin, drawin oot the words, like a proper American. ‘Oh. My. Goad.’ He leans in, confidential-like, and gies it tae Lobey straight. ‘Bud’s been deid mair that forty years. Ye’re a bit late for being doon in the mooth aboot that.’

‘How come I never kent?’

‘I thocht ye did.’

‘Well, I never.’

‘Yer memory’s nae what it wis.’

‘Ye mean I forgot? How could I forget a thing like that?’

‘Ye’re getting auld, man.’

‘Is that it? Maybe I should be in an institution.’

Bajin laughs, ‘Lobey, man, you are an institution.’

Lobey Dosser stares back at him. He’s no got a clue. No a scooby.

Across the crowded bar comes Fairy Nuff, lookin for a the warld like she’s come doon afa Christmas Tree still werrin her crampons. She tak’s in Bajin wi a keek an then back at Lobey, still dour in his beer.

‘Whit’s occurrin’, Bajin, Lobey,?
If he wisna Sherrif I’d get a boaby.
He looks richt scunnered, an’ he’s nae even blootert,
If I didna ken better I’d say he wis oot o’t.’

Bajin says tae Fairy: ‘He didna ken that Bud wis deid. He still thinks Calton Creek’s the same as it wis. I’ll bet he’s never heard they pit a statue up for him and Elfie on Woodlands Road…’

For a crook, Bajin’s a sorry sicht. For a no-good varmint and dry gulchin, gun-totin, bad hat, he’s past his best. Fairy Nuff leans ower an strokes Lobey’s beard.

‘He never heard that Bud wis deid.
Poor Lobey’s jist went saft in the heid.’

Lobey moans, ‘I’m jist an auld timer. Wha’ll draw cartoons o me noo?’ he greets.

Bajin says tae Fairy, ‘He’s got auld timer’s disease, is that it?’

Fairy sings a country song, something tae the tune o Green Grow The Rashes: ‘The sweetest 'oor that ere I spent, were spent wi Lobey Dosser-O…’

Leavin by the back door so they’ll no huv tae spik tae El Fideldo, Bajin says tae Fairy, ‘Them days is gone, by the way. I’ve ma career tae think o noo. You yersel as like. Calton Creek’s bone dry. America was never here in the streets o Glesca…’

‘In Bud’s heid, maybe,’ pit in Fairy.

‘Aye, whaur’s Whisk E Glorr… or Adoda, but…?

‘Gone, but no forgotten.’

‘Scotland broke aff fae America five hunner million year ago, an still Lobey carries the torch for the Wild West…’

‘The Wild West End…’

‘Aw that’s left this side o’ the Iapetus Ocean…’

Awa tae the West, ower the muckle cranes o Govan, whaur it’s a flyovers an hurlin motors, the sun gaes doon. Nae sign o Ridd Squerr, nae Missionaries, nae Wifies. Even the Injuns is gone.

Doon Woodlands Road, Lobey, cast in bronze, is ridin El Fideldo wi Rank Bajin in cuffs at his back. There’s a traffic cone on his heid. Again. The things that pass for Stetsons these days are hard tae grasp.

© BH 2011

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I remember the old West. I think. When I grew up, Scotland was a land of cowboys. Every close had a child in buckskin high-tailin' it intae the sunset. Peechaw! Peechaw! Those were our six-guns. We fell from an imaginary horse, clutching our wounds. 'Tell Agnes…' Then it rained. Then teatime.

You can find out more about Lobey Dosser and Bud Neil here.