Photo Credit: © Can Stock Photo Inc. / wrangler
Nate was tired, tired in a way only a certain segment of people understood, people like farmers, heavy laborers, and private construction workers who can’t afford the best equipment. His hands ached from gripping the ice-cold tools of his trade all winter. He’d worn leather gloves the first few years, but his mitts were now so calloused and thick he couldn’t remember the last time he bothered to “protect” his skin; it was more like animal hide anymore.
The stove in the little shop roared away, keeping the steel red-hot, waiting to be forged into custom horseshoes. Sure, the blaze threw an intense heat into the tin building, but the winter winds still blew through every unplugged seam of the structure. How welcome those little breezes would be later when the sweaty mare that was chained inside with him would lean on his back as he stood beneath her and lifted one leg to measure for a new set of shoes. It was back-breaking, smelly, hot work, but that had long since stopped bothering Nate.
The Same Routine
Everything he did, every task he performed was simply a means to a few more dollars so he could pay the rent and afford the Ramen noodle and macaroni-and-cheese diet that sustained him. And, of course, the whiskey and Cokes that soothed his soul most evenings. The residence motel he lived in fortunately had a small bar at one end. At capacity, maybe 30 people could be packed in there, but the kitchen served a decent burger, and Ed the bartender had a generous pour. Typically, the same 15 “regulars” wandered in after dark and contemplated life, sharing their stories and misfortunes. The common thread always seemed to be one particular tragedy that led to their demise. Something unplanned had gone terribly wrong. If not for that, then life would have been a breeze. It’s the standard lament of those who simply stop trying.