One Of Those Days

"No matter how bad things get, you got to go on living, even if it kills you." - Sholom Aleichem

He should have know what sort of day it was when he woke up, rolled over, and fell out of the cot.

In fact, if he'd had any sense at all, he would have crawled back into bed, pulled the blanket over his head, and slept the rest of the day away.

But as his Uncle - he wasn't sure which uncle but he certainly remembered the quote - was fond of saying, there was no sense in letting a bad day just sit there when you could go and make it worse.

It took Agarn an hour to find his pants - surely this morning was trying to tell him something - an hour in which he considered riding to town without his pants...and then considered spending an evening as a guest of the local jail.

Breakfast was cold..what little was left of it, and he ate it in the midst of nightmarish daydreams about indigestion and food poisoning.

The last horse left in the corral, for all the other men had beaten him to town, was a fat, lazy creature who gave him an uncaring glance before returning to munching on his hay. Agarn saddled him with some difficulty, and after a handful of attempts - each ending with him flat on his back in the corral - he managed to mount the horse and nudge it into a slow walk toward town.

It was a hot day, hotter than the firecrackers children set of on the fourth of July, and only a few brave folks had ventured out into it. His eyes caught on a girl in blue calico and he dismounted - a bit more gracefully than he'd gotten on - and hurried toward her.

A wagon cut in front of him and he halted, able to watch around the driver but helpless to cross the street as another soldier approached her, extended an arm and started off with her down the street.

He smacked his hat against his leg in frustration, nearly choking on the dust.

The final straw came a few minutes later, when he walked into the saloon, ordered a beer...and discovered a fly in it.

The beer arrived warm - a bad sign to be sure, if he'd been paying attention, and even more watered down than usual.

He had the mug halfway to his mouth before he noticed the fly - swimming for all it was worth - and looking even more miserable than he felt.

He fished the unfortunate fly out and deposited it on the table. It staggered drunkenly for a few steps - no telling how much of the inebriating liquid the insect had swallowed - before righting itself, shaking it's wings indignantly, and flying off with a stern "Bzzzzz".

Agarn studied the glass for a long moment, considering the day, the fly, the beer. And then with a careless shrug, he tipped it back and drank the glass dry.

It was just one of those days.