"That's me. Sal. 'Sal-the-saloon-gal.' Used to be Sally Menton. Now, just 'Sal.'
It's 11PM, and here I sit in a smoke-filled saloon, full of sweat-stained, stinky cowhands wearing clothes so dirty that they could stand up by themselves.
I'm used to the noise by now. Hardly even notice it. Been working as a saloon gal since I was seventeen, and now, well, I seen almost two-and-a-half times that, and most of it in places like this.
Sitting here, nursing a warm beer, hands wrapped around the mug, wanting to feel something to forget the calloused, snaggly-nailed hands of the old trail hand next to me. He picked me out, knowing the younger ones would spurn him, just as the younger cowboys do me. Glancing over at the two at the bar, loudly laughing, each with an arm around young Gloria, I see blue-eyed boys that could have been my sons.
The trail hand's stale, whiskey breath is warm in my ear, and his words are like the buzz of a mosquito. I go through the motions of smiling and nodding my head, and occasionally pat his arm on the table. Gotta earn my pay. The barkeeps tally how many drinks us gals get the customers to buy. I may not be young and fresh, but I still bring in the most money 'cause I know what these lonely older men want-other than THAT. The young gals don't know how to listen, or even pretend to.
The handsome Marshal has just come in after pausing and looking over the tops of the bat wing doors.. I know why he does that, and each time I see those cool eyes light up with warmth, I smile in approval.
I don't even have to turn my head to know that Kitty is at the end of the bar, watching him with that same blue-eyed glow of welcome. She's the 'boss' here, but the best boss and woman I've ever known. I can't even begrudge her that glorious beauty. That'd be like hating an angel for its wings.
I know what I look like. I remember when I turned heads. The men would fight over me and the women would shoot me green-eyed, venomous looks. Not in Kitty's class, maybe, but I was definitely a 'looker!' My once lush, black hair is still dark, although helped along, and my dark brown eyes, now faded and framed by 'laugh lines,' are still my best feature. Sitting here with my corset biting into my flesh and my dress snugger than comfortable across my hips, I look over at my employer's lovely figure with admiration. I have never known a more beautiful young woman to be so modest about her attributes. She seems to just accept her appearance as a gift, and almost as something apart from who she is.
It's her quiet kindnesses that make me so fond of her. I had been working in the miserable Bulls Head, and tiring of low pay, insults, and expected indignities, one day I had walked into the Long Branch and asked for a job. Wearing my only decent dress, I had stood stiffly braced as she silently appraised me. With a soft smile, she had beckoned me to sit down at her table. "Sally, are you sure?" was all she had said. Sitting up straighter, I had smiled back. "Miss Russell, look around. The girls are naturally occupied with the younger men in here, but you have a need for someone like me. Like those two older men sitting over there, staring at each other and nursing one drink for hours. I guarantee you that I can change that!" I could see the approval in her sharp eyes. "All right, Sally. You can start tonight. And here's an advance on your salary," she had said, taking money from her small reticule. "You can have room number six if you need a place to stay." Before I could thank her or protest, Miss Russell had gracefully gotten up and headed for her office. As she reached the door by the end of the bar, she had paused and looked back. "And call me Kitty." I had put my small satchel containing everything I owned behind my back with one hand, and saw her glance flicker towards it.
How does a woman, any woman, become a 'saloon woman,' you may ask? As I have already mentioned, I started at age seventeen after running away from my abusive stepfather that my mother refused to believe anything bad about. And as I've also already said, I was a 'looker' at that age, and had no problem getting hired. I quickly learned the ropes, and how to encourage business, talk and tease, and still manage to slip away from the grasping hands in a good-natured way. After a year, I was the highest earner, and on my contented way to a satisfying 'career,' or so I thought. Then Bill walked in. My own version of Kitty's Marshal. A tall, well-built, blue-eyed young Texas Ranger with a quiet intensity. When our eyes first met, we both knew. From then on, he was mine and I was his, despite the grumblings from the many cowhands, gamblers, and townsmen who frequented the saloon. My boss couldn't say anything since I still brought in more money than the other girls combined when Bill was out of town, as he frequently was. My Bill was killed by a back-shooting outlaw he was trailing, the day before we were to be married, and I was to leave the saloons behind forever. Bill. My heart was buried with him, leaving this hard husk inside my chest, containing and protecting any remaining gossamer softness. My Bill. Only Bill.
Now, as I do most nights, I sit here while a middle-aged, dirt-encrusted man drones on and on in my ear like the drone of an annoying bee. I nod and smile, nod and smile, but am always aware of when Kitty glances at the big clock on the front wall, and heads up the stairs to her room. Her excited anticipation is like a pulsating aura around her as she thinks about her Marshal joining her soon. She tries to nonchalantly ascend the stairs, but her small feet barely touch the steps.
I try not to think too often about their happy reunion, and how I imagine the lovely red-haired woman being twirled around in his strong arms as they both laugh. Yes, I have these fantasies in my head, but they are so intertwined with memories of my Bill that there is no longer any chance of separation.
My eyes have lingered too long in the direction of that upstairs room, and the trail hand beside me mutters grumpily for me to 'pay attention, woman!' I force a smile and a cheery laugh and stroke his whiskery old face. Grinning at my touch, the man looks around and preens. Everyone knows that I only drink beer, and can make one last for hours, so he grandly offers to buy me 'a fresh one.' I nod my thanks and when he saunters towards the bar, my thoughts and eyes drift up the stairs and down the hall again to that room.
Scratching his armpit, my customer returns, sloshes the beer mug down in front of me, and scrapes his chair closer as he sits down with his whiskey. He has bought me a beer so now feels a right to lean near and start up the buzzing words again, this time with a sweaty paw on my forearm on the table. Nodding my head periodically, my hands tightly clasp the cool beer mug, and my eyes dwell on the silent foam."
End.