The Drugstore Cowboy

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There were more drugstores in that certain town than one would care to count, but one and one only that has to do with this story. It had two huge crystal urns in the window tilled with colored water, one magenta and the other green, both backed by nickel reflectors that made them flash gloriously. Inside they sold novels, electric waffle-irons, chocolate sundaes, glass beads, face powders, tooth powders, headache powders and roach powders.

Out in front of the store they had an upright chiclet machine with an oval mirror, and not far away there was always a certain young man. Sometimes he was with two or three of his friends. As a rule, though, he was all by himself. He was always standing there; never seemed to have any other place to go. Even when it rained he was there with his coat collar turned up around his neck and his back against the brightly lighted window. He seemed to have been burn with a cigaret between his lips. It was just as much a part of his face as anything could be. There were brief intervals, matters of seconds only, when one had burned down dangerously close to the gums, that he would take it out and put a fresh one in.

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