I want to tell you a story. The story of why I wrote this story.

I was once in the Sci-fi section of a Barnes and Noble when I realized a woman was talking to me.

“Oh, you like this kind of book?” she had said. “Not many people your age do, that's for sure.”

I looked at her in a confused manner before realizing that on the row behind me, Western books were displayed.

“So, how'd you get into reading westerns?” she asked. I didn't want to tell her the truth and give her a negative view of today's youth, but at the same time I didn't want to get into a conversation about western novels. So, after a brief internal debate, I ended up saying “Yes.”

“Oh... that's nice...” she replied, slowly turning back to the books on display.

And that is why I'm writing this story.

This story is not trying to hurt the feelings of anyone representing the West. I live in the area known as the 'West,' though it is by no means the westernmost part of the United States and it is quite odd that most people still use the term for the central area of America that was used centuries ago. In any case, I am not aiming to offend people from the 'west'. In fact, this story means no offense to anyone representing Western Civilization.

And yes, I am aware that ghost towns are usually not synonymous with ranches or cowboys.

He was a strong man, a wise man, and most importantly, an honest man. He was a gentleman's gentleman, the kind of person everyone loved to be around. Unfortunately, he lived alone in a ghost town, so no one ever had the chance to love being around him. Nevertheless, he was the nicest cowboy you'll ever meet. He had a lovely wife (who was imaginary) whom he had 'rescued' from a raging tribe of Indians twenty years earlier, and two lovely daughters (both imaginary) who were the talk of the town. He owned a horse named Betsy Bo Peep (imaginary) that he brushed and rode every day. In his own mind, his life was that of the proverbial bourgeois; he had anything he could ever need.

You may be wondering how he could live all alone in a ghost town and still be happy. The answer to this, as you may have guessed by his imaginary family, is that he was schizophrenic. In fact, even the ghost town in which he lived was a figment of his imagination; he really lived in a dumpster in the alley behind a nightclub. This fact did not deter him a bit from his dream of one day owning his own ranch, though.

Every day as he drove the cattle, he would write poetry for his wife and dream about the future his daughters had in the new world. Every week as he visited the ranch house to receive his paycheck he imagined how life would be for his family if he could be the one paying the cowboys. Each year as he neutered and branded the young calfs, he thought of what his parents had once said: “Most people think it's unappetizin', but tumbleweeds do make for a good meal if cooked with just the right amount of salt.” He always stopped himself, wondering how that was somehow germane to the subject of neutering and branding cows, but he remembered the piece of advice every year just the same.

One Christmas' Eve, however, all of that changed...

It was a chilly winter's night, and his family was gathered around the fireplace. As they laughed and drank warm eggnog, they began to sing Christmas carols. It was a heartwarming picture, even though the kids knew they wouldn't be getting any presents the next morning- Daddy's ranch was the first priority.

At just that moment, a couple was exiting the nightclub via the back entrance; they didn't want any of their friends to see them and start the rumors flying.

“Do you hear singing?” asked the man as he closed the door behind them.

“I hear something... you call that singing?” his date asked incredulously.

“Yeah, and it sounds like 'Silent Night'...” he replied, looking around.

“Isn't that from Eminem's new CD?”

“No, it's...” he started to answer, but his eyes alighted on the dumpster. He put his finger to his lips and pointed.

“It's coming from in there,” he whispered.

All of the sudden, the singing stopped. They held their breaths.

“Who's there?” a voice from within the dumpster demanded.

They remained silent, hoping to be able to sneak away unheard.

“Don't be shy,” the voice coaxed. “Come on in. It's Christmas, and my family would be glad to have you.”

“He's got others in there?” the woman whispered, shocked. “This is ridiculous. I'm going to see for myself.” She crept to the dumpster and peered in. The man followed.

“Oh, there's two of you, eh?” the voice stated. “A regular Mary and Joseph, showing up on Christmas Eve like this. Well, there's room in this inn.”

“Do you see anything in there?” the man asked.

“No. This has to be a joke.”

“Come inside, friends. I don't want to leave you standing out there on the porch,” the voice insisted. “Besides, the kids want to see you.”

“Geez, he has children in there,” the woman whispered, visibly shaken.

“This is whacked up,” the man replied. “Let's get outta here.”

“I can't just let this happen. I'm going in there to see for myself.”

“I'll go ahead and dial 911,” he replied as she clambered over the side..

“Finally,” he heard the voice say. “I thought you two had left. Where's your man?”

“Oh, he's making a phone call...”

“Phone? What's that?”

“Oh, crap!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Ray, there's no one else in here! Ray? Ray?! Oh, you piece of-”

“Hey, little missy!” the voice interrupted. “There will be none of that filth in this house! There are children in here!”

She then frantically clambered out of the dumpster, her half-crazed mind then remembering to run.

“I'm sorry, miss, I didn't mean to upset you,” the voice called after her.

Later that night, when her mind was settled a bit, she called the police. A squad car went out to investigate, and found the man seated in the dumpster, singing 'Oh, Christmas Tree.”

He was subsequently arrested on the charge of “Being Really Freaky in Public” and spent the rest of his life in a mental institution.

He never got his ranch. His daughters didn't fulfill his dreams for their futures in the new world. And his wife never read his poetry. However, he did get the chance to try out a tumbleweed salad one day, even though an inmate's hand isn't technically a tumbleweed. It did taste just as good as his parents had said, though, and that's when he realized that the world really was a great place in which to be.