“Ow!” I cry out to no one.

I look down at the offending door handle. Printed in red letters on a white background is the word “pull.” Yes I’m off to an ambitious start. I try again, this time pulling the door handle carefully and slipping into the store before the entrance changes its mind. Once inside my senses are assailed with cow. I can smell hide, see leather lining every shelf, rack, and hanger in the showroom, and I can hear the lonesome cowboy song crackling out of the ceiling speakers.

“…and there’s a hole in my wranglers my woman won’t patch cuz she ain’t here no more. Left me cuz I hit her and she done took my horse so now alls I got is my tractor and I’ve gone lost the key… "

I step forward towards a rack in the near corner. A pink ten-gallon hat is bobbing behind it. As I close the distance, the ten-gallon hat ducks right and appears in front of me, topping a woman who I can only describe as a defrocked rodeo clown. She is about five feet tall in pink cowboy boots with a pair of faded blue jeans, a pink paisley blouse, and a white kerchief around her neck. Every article of clothing she’s wearing appears to have been set upon by a mental patient wielding a Bedazzler. Her hair sticking from her hat is comparable with that of little orphan Annie: Red, curly, and out of control. She’s smiling the biggest toothiest smile I’ve ever seen, and it splits her face down the middle like an overgrown seam. For several moments this glittering grinning woman silently stares me down with her beady eyes, then she screeches loudly in a Los Angeles born southern accent.

“Hey baby doll welcome to Willy’s Western Wear! What can I do you for?”

I look down at her chest, right of her drooping cleavage, and can just barely make out a nametag hiding behind glistening gems. “Doris, Day-Manager.”

“Um…well I was looking for a pair of chaps.” I finally respond

“What kinda chaps honey bun? Daddy bought you a new pony?”