Kid Kenny at The Wedding

I woke up to the stink of week-old opium. "How long I been here?" I asked Ming, the proprietor’s daughter.

"Six week," she said. Ming was the kind who could keep a body afloat for weeks on the yam-yam, lovin' him up and pickin' his pocket all along. I respect that in a woman.

"Six week! Ho-lee," I chuckled to myself. The last time I spent more’n a month in an opium den, I rode outta there wondrin' what happened to my horse's head. Turned out I was ridin' backwards.

"What day is, it anyway, Mingaling?"

"Ten of May." She'd taken to weavin' me a shirt of the finest silks.

"TEN OF MAY!?! Hell's bells, I'll be late for the weddin'! Step out the way, woman, I'm Chicagie-bound!"

I ran straight outta there and hopped on my horse. Then I jumped off, ran back inside and put my duds on.

It's a long, hard road from the coast to Chicagie. I knew right away my horse wouldn't make it in time, so I traded him for a new suit and hopped on the first train headin' east. I managed to stow away between two corpses. I didn’t smell too much worse’n they did, and the three of us made the trip in record time.

When I rolled off the train in Chicagie, I bumped right into Slim Pickens, who good-news'd me with the news that we wasn't late for the rehearsal. I's relieved. If'n there's one thing the Kid don't like, it's bein' hassled, and if'n there's two things the Kid don't like, it's bein' rushed. I had a mind to think I's gonna be a little bit a both this weekend, but I's there for a couple a good ol' pals, and when the kid kares, the kid don’t kill.

I filled up my bathtub at the inn and cooled my heals for a bit, afore I put on my new black suit and the shirt Ming'd woven fer me. I rolled over to the rehearsal, where we all had to make pretend like everybody's gettin' hitched. I’s surprised to see I’s a bit over-dressed for the occasion, me tradin’ my horse for European finery ‘n all and the other’s wearin’ dungarees and their Wednesday hat and so on. The preacher spoke us some real kind words from The Book, and we had to practice walkin’ in and walkin’ out. Deep down, I’s asceer’d I wasn’t gonna remember just what to do come hitchin’ time, on account a me bein’ a neophyte and all. But afterwards we went to a restaurant an’ grubbed up on steaks and drank some real nice mojitos.


By and by the whole gang showed up: there’s Ted and Slim Pickens, along with Bob E. Lee, a friend, and a real tricky type who’d taken to livin’ abroad and trying to forge peace between A-rabs and Zoroastrians or some such, I lost track. Then there’s Hard Luck Tuck, who’d been livin’ in Arizonie and passin’ as a schoolteacher. He’s the type who a body can talk to every couple a years and not miss a beat. When I seen him, I started in on the last time we’s together:

“’Member the last time we’s together? When we was all lit up on firewater and Zima, and we had a stare-down with them two real big comanches in the 7-11 parking lot? And you was so sceer’d, you was hidin’ under that Miata? And I diffused the sitchation with my Smith ‘n Wesson?”

Tuck laughed a lot about that one. “Yer right agin, Kid Kenny! Yer right agin.”


As the night grew late and the beers grew long and our eyes grew dim, the word went out to join the party at the titty bar. Now, I know from a titty bar or two, and this was a real good one: titties, of course, and good ol’ fashioned conversation to boot. It was here I saw some of the folks from Boston, they bein’ a couple gals named Ali and Mary and one formidable cuss named Dave Mateo. Now Dave’s the fightinest sumbitch you ever did see, and we’d gone toe to toe now and again. There’s love there, though.

“I like ya a lot, Kid Kenny. I’m real glad I never had to kill ya,” he said, his eyes fillin’ with tears.

“Likewise, pardner,” I replied. “Likewise.”


Afore long the titties and drinks got right to my head, what with Bob E. Lee passin’ out shots of whiskey that could castrate a mustang. I wandered over to my brother’s place in the company of Ol’ Hogan, who sang me a tale so pow’ful, I lack the elocutory skill to reproduce it here.

The next day’s the weddin’, and I managed to git there right on time, with the church bells tollin’ to high heaven. When I walked in, I seen Ellen, lookin' real purty in her white dress, and for a second, I's real wishin' I had a bride a my own to feed the hogs and suture my wounds. It went off without a hitch, so to speak. We all paraded down the aisle, and Tim ‘n his bride’s union was sanctioned by the good Lord and what not.

We mosied on to the reception soon enough, and all the while there’s this photography type a-hasslin’ us. The girls was getting’ a bit chilly in their low cut dresses, so I tried to set him straight:

“Now listen, Bruce, or whatever yer name is, I’ve set for a few daguerreotypes in my day and—“

“—Okay gonna stop you right there?” he said, strangely. “Just be a good little cowboy and pose for the pictures and shit won’t go down.”

I wasted no time. I pulled out my six shooters in a flash and yelled, “Aintcha heard? Shit always goes down when Kid Kenny’s in town! ”

Well, Ellen’s pa’d seen what’s about to transpire and wanted no part of it. “Now Kid Kenny, you keep them six shooters in check. I been keepin’ my left eye on ya since yesterday noon. With yer guns and spurs in church. And yer silk shirt, which—is that hand woven?”

“It is!” I yelled back, gettin’ heated.

“Well, it’s awful nice, but—JUST DON’T GO DEFILIN’ OUR NUPSHULS!”


He sure did tell me. I shook his hand and made a tenuous peace with the picture man, Maxwell or whatever his name was.

As the evening progressed, we squared danced ‘til we’s bow-legged and drank ‘til we couldn’t dosey-doe no more. A group of us found ourselves in the happy couple’s hotel room round about dawn. I’s puttin’ my Stetson down over my eyes and about to drift into sleep territory when I got a tap on the shoulder. It was the groom.

“Hey Kid,” he said, real kindly. “Glad yer here’n all, but, you mind gettin’ yer boots off our marital bed?”

I took that as a good sign to ramble. I said happy trails to the happy couple and rolled my bones back to the inn.

Next morning I high-tailed it north to my Mama ‘n Pappy’s place. We all reminisced real good for a while, with Mama cookin’ up steaks the size of steers and my brother Jeff wowin’ us with his fancy political talk. I rolled one, lit it off the bar-b-que...and all was right under the Midwestern sun.