He was pleased and surprised when she suggested they sit side-by-side so they could watch the boats on the
Seine
and see the top spires of Notre Dame Cathedral. He'd never been this close to her before. They ordered lunch and coffee; nothing was said until the coffee was served.
She adjusted her sunglasses and, speaking more to the river than to him, said, "Why do you think the world is enamored of cowboys, Mr. Kindler?"
Jack was surprised. "What do you mean?"
"The American cowboy is admired and emulated in virtually all modern cultures. Why do you think that is?"
"No time clocks?" he asked rhetorically, biding his time. "I don't know, it might be because the simplicity of being a cowboy is not much use in this world anymore. I think it might be because cowboy values have been devalued by today's society. Or made way more complex than they need to be."
"What values?"
"Trust in the individual to get the job done." He tasted the coffee, thinking. "You know, in the old days, when a cowhand was hired to do a job, there was a trust the job would get done. On long cattle drives from
Texas
to
Montana
in the 1870s and '80s, for instance. The cowboys understood the job and didn't have to wait for some middle-level manager to tell them what to do. It was expected he would figure it out and do it."
He turned to her. "Can you imagine an 1870s cowboy, riding up to the trail boss and saying, 'Excuse me, boss, may I see a copy of the latest Policy and Procedure Manual for this assignment? I left my briefcase in the bunkhouse.'"
"So you were trusted and your reputation was based on getting the job done?"
"I think that's it," he said. "Most workers, probably in any field, would like to be trusted to simply get the job done without a pea-brained bean counter nitpicking his efforts. 'Go ride fence on the north side of the spread,' was enough information for any good ranchhand to see what needed to be done and then do it. No 'clocking in,' no arbitrary deadlines, no management committee on the third floor of the Hathaway Building in
Cheyenne
micromanaging you. And if it took longer than eight hours to do the job, you kept working until you got done. Didn't get overtime pay for it, either. But you got satisfaction. Better than an 'attaboy' from some boss that can't do the job."
"I think you have answered my question."
"Of course, the other side of it was no union to protect you if you couldn't do it. No arbitration committee to work out 'differences.' You screwed up, and they ran you off. And you knew it."
Tatt sipped her coffee.
"The boss supplied you with the tools and the freedom you needed to get the job done and then got out of the way. You didn't have to kiss his ass so he would look good to his bosses. Besides, cowboys don't kiss anybody's ass. And don't forget, you were working with God's basics: horses and cows and dogs and hand tools, out in the open air..."
"Yes."
"...and dirt and wind and rain and blizzards and heat and sand and blisters and..."
"I see, Mr. Kindler."
"...and jackrabbits and coyotes and grizzlies and rattlesnakes and..." Jack glanced sideways at her, smiling.
She was listening but still facing the river, staring at the water. Jack figured his attempt at humor was being dismissed. So be it, he thought.
He reached for his coffee. "In short, if you want to be a cowboy, you have to recognize what has to be done, shut up and do it. That's all."
The sandwiches were served and Tatt took a bite, thinking. She sipped her coffee and asked, "Do you listen to county-western music?"
"Oh, I did at home in the
Rockies
. No, don't find much western music in
France
, it's mostly country. And I believe there is a difference between county music and western music."
"Really? I thought it was all the same."
"I don't. Country music is about some guy, sitting in a smoky bar, whining about losing his wife or dog or girlfriend or all three. Western music is different."
"How?"
He sat thinking. "Subject matter, I guess. It's not so much about relationships between men and women as it is relationships between men and women with the West. About events like blizzards and cattle drives and roundups and flashfloods and things like tumbleweeds and water and trains."
She glanced at him.
"And saloons and barroom brawls and standing up for the ladies. How men and women survived, got tougher and didn't whine about it. And about rodeo and bucking horses and bulls."
"Interesting. I've listened to the music but never made the distinction. I guess I have a bit to learn about the real West, huh?"
"Lot
of people do. I have a couple tapes of the Sawmill Creek Band, a band from
Wyoming
, I'll lend you. Real
Wyoming
songs, too. Great for dancing. And Chris Ledoux from
Kaycee
,
Wyoming
. Real rancher and won a world championship in rodeo. Writes Wyoming-type songs."
"Dancing?" she asked. "Do you dance?"
"Well, yeah, you know, in the saloon, cowboy dancing. Cowboys gotta know how to dance."
"What's cowboy dancing?"
"Oh, waltzing is cowboy dancing. And swing. First rule of cowboy swing dancing is hang on!"
Talking about cowboys had relaxed Jack. He was comfortable, sitting with this beautiful woman. More comfortable than he thought he would be. But where could it go? he reflected. Makes no difference, 'cause I'll be dead.