He could tell that even if the distance between him and his caller were eliminated his visitor would still be shorter than him — it helped that his truck was beside his caller for perspective — and by no small measure; additionally, the man didn’t look like the sort who got up and about often.
His waistline wasn’t necessarily ample, but it certainly was not inclined to be constrained by a belt, and thus a reasonable amount of flesh sat overtop of the black leather strap, with a distortion in the line to accommodate the large, shiny, chrome, oval buckle that was well over fifteen centimetres wide, and up to two thirds that distance high, which held the belt shut and was adorned with fine filigree around a pale brass letter B.
The jeans on the man’s legs were brand new and looked like their wearer might’ve been better off going for the next waist size up; the boots on his feet had snakeskin on them and were shaped with those horrible squared off toes whose popularity was beyond him, because they simply weren’t practical.
Completing the outfit was a snap-front, collared and cuffed shirt not unlike his own — well, aside from the obvious sizing difference, and the differing colour and material pattern choices — which was adorned with thick, heavy embroidery, as well as some images that had been silkscreened onto the material, conveying much more of a rockstar image to the article.
A typical stiff, ivory hat formed out of braids of fine straw sewn into a coil and shaped before being painted and otherwise stiffened was perched atop the man’s blond hair and made him look like someone from politics or the corporate world who had come out west and wanted to ‘fit in’, but didn’t really belong.
“Good afternoon,” the man said jovially. “I was wondering if I could speak to James Williams, the owner of this ranch.”
Ire pricked at him, he knew who James Williams was better than this man ever would.
“I’ll go look for him,” he replied, somewhat grateful for the momentary out it gave him.
Striding into the barn, he hung the bridle and halter up in their places and took off his own hat, which was actually an Australian-style hat made of a black canvas that was oiled for water-repelling purposes, thus it looked brown except on the inside and underside of the brim, which had no need to be oiled.
Looking in the mirror inside the little closet of a washroom for extreme emergency situations, James ran his hand through the thick, dark brown hair on his head that was starting to show some waves, which meant it was about time for a trim.
He didn’t want to go back out there and talk to his caller, but since he was, in fact, the James Williams, owner of the ranch, whom his caller had enquired after — oblivious to whom he’d been posing his enquiry — he had to.
“Ready or not,” he told his reflection. “It’s PR time.”
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