The sign on the side of the building says “Bronco Billys,” Cooper calls it the hotel. The town of Sisters is small but it was once even smaller. Locals remember when the town consisted of several buildings lining a small gravel road, the center of town marked by the old hotel.
The once old hotel now converted into the most popular restaurant and bar in town, looks no different than it did in the days of an unpaved main street save for a new coat of paint and a few other maintenance necessities.
The dusty saloon smells of old leather, the lighting is yellow and dim. Even the door to the bar is nothing but a swinging piece of wood, hanging from the frame by two hinges in desperate need of a good oiling. They squeaked as Cooper pushed the door open and walked into the bar.
Although his head was nowhere near the ceiling he hunched over slightly when stepping through the doorway. At six foot five inches tall, Cooper is a tall man. His white hair, slow step and slightly labored breathing show his age, but once his gaze caught me at my high seated table the corners of his mouth turned and his eyes gleamed. I was reminded he is a young man at heart.
Cooper made his way to the chair across from mine, the bartender was already walking over with the old mans drink of choice, a cold Bud Light. I stood, reaching out with my right hand, his gripped mine for a firm enough handshake to take you off guard if you weren’t prepared.
I waited for him to talk, he would have a lot to say. Cooper likes to share stories, every one of his words demand attention. Like most born and raised in a small town he uses very few of them, but he can say more with 10 words than most can with 100. Before his empty glass could clang on the hardwood table top, the bartender had already sat down another.
It was getting late, Coopers wife gets uneasy coming into town after dark
to give him a ride home. He knew I’d be leaving town the next day, and knew that I also had a weakness for cold barley beverages. He asked me what time I would be by Sunday, I told him 2 o’clock. He reminded me that the big Nascar race would be on, I knew I’d find him sitting in his recliner, the front door barely open.
The swinging bar door squeaked again as Cooper pushed through it, his head no closer to the ceiling than his first time through. It was barely above freezing outside, grumbling out loud Cooper made sure I was aware of that fact, his breath visible in the dry, cold high desert air. Before he got in his wife’s car, he reached for my hand again.
Cooper was a Chevy guy, his home built 1950’s dragster still sat in his garage collecting dust. My Ford came to a stop beside his Chevy pickup just before 2 p.m. From the driveway I could see the front door hanging open by just a few inches. I pulled open the screen and pushed through the open door into the house, it looked like C. Edwards was leading with 76 laps to go, the T.V. was easily audible over Coopers loud snoring.
I left the 6-pack on the welcome mat before walking back to my truck, I knew Cooper would give me a hard time for being late next weekend.
-Max Jacobsen
At A Glance:
Ron Cooper
Sisters, Oregon
Born August, 19th 1941
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