Sapphire eyes blazed from under the cowboy hat as he sauntered past the yellow mop bucket. He removed the felt hat and adjusted the fist-sized belt buckle before he sat in the corner booth. When I approached him, he grabbed a menu and pointed to biscuits and gravy with his sun-aged hand, the good one that still had five fingers. He was no drugstore cowboy.

Though he was a regular, no one at Annette’s Café knew his name. He never spoke to anyone. When he finished eating, he routinely carried his guest check to the register, paid with a five dollar bill, and left a dollar fifty tip. Annette instructed us not to disturb the lone cowboy.

Something like the feeling a child gets when warned not to touch the sugar caddy rushed over me that day. When the lone cowboy lay down his guest check at the register, I pulled ones from my black tip apron and paid his bill. He didn’t smile or say anything, but he left a twenty dollar tip. I broke the routine of the untouchable cowboy. To me, this seemed a small victory.