The angry men's clothing store in my basement and a collapsible horse

I was in a men's clothing store that had a decidedly rough and tumble western feel to it. The kind of place with black metal cutouts of cowboys in silhouette and signs that say "In God we trust, all others pay cash." 

The target customers were the over-50 blue-collar worker set. Those who made their living doing trades like outdoor electrical or diesel repair. Soured by their work ethic, they had permanent frowns and a decidedly unfriendly disposition to anyone who didn't share in the suffering of some kind of difficult profession.

The shirts and pants were all folded and stacked in unfinished wooden cubicle shelving that ran along all the walls, floor to ceiling. There was a big wooden workbench style table for folding clothes which took up substantial real estate in the middle of the room.

As I looked for some pants for myself, I overheard the comments of one of these upset at the world types. He'd sized me up and found me clearly lacking the qualifications to shop at this establishment.

"Oh, Christ. They're letting anybody in here," he growled. 

I knew I had as much right as anybody to be there, but I felt the sting of his remark, so I gave him a wide berth, despite the crowded table situation. 

Without actually changing locations, the place somehow turned out to be my own home. I was standing at the folding table with another, slightly less grumpy customer. We were talking about something or other and trying on western attire. He tried on a duster, and I told him that it suited him. 

"Just like the trenchcoat mafia," I joked. "Now don't go shooting up the place with your sawed off."

He flung open the coat and pretended to pull two long barreled pistols out in a Yosemite Sam rootin' tootin' fashion. 

Next, I noticed a horse approaching from behind the store. My view was from an angle through a gap in a set of  boards that afforded me the only look at the oncoming rider. I told the man at the table that he had best be keeping an eye out for things like this.

"If you ever see something like this, you need to say something right away," I told him, chiding him for his lack of vigilance.

The horse got closer and closer, finally arriving with a crash, as his rider hadn't given him the "whoa" command in time, or at all. I could see the horse's muzzle pressed up against the window pane, an almost embarrassed horse grin on his lips.

I went around to the door to see who the rider was. It was a female cowhand, wearing a duster and an Aussie hat. She had already dismounted, and she and the horse stood at the top of the cement enclosed staircase outside the back door. It was one of those subterranean sideways stairwells, the kind you see in New York basement apartments. 

The horse wasn't going to use the stairway, however. It jumped directly from the street to the bottom of the stairs, ignoring the whole walkway idea and chipping one of his hoofs in the process. The direct approach. Well, that was one way to do it, I thought.

Then the horse did one of those camel-like parking jobs, where he collapsed himself down to the height of a small dog, folding his legs backward and forward, in some creepy tarantula fashion. The animal seemed to want me to mount him, and I wondered about the intentions of the person who'd sent me this trained emissary. 

I petted him and told him he was a good boy but refrained from getting on. You never know where a horse like that is going to take you.