A True Story of the West

by Fred Becchetti

Poorly paid teachers have always had to find a job during their summer vacation to make it through the year financially..
One summer I took a job as night marshal of Benson. This required that I wear a western hat, a star on my chest, a holstered .44 caliber pistol on my hip and cowboy boots. I owned no boots, so with the approval of the Town Council I wore my Thom McAnn high-top shoes, .

My office was in the concrete jail behind the Horseshoe Cafe, and I had a patrol car with a siren and a blinking red-and-blue light. My duties included security checking of store doors, breaking up fights in the two bars, and enforcing the 25 mph speed limit and the 15 mph school zone on the town’s main street, which coincided with the highway to California.
One morning just before ending my night shift, I was standing on the curb at the school zone watching for motorists who might violate the 15 mph speed limit.
Drowsy from my night as town marshall, I was suddenly jolted awake by the squeak of brakes. A car with California plates had come to an abrupt stop in front of me.
A smartly dressed young woman leading a small girl by the hand got out of the car and approached me.
“Excuse me, sir,” the woman said.

I shook myself fully awake and summoned my best western drawl “Yes, ma’am. How can I be of assistance this beautiful morning?”
Almost apologetically, the woman said, “My daughter would like to have a picture of her with a western sheriff. Would you let me take your picture with her?”
I stood more erect, slanted my hat just so, moved my holster forward so that it would show, smiled and reached out for the little girl. In my best drawl, I said, “Why sure, ma’am. It would be my pleasure.” And to the little girl, “Come on, little darlin’. Let’s take a purty picture together for your mommy.”
We stood side by side in the morning sun, and the mother snapped a
picture. She said to her daughter, “Tell the sheriff thank you, honey.”
The little girl looked up at me, her eyes large, and said. “Thank you, Mister Sheriff.”
As they drove off, the daughter waved at me from the rear window. They left without knowing that the “sheriff” in real life was the law in only Benson High School’s English classroom, where his weapon was his red pencil and his only foes were incorrect spelling and faulty English grammar.