"So
meti
me in early 1997 the story took shape. One night in a bar upstate I had noticed an older ranch hand, maybe in his late sixties, obviously short on the world's luxury goods. Although spruced up for Friday night his clothes were a little ragged, boots stained and worn. I had seen him around, working cows, helping with sheep, taking orders from a ranch manager. He was thin and lean, muscular in a stringy kind of way. He leaned against the back wall and his eyes were fastened not on the dozens of handso
me and flashing wo
men in the room but on the young cowboys playing pool. Maybe he was following the ga
me, maybe he knew the players, maybe one was his son or nephew, but there was so
mething in his expression, a kind of bitter longing, that made
me wonder if he was country gay. Then I began to consider what it might have been like for him -- not the real person against the wall, but for any
ill-informed, confused, not-sure-of-what-he-was-feeling youth growing up in homophobic rural Wyoming."
-- Annie Proulx, "Getting Movied"