Wild Wild West

Somewhere between the Continental Divide and the metaphysical gift shop of the American soul, there exists a shirt. Not a T-shirt in the pedestrian sense — a garment that has witnessed things. It hung once on a wire rack next to the beef jerky and the postcards of jackalopes, in a gas station where the Slurpee machine hummed like a Tibetan singing bowl for people who didn't know they needed one.