8 Mississippi

Purple Texas dusk lays flat against the fluorescents, obscuring my view of anything but the brown dirt battlefield before me. Under my legs, the tan, white-spotted beast snorts and chaffs, his eyes vicious in their agitation, his horns sharp enough to do the deed. Only Barley is there to tighten my reigns, although he’s too drunk to be of any help.

“It’s bulls and blood,” he sings slurredly as he pulls down on the ropes, “it’s dust and mud, it’s the roar of the Sunday crowd!”

The bull croons with Barley; his animal wail is followed by a pulse of wet snot that coats Barley’s face.

“Oh, thanks a plenty, Brutus.” Looking up at me now- “You better run this thing into the ground, Jake.”

I smile, a nervous fragile thing, still caked in white and red makeup. “Sure hope so, Bar. Maybe give me a shot of that for good luck.”

Barley hands his flask up to me, and I swig. It doesn’t stop the jitter in my legs or the snare drum in my heart, but it helps.

I’m happy the cowboys aren’t here. They had a big show earlier, and if they stuck to their normal programming, they’re probably padding their bruises with shots and barrel bunny kisses at the bar down Highland. At Broward Ranch, there was only the rodeo clowns tonight. And Brutus (although if he qualified as company, he was the worst behaved guest I’d ever seen.)

“You sure you know what you’re doing, Jake?” Barley asks, the pink around his eyes accentuating his doubt.

“I do, Bar. Trust me.” And this time my smile is a bit more confident.

“Well, I hope you can ride better than you’re dressed. You look like Steve Urkel’s understudy.” Barley laughs at this until he hiccups and falls against the metal gate, his ass smeared in mud and manure. Brutus also finds humor in the display- the sneering steer shakes his head under my presence.

We’re both still donning our show clothes- face paint, Nike cleats, colorful baggy shirts with suspender-held Wranglers- but Barley looks much more cowboy than me. He’s tall with a great hairline, strong chin, and enough muscle to turn a bull by the horns. I can’t even bench a barrel of feathers.  

Yet tonight is all that matters, because it’s me on the bull, and Barley on the sideline. That’s all a cowboy boils down to in the end, and the thought brings me a bit of comfort as I curl the flank strap around my knuckles.

“I’m ready, Bar. Tell me when.” Brutus is ready too- as I dig my heels into his matted fur, he tenses, and for the first time I can feel each muscle fiber of the bull, a cocoon of strength beneath me.

Barley stands up, brushing his backside, and climbs over the rail of the gate. “I’m rooting for ya, Jakey.” Then, he grabs the chute rope with his hands. “And here… we… GO!” With his final declaration, the gate juts open, and Brutus pulls through like a mob on Black Friday.

1 Mississippi, I count to myself.

The first moment is wonder. I’ve seen it on the faces of many fresh cowboys, watching from the barrel as they rocket onto the field. It’s simple amazement that something living- something with blood and bone and brain- can produce as much power as a hurricane, power preserved for only the most destructive natural forces.

Brutus is making me wonder, too. Wonder why I got on his back today. Wonder why I became a rodeo clown. Wonder why, at eight years old, in the nosebleeds of the Houston Rodeo, did I see that blond cowboy, no bigger than a G.I. Joe, glue himself to the biggest steer in existence, and decide it was my dream to do the same.

Wonder can be an amazing thing. Because wonder is always followed by…

2 Mississippi. Clarity.

The crowd comes back to you, the lights become a little brighter, and you have a second to take it all in. You can hear the huff of the bull’s lungs, big as punching bags, feel each hoof as it stomps a crater into the earth. The smell is rich and noble, between the bull musk and the sweat and the upturned soil. There’s a call from behind- your mother? Your girlfriend? Your cowboys-in-arms?

It doesn’t matter who it is. The whole world is on your side, and you are their fighter, their champion. I hear Barley’s whoops and cries as he blurs around the bull’s backside and disappears. No one can tell on my jostling frame, but I’m smiling. I’ve never felt anything so real.

3 Mississippi. Fear.

Brutus arches his spine and flings his hind quarters unfathomably high, as if revealing he is the fabled cow that hurdled the moon. The move makes me feel weightless, and when gravity brings me back down, I lose a bit of my balance. I slide off-kilter to his right side, and Brutus feels my presence shift. He kicks again, this time putting the emphasis on his left leg, and again I slip further down his right. The flank strap scrapes skin from my palms. One more pounce and I’ll be having dirt for dinner. Maybe this feeling is a little too real.

Every bull rider knows this dance, and they know it well. Bulls are meant to scare and shock. That’s why we put men on their backs in the first place. The real tagline, however, is what happens after the fear. The real tagline is…

4 Mississippi. Redemption.

Before Brutus can jump again, I heave. I heave with twenty-five years of effort; twenty-five years of wanting this, twenty-five years tired of being supporting cast. And it works. My legs regain their lock on Brutus’s tough fur, and I quickly get another turn on my flank strap. On Brutus’s next blow, I barely flinch. “Come on Jake!” Barley screams from behind. Brutus’s head pivots, and his deep brown eye, the one that held an angry emptiness before, now emits curiosity. Why do you fight me? it seems to be saying.

The answer comes simply. I fight for my dream.

5 Mississippi. Doubt.

Brutus doesn’t seem perturbed by my fight. In fact, he seems inspired by it. As if a can of nitro has been unleashed on his underside, the pistons in his legs begin to thrust with heightened fury. He has gone from hurricane to earthquake, and as everything down to my eye sockets shake, my confidence is sapped away.

I now notice the clouds of dirt around my shoulders, the buckets of sweat under my cowboy hat, the weakness in each finger as they grip the flank strap for new life. The cracked sensation of long-dry makeup on my face, a trembling in my legs and thigh and groin. I feel it all.

“Hold him, Jake!” Barley wails, but his words fall flat. Because now I see how ridiculous it all is. Before, my dreams of cowboy life had been sepia-toned, innocent, without fault or blemish. I saw myself, muscle-bound in pearl-snap denim, hips churning with the beast, light dancing off my belt buckle in disco-ball patterns. But this is who I truly am- a scared shitless clown on the back of a monster. There was no future for me here, no escaping the truth. My fingers begin loosening on the reign.

6 Mississippi. Hope.

Then I see it. Through the heavy tidal wave of vibration, I catch a glimpse of Brutus’s eye as he snaps his neck ferociously. And even without focus, I can sense it. Fear in its most primal sense. In those eyes like midnight bourbon, there are the same restraints I face. Fear that he won’t buck me, fear that I’ll stay on his back forever, fear that he’ll be bested.

It’s encouraging. Hopeful, even, to know every animal on this earth, from a lion on the savannah to a pie-eyed squirrel stealing backyard acorns, doubts their mission, just as I do. The realization draws quick in my palm, which has resurged its efforts on the flank strap, ignoring how badly my callouses scream. I tighten my legs, my abs, my biceps, and attempt to be a part of Brutus’s entire being, a parasite on the whirring steer. The strategy is successful- we move congenitally, like an organized unit, my legs becoming Brutus’s legs, his heart becoming mine.

Can a cowboy survive without hope? Unlikely in a game so heinous. Without it, you’re as good as dead. With it, you’ve got a fifty-fifty shot. You either ride out as the hero, or you end up covered in…

7 Mississippi. Dirt.

No cowboy ever sees it coming. It’s like a half-court shot at the buzzer or a Hail Mary touchdown- there’s nothing you can do but watch.

One instant, I’m tethered to Brutus, his movements feeling predictable. I sway to and fro, and my free hand wraps around the brim of my dusty hat. It’s seamless. Then, in an unseen shudder of power, I’m forced up in the air. I feel Brutus’s horn scrape my inner thigh, attempting to breach the tough bleached denim. My hand is still attached to the flank strap, but I’ve seen enough shows to know that “flightless” is not a winning position. I let go and look behind me as I’m sent sailing towards the gates.

I try to piece together my misstep. Was I too far forward? Weak around the base? Caught up in my own thoughts? No. Looking back, I am faced with Brutus’s full profile, his steely gaze and dripping nostrils, and I know. I know what he’s thinking. You just weren’t good enough.

As if confirming my hypothesis, I fling headfirst into dirt and metal. With so much force and so little room to escape, it becomes a biological congregation. My shoulder pops. My skull collides with the iron bar. My arm seems to crunch between mud and ribs. The breath escapes from me in a flattened wisp, so fast I can’t call it back. I’m left without speech, staring up at Brutus as he lines up for another blow.

It’s funny. I’ve been head-to-head with so many steers, but only now do I feel truly vulnerable, facing one from so far below. A sense of relief washes over me as Barley runs between us and T-steps Brutus towards the stable. I watch as the bull’s attention is pulled away from me, but not before catching a final glimpse into the bull’s eyes, those cold, unfeeling wells. Not good enough, they seem to repeat.

I place my head upon the dirt, hearing the groan of the bull and Barley’s erratic maneuverings. The ground is cold, and it helps me ignore the thumping under my cheekbone, the swelling in my wrist, the lack of oxygen in my blood. I breath in and out, wasted, upset. One more second. If I could have held on for just one more second, I’d have something to show for all this- for this night, for this season, for this life.

Barley comes sprinting over, his eyes like big pink donuts. “You good, Jake?” He takes a knee next to me.

“Yeah, Bar.” I say, groaning into a sitting position. “I’m gonna make it.”

Satisfied, Barley starts to spew. “Holy Moses, man, that was crazy! You were real deal up there! You came out a little sloppy, spinning everywhere like some rainbow pinwheel, but just when I was sure you were done for, you locked in! Man, it had to be like five, six seconds up there.”

“Seven.” I mutter. “It was only seven.”

Barley scoffed. “Who cares, dude! I gotta tell Donnie, he ain’t gonna believe this.” Then he fishes for his phone and walks away.

Something warm drips down my lip. I wipe it with the back of my hand. A streak of wet ruby coats the raw red skin. I can’t tell if it’s blood or makeup, yet I hope it’s blood. You never bleed as a clown. Sure you get bumped, and sometimes you catch a horn, but blood is sacred, saved only for the big blows. Blood is a cowboy’s offering. It seems I just made my first payment. A smile inches onto my face.

I look up into the soft August air, straining my eyes over the lilac clouds. He’s up there, I think to myself. In the nosebleeds of this imaginary stadium, he’s here, with his mama and a small popcorn, waiting to see what happens next. And although he doesn’t know much about cowboys, he knows one thing. They always get back up.

I rustle to my feet and whistle sharply, breaking through the breeze. Barley puts his phone down and stares over his shoulder. I can hear Brutus jostling in his cage.

“I’m not done yet, Bar. Strap him back up.”

The rodeo pen is silent, except for a little boy I used to know, up in the stands, who begins to cheer.