Bullfighter

Late afternoon sunlight tumbled through the dirty motel window, spilling gold at the old clown’s feet. Without opening his eyes, he felt for the cigarettes on the nightstand. The first wasn’t too bad so he had another before hauling himself from the bed. His ribs and hip screamed in protest as he staggered to the bathroom, barely making it to the bowl before retching. Gus wasn’t surprised to see blood in his vomit or urine. Bad Larry had done him pretty good the night before, resulting in a powerful ache in his kidneys. And for as long as he could remember, he’d begun nearly every day by emptying his stomach of what remained of the previous evening’s sins.

He only had an hour to make himself ready for the arena and started by grabbing the Gideon’s from the nightstand to remove the little bag of powder he kept at Matthew 5:13. Two fingers of Old Grandad helped steady his hand to apply makeup.

Gus resented the label of “clown,” though that’s what most people called him. Sure, he did the face paint and the whole get up, told jokes and took part in the general jackassery, but that was never what the gig was about. Some folks called him bullfighter, which felt a little closer to the truth. Really, he considered his role to be that of protector. Watching over those poor cowboys cast into the dirt, shepherding them to safety, and ensuring that the confrontation never resulted in the demise of either combatant so they might square off again. When the moment called, it was his duty to bear the punishment intended for the smote cowboy. He wore the scars of these abuses on his knees and chest, in the gaps in his teeth, and broken gait.

Although once renowned on the circuit, he had lost a step or three and was relegated to minor rodeos in the towns that dotted the Great Plains. The small-time events were a proving ground for young cowboys and bulls on their way up to brighter lights and a Purgatory for older ones that could no longer cut the mustard. These days he found himself fighting beasts named Codeine and Whiskey as often as the bulls he fought in the ring. At some point, when he was certain he had no more cowboys to save, he swore he’d get right. But the truth was, outside rodeo, he wasn’t exactly sure what he would be for.

Gus washed down a couple pills with two more fingers of whiskey and climbed inside the old truck that held his worldly belongings. He hung his arm outside the window and smoked a cigarette as he made his way to the outdoor arena, thinking about what a strange sight he must look. A sad old clown in his beat-up truck, having a smoke on the way to his shift. He almost felt like a normal person.

Gus parked the truck amongst the horse trailers and semi-trucks bringing in the rough stock. The cowboys were lined up along the fence, chewing tobacco and telling the same stories about rodeoing and ranching that had been told on at least half a dozen circuits for the past decade.

One of the younger cowboys noticed him and called out from atop the fence, “Hey bullfighter! Saw old Bad Larry gave you a free ride across the ring last night. Didn’t expect to see you back.” The cowboy jumped down and swaggered over. Gus recognized him as Wacey James. He had several WJ’s tooled in red leather on his black chaps and wore a tall straw hat that was a half size too large. His ears were too big, his nose still straight, and there were no gaps in his easy smile. Gus half suspected that if you took away the chaps and the hat, you’d find that Wacey was made out of cedar posts put together with baling wire. The kid didn’t have enough seasoning to fully appreciate the danger in what he did and had supreme confidence in his ability to ride whatever rank beast he drew. In short, Wacey James was a crowd favorite.

Gus spit, “It’ll take a lot worse than Bad Larry to lay me up.”

“Now see, that’s what I came all the way over here to tell you. You don’t have to worry about Bad Larry tonight. I expect when I’m done with him, he won’t have any fight left.”

“That’s awful fortunate,” Gus chuckled. “I can’t remember my last easy day. Maybe we just crown you champion and all go home, since you have this wrapped up.”

Wacey mocked serious, “No. We better go on ahead with the events, so you don’t get too rusty.”

Gus cracked a broken smile. “Good luck cowboy.”

Wacey nodded back, “Good luck to you bullfighter.”

By the time they got around to the bull riding Gus had broken out in a cold sweat. He considered running back to his truck and the flask under the seat. He retched next to the corrals and smoked a cigarette to calm his nerves. For the first time in his career, he was grateful for the face paint. Although he was certain the makeup was streaked with sweat it at least hid his sallow complexion.

As he made his way into the ring, he turned a cartwheel and waved to the crowd as his head spun. One of the barrelmen jogged toward him. “Thought maybe you wasn’t gonna show.”

Gus hiccupped and spit in the dirt. “Ain’t ever missed a show yet, and I don’t aim to start today.”

It wasn’t the first time Gus had nursed a hangover at work, and though he had even less vigor than normal, he managed. Decades of experience had honed his instincts so that he could protect riders and dispatch bulls with minimal effort. Still, he flagged.

A stocky cowboy with a square jaw managed a scoring ride on a game bull called Red Jacket. The dismount, however, was less than graceful and he ended up face down in the dirt. When the bull turned and made ready to charge the unseated cowboy it was time for Gus to earn his paycheck. He ran to position himself between bull and bull rider. Waving and whistling to draw the beast’s ire, he coaxed it toward the alley leading from the arena. Red Jacket gave a snort and dropped his head, starting a run that might have been mistaken for a full-on charge. But Gus knew the bull’s heart wasn’t in it, and at the last moment he stepped left and spun right, barely escaping the deadly horns. Red Jacket never even slowed to consider a second attempt at the bullfighter, and Gus waved at the slick red haunches disappearing down the alley, the whole dance quick as a dream.

When he turned around, he saw the cowboy throw his hat into the cheering crowd at the edge of the ring. Gus saw his chance and ran up behind him making exaggerated gestures, blowing kisses, and bowing. When the crowd started in laughing the cowboy looked over his shoulder as Gus stepped in front, throwing his own old felt hat into the stands. The cowboy’s ears glowed red in embarrassment.

Gus winked and spoke out the side of his mouth, “Nice ride kid, now be a sport.” He grabbed the cowboy’s right hand and raised it above his head like a victorious prizefighter. The cowboy followed his lead when Gus bowed to the crowd, drawing further applause. Gus sucked air. The antics were a ruse to give him a moment to catch his breath. If any of the onlookers had been standing in the ring, they would have seen rivers of sweat running through Gus’s face paint and smelled bourbon whiskey rolling out of his pores.

As they stood, the cowboy asked under his breath, “You gonna make it old man?”

Gus growled, “Get over that fence and fetch my hat. Don’t know what I was thinking. That’s a five-dollar hat.”

He made his way to the center of the ring and nodded at the barrelmen making ready for the last ride of the night.

Wacey James was having difficulty getting seated on the rank bull known as Bad Larry. The Charolais Brahman cross had already earned a bad reputation. Most of the cowboys were too proud to admit it, but none wanted to draw Bad Larry. At best, they would end their night in the dirt with a no-score ride. At worst, they might end up in a mangled pile at some hospital hundreds of miles from home. Last season Bad Larry had shattered the jaw and eye socket of a promising young rider who was still taking meals through a straw.

Some bulls will stand in the chute, calm as a Hindu cow, saving all the violence for the moment the gate swung open. Bad Larry lurched and tossed his head to put would-be riders on edge, making it difficult for them to get a comfortable seat. That is, if anyone could ever be comfortable on the back of a Scud missile. If Wacey was put off by the bull’s antics, it never showed. Smiling the whole time, he secured his grip in the rigging and eased onto Bad Larry’s back.

Wacey checked to make sure his hat was secure and set his jaw. Gus thought of Fourth of July Celebrations as a kid, how the old timers would wheel out an antique cannon and stuff it full of gun powder and straw. Everyone would have their fingers crammed in their ears, and as they lit the fuse there would be the slightest delay before the calamitous bang. That’s what it was like watching Bad Larry come out of the chute. Wacey nodded twice, the chute flew open, a barely perceptible pause, and nearly a ton of pissed off animal exploded into the arena.

Bad Larry made his first jump, planting his front hooves in the dirt and kicking his rear legs so high they were above Wacey’s head. The smile on the cowboy’s face had turned to hard grimace. Time slowed. Bad Larry started spinning into Wacey’s grip hand. Gus could see the cowboy was out of position, too far forward, and would be bucked off in the next moment.

The bull spun and kicked once more. Wacey lost his seat, flying from the back of Bad Larry, but his hand was hung up in the rigging. Gus’s feet carried him toward the bull without a thought. Bad Larry, not content to simply unseat Wacey, spun wildly toward the cowboy in an attempt to square him up. Wacey locked eyes with Gus in a silent plea for help. The old clown swatted at the great beast’s head to stop him spinning so that the barrelmen might work on freeing Wacey’s hand from the rigging. The bull planted his feet, coming to a sudden stop. He threw his head back into Wacey and connected, knocking him cold in a spray of teeth and blood. Desperate, Gus dove into the jackpot grabbing at the rope to free the rider’s hand. He felt the rigging give way and Wacey slumped into the dirt, unconscious. Before Gus could manage a single step in retreat, Bad Larry casually hooked a horn under his legs and tossed him ass over teakettle faster than you could sneeze.

Gus landed shoulder first and felt two quick pops. Something in his chest gave way and a wave of heat rushed over his body. The last thing Gus saw were the deep black pools of the bull’s eyes. There was no evil in those voids. Rather, it was heavy resignation. An understanding that he was only carrying out his purpose and had no choice in the matter. That every road led here, to this moment in the dirt. The old bullfighter sat up and laughed in the face of his fate.