Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

Frank got another beer, watching his cash slip away. He knew it was stupid to be wasting money, but it was goddamn hot. He kept his eyes open, but couldn’t see any money changing hands. Nobody seemed to really care what happened with the rodeo, one way or another. He decided he’d rest until nightfall, then get back out on the highway.

* * * * *

He ducked into the men’s room, under the stands, next to the concession booth, and for one particularly anxious moment, he almost wished he had his tire iron. But the place was empty. As Frank was taking a leak, the door opened and a little man came inside. He was short, but that wasn’t what Frank caught out of the corner of his eye. It was the long cattle coat the little man was wearing in the heat; he looked like a dark, oiled canvas traffic cone.

He stepped up to the opposite end of the trough confidently, like he meant business, marking his territory. He reminded Frank of a little dog. In vet school, Frank had encountered plenty of dogs. There’s three kinds of little dogs. There’s the kind of little dog that barks and yaps nonfuckingstop and nine times out ten that little shit will try and take a tiny bite out of you. Then there’s the kind of little dog that’s dead quiet, and flinches if you blink at it. And then, once in a while, there’s that little dog that only looks dead scared until you aren’t watching it closely. And there’s nothing tiny about the bites that dog will take.

The guy in the long coat was maybe in his late fifties, it was hard to say. He took off his cowboy hat with his right hand and slid his forearm across his forehead. He was bald. Actually, he went beyond bald. There wasn’t any hair on his head at all. No five o’clock shadow. No hair in his nose, his ears. His skull looked like a dry eyeball. A puckered scar ran from one ear to another, curving around the back of his head in a skeletal smile. Frank fought a sudden, irrational urge to draw a couple of rolling, insane eyes above the smile.

The man caught Frank looking at him.

Frank nodded hello, willing a small, manly grin to grow on his face, as his heart hammered wildly away inside the oversize suit.

The little man just stared at Frank. His eyes, startlingly naked under hairless eyebrows, were the color of frozen granite. He wore a revolver, some kind of cowboy six-shooter, in a holster on his right hip.

Frank zipped up and tried not to hurry as he washed his hands.

The little man stepped up to the sink next to Frank, staring at himself in the heavily graffitied reflective metal. His cowboy hat was back on. It had a flat brim, pulled low over his face. Frank splashed water on his face. Drying his hands on the inside of the jacket, Frank nodded at the little man again and headed out.

* * * * *

A high, wild laugh crackled over the loudspeakers. Frank peeled open one eye. Down in the ring, a rodeo clown, wearing a foot-high rainbow Afro and a pair of shredded overalls, leaned out of the announcer’s tall booth and shouted into the microphone. “It’s that time again, boys and girls, friends and neighbors. Grab your men, grab your women, grab your ass, grab whatever you can and hang ooonnnnnnnn . You folks are about to witness the biggest, the baddest, the meanest bulls that ever roamed this here land. They spit poison and shit fire! And that ain’t no bullshit! No sir! It’s fun for the whole family. You’re about to witness the most dangerous, mostly deadly sport right here in the U.S. of A! I give you…the bulls of Whitewood!”

Polite applause. The crowd had grown slightly, and semi-filled the bottom of the stands. Frank shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He wasn’t going to make any money here. It was time to climb back in the long black car and hit the road.

Two more rodeo clowns jumped into the ring as the opening chords to the Scorpions’ “Rock You Like a Hurricane” reverberated into the stands. The clowns energetically threw themselves into a dance routine, all spread legs and thrusting hips. Frank figured they had to have been drinking heavily and that reminded him of the rum in the front seat. He stood, stretched, and headed down the stairs.

The original announcer came back on, still drowsy. “Thank you, uh…Mr. Spanky, for that…spirited introduction. But he’s right, you folks are in for a real treat here. These bulls are the real deal. Voted meanest bulls four years running in the North Valley Circuit. And first up is young Bartholomew Wilson, a sophomore at Whitewoods High School, trying for his second tournament championship this year.”

Frank was nearly at the gates when one of the closest clowns, wearing green mop strings over his head, shouted at another clown, “You ain’t got enough sense to pour sand out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the bottom. I got a twenty that says Wilson is gonna eat dirt in less than six seconds.”

“Then you’re as dumb as you look. You got it,” the second clown, wearing a red cape, shot back. Frank wasn’t sure, but he thought it was the same guy from the front gate.

Frank’s steps slowed and he changed direction, heading for the fence. The gate across the ring sprang open and two thousand pounds of pissed off bull muscles jumped and twirled across the soft dirt. The kid on the bull’s back, Wilson, hung as best as he could, but his fifteen year-old muscles were no match for the backbreaking spinning and popping, and he was flung off into the dust.

“Three seconds, motherfucker!” Green head shouted.

Red cape shrugged, pulled out a twenty from his costume, and flicked it into the dust in the ring. “It’s all yours, dickhead.”

Frank turned away from the gates and slowly ambled around the ring, past Green head, past the announcing booth, until he could see the loading gates. He took his time, peering at the wild bulls, noting their body stance, their breathing, their eyes. He surreptitiously pulled the remaining twenty from his pocket, folded it over, and kept it curled in his fist.

Several riders tried their luck. Nobody lasted more than five seconds. The clowns thrived on leaping into the ring, catching the bull’s attention, and outrunning the animal.

Finally, Frank found a bull he liked. He ambled slowly back and got two beers. He brought them both over to the ring and leaned against the fence next to Green head. “Howdy.” Frank nodded.

The clown nodded back, scratching at his scraggly beard. It had been spray painted orange. Frank suddenly noticed his second beer. He held it out. “Thirsty?”

“That’s goddamn white of you.” They clinked the bottles together through the bars and drank. “Who are you, some kind of junior G-man?” the clown asked, eyeing the black suit. He laughed, raised his hands above his head. “Don’t shoot!”

Frank forced a chuckle, let a few moments pass. “Say, I happened to overhear you laying a little money down on a few of these riders. Thought I’d see if you might be interested in any other wagers.”

“Could be, could be. What are you thinking?”

“I think this next rider’s gonna hang on for a solid eight seconds.”

“You think so, huh? Okay. Just how sure are ya?”

“Twenty bucks sure. For starters.”

The clown scratched at his beard, then his wig. “What’s the bull?”

“Uh…it’s called Chopper, I think.”

“Who’s the rider?”

“Kid named Garth Ennis.”

The clown nodded. “Could be close.” He watched the gate for a moment, as the Ennis kid settled on Chopper and the names crackled out of the loudspeakers. Finally, “Okay. You got it. Twenty bucks. Deal?”

“Deal.” They shook on it.

The gate burst open. Chopper spun and kicked and bucked, but his heart wasn’t in it. It looked like the bull was tired, tired of the heat, tired of the dust, and tired of jumping and twisting. Eight seconds later, when the buzzer sounded, Ennis was still on Chopper’s back.