Jeannette Walls - Half Broke Horses

He also had all sorts of grand plans and was always talking about new energy sources-solar energy, thermal energy, wind energy. Jim thought Rex was all talk. “If we could harness the hot air coming out of that gasbag,” he said, “we could power the whole of Phoenix.”

I didn’t actively discourage Rosemary from getting serious, since there was no more surefire way to make that willful young woman want to do something, but I did try to point out that he might not make the ideal mate for the long haul.

“He’s not exactly a rock,” I said.

“I don’t want to marry a rock,” she said.

What she liked about Rex, Rosemary told me, was that when he was around, things always happened. He loved to start conversations with absolute strangers. He loved to act on whims. He loved pranks and surprises. Once he sneaked one of Rosemary’s smaller paintings into an art museum in Phoenix, hung it in an empty spot, then invited Rosemary to come to the museum with him. She’d never been so startled-or tickled-than when Rex led her over to it and, feigning surprise, said, “Well, lookie here. Best painting in the whole damned building.”

Some of the things that happened around Rex were strange, Rosemary explained, some were exciting, some were funny, some were scary, but he made everything into an adventure. Because of his own wild streak, he had a way of recognizing it in others, as if they were Masons communicating by secret hand signals. You’d go to a circus and meet the clowns, the bareback rider, and the sword swallower, wind up after the show tossing back shots in a bar with all of them, the sword swallower showing you how to stick a knife down your throat, the bareback rider describing how the Nazis had sent her to a concentration camp because she was a gypsy, then one of the clowns- the sad-eyed one-would confess that his old sweetheart was living nearby and he’d never loved anyone since, so you’d all pile into the car and drive over to the sweetheart’s house and you’d find yourself at four in the morning standing under this strange woman’s window serenading her with “Red River Valley” in the hope of rekindling her love for the sad-eyed clown.

Early one Saturday morning that fall, when Rosemary was home from college, Rex showed up at Horse Mesa. He was wearing cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat. Rosemary, Jim, and I were finishing our Cream of Wheat at the kitchen table. I asked Rex if he wanted me to fix him a bowl.

“No, thank you, ma’am. I got a big day planned and I don’t want to weigh myself down.”

“And what are your plans?” I asked.

“Well, you’re all true horse people,” he said. “And I figure that since I’m going to marry this here daughter of yours, I gotta show you all that even though I’ve never been astride a horse, I got what it takes to ride one. So I’m off to find myself a horse today, and if you all want to come along and give this hillbilly a few pointers, I’d be most obliged.”

Jim and I looked at each other. This fellow just was not going to go away. Meanwhile, Rosemary was saying that the Crebbses, who lived on a ranch at the foot of the mountains and sent their two kids to my school, had some quarter horses that they’d be happy to let us ride. So when we finished our Cream of Wheat, we all dug out our boots and set off in the Ford for the Crebbs place.

Ray Crebbs told us the horses were in the corral and the tack was in the barn and we were free to saddle up, but the horses hadn’t been ridden for a couple of months and might be a bit fresh. We picked out four, but all of them were herd-bound and didn’t want to come to us, so Jim had to lasso those buggers before we could get them into the barn.

Rosemary always had to have the most spirited horse in the herd, and she chose a hot little bay. I had my eye on a quiet gelding for Rex, but he said there was no way in hell he was riding a horse whose balls had been cut off, so I gave him the mare I’d picked out for myself, even though she was acting a tad scutchy and head-shy.

After we saddled up, we headed out to the corral. Rosemary and Jim started trotting around to limber up their horses, and I sat on mine in the middle to give Rex some tips. The poor fellow was being pretty game about it, but you could tell right off he was not a natural horseman. He was trying too hard. He was tensed up and leaning forward, which put all his weight in his shoulders. I told him to relax, sink down into the saddle, and take his hands off the horn, since it wasn’t going to save him.

Instead of relaxing, Rex kept up a steady patter about what a cinch this riding business was, what a blast he was having, and how he wanted to put this old nag through her paces. “How do I get her out of second gear?” he asked.

“First you got to learn to keep your fanny in the saddle,” I said.

After a while I let Rex trot, but he kept popping out of his seat and jerking leather. Still, he insisted that he wasn’t getting off until he’d galloped because, he said, until you’d galloped on a horse, you couldn’t say you’d really ridden one.

“You want to make her gallop, just kick her,” Rosemary called.

And that was what Rex did, whacking the mare in the ribs. The horse started but didn’t break into a gallop, probably figuring that it wasn’t a good idea with this unbalanced rider. Rex was nonetheless surprised, and he started shouting, “Whoa! Whoa!” and sawing at the reins. All that noise and commotion spooked the poor mare, and that was when she took off.

As the horse tore around the corral in a big circle, I yelled at Rex to sit back and grab mane, but he was so deep in the hole of his panic that he didn’t hear a thing. He kept shouting at the horse and jerking the reins, but the horse just leaned against the bit and galloped on.

Jim and Rosemary scooted into the center of the corral to get out of her way. The mare had made a few circuits without slowing down, and I could tell that Rex was starting to come unglued. I could also tell by looking at the mare’s eyes that she was frightened, not angry, and that meant she wanted to stop but needed permission.

I jumped off my horse and walked into the path of the galloping mare. I was prepared to dive to the side if she didn’t stop, but as she got close, I slowly raised my arms, looked her in the eye, and in a quiet voice said, “Whoa.” And right in front of me, she stopped.

In fact, she stopped so suddenly that Rex pitched forward, clung to her neck for a moment, then fell to the ground.

Rosemary slid off her horse and ran over. “Are you okay?” she asked him.

“He’s fine,” I said. “He just had the lace knocked off his panties.”

Rex got to his feet and dusted off his jeans. I could tell he was shaken up, but he took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Then a big grin spread across his face. “I found the gas,” he said. “Now all’s I need to do is find the brake.”

Rex insisted on getting back on, which I was glad he did, and we had ourselves a nice little ride around the Crebbs’ spread. It was late afternoon by the time we got back to Horse Mesa. I heated up some beans and, after we’d eaten, suggested we play a few hands of poker.

“You won’t ever hear me say no to that,” Rex said. “I got a bottle of hooch in the car. How’s about I get it and we can have ourselves a pop or two.”

Rex got the bottle, Jim set out glasses-including one for himself, just to be polite-and we all took a seat at the kitchen table. Rex poured everyone two fingers of whiskey. I dealt. There was no better way to read a man’s character than to watch him play poker. Some played with the aim of holding on to what they had, others played to make a killing. For some it was gambling pure and simple, for others it was a game of skill involving small calculated risks. For some it was about numbers, for others it was about psychology.