Big Picture: Stories

Turned Out

Lawrence Miller didn’t balk at the draw. Balking wasn’t going to do much good. He heard the muffled comments and the sighs, but he ignored them. Kemp Hollis pushed his chin away from his body and spat tobacco juice into the dust.

“That’s a filthy habit,” Lawrence said and leaned back against the booth of the concession stand.

“Ain’t a habit.”

Lawrence looked at him.

“A habit is something you have to do,” Kemp said. “Chewing tobacco is something I want and choose to do.”

“All day long, every day?”

“Damn near.”

Lawrence thought again about the bull. “It’ll be a short son-of-a-bitchin’ ride at least.” He smiled briefly. “Strike you funny that I’m the only black man here and I draw the monster?”

Kemp shrugged. “Somebody had to pull him.”

Lawrence put a cigarette between his lips and stuck the pack of Old Golds back into his shirt pocket. He struck a match and held it in his cupped hand the way his uncle, who had been in the navy, taught him. “Ground’s hard as hell today.”

“Dry.” Kemp looked at Lawrence. “That ever get you down? I mean, being the only black person somewhere? I never been the only white person, except when I was alone.” Kemp laughed.

Lawrence shook his head, smiling.

Both nodded hello to a couple of passing men.

Kemp leaned out beyond the wall, watched the men walk out of earshot, and shook his head. “It’s not going to be the same without Phillips and his kid in the team roping. They didn’t ever win, but they was fun to watch.”

“That’s true enough.”

“Phillips took it hard.”

“Yeah, that was pretty tough.”

“Fool kid,” Kemp said and kicked the heel of his boot against the wall. He did it again. And again.

Lawrence watched the paint chips settle to the parched ground with each strike of the man’s foot. “You keep that up and she’s going to come out here and kick your ass.”

Kemp continued to bang the wall.

There was a blur at the back of the booth. Most of the water hit Lawrence, cold against his neck and down his shirt. He hopped away. Kemp laughed and moved off as well. Lawrence looked to find Connie Flitner standing there with a large empty paper cup turned mouth down in her hand.

“Jesus, Connie,” Lawrence said, pulling his shirt away from his chest. “That was cold.”

“Quit kicking the wall,” she said.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Quit kicking the wall.” She pointed at both of them, her eyes in a squint.

“Have a little pity for the man,” Kemp said. “He just drew the meanest, most ornery, ugly, and smelly bull in Wyoming. This man is going to ride Rank.”

Connie tossed a new look Lawrence’s way, licked, then bit her bottom lip, and crushed the paper cup in her hand. “You be careful, Lawrence Miller.” She turned and started away, stopped and looked back. “You hear me?” She went back into the concession stand.

“She’s sweet on you,” Kemp said, resuming his position against the wall.

“Did you see the way she looked at me?” Lawrence looked at the sky. “Like I’m already dead. And it’s a kinda pretty day. Ain’t right.”

“Make you nervous?”

“What?”

“You know, Connie, kinda liking you.”

Lawrence shook his head. “Should it?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Yeah, well.”

Kemp looked at the distant hills. “Relax. You’ve ridden bad bulls before. Don’t act like no baby in diapers, now. Killers, boy, killers. You’ve ridden killers. What about Prince? Remember him?”

Lawrence nodded.

“Rank ain’t no worse than Prince.”

Lawrence just looked at him. “Yeah, right. How come everybody’s looking at me like I’m as good as dead?”

“You’re just ugly,” Kemp said.

“True.”

They stepped around to the front of the concession stand and bought a couple of Dr. Peppers. Libby Flitner took their orders while her older sister put together burgers and hot dogs. The men then went to the fence and watched the calf roping. Willard Harvey had a calf lie down on him and he couldn’t get the animal back to its feet so he could drop it again and tie it. “Pretend it’s Lois,” Kemp shouted and a couple of cowboys down the fence laughed.

Lawrence looked down and heard the thud of the calf hitting the ground when Willard finally succeeded. The ground didn’t even want to give up dust, he thought, it was that hard, tight. It was supposed to be softer, should have been softer. His head hurt and the sun was beginning to bother his eyes, so he told Kemp he was going to find a place to take a nap.

Out in the parking lot, Lawrence smiled at a couple of girls too young to give him anything but trouble. He found his way to his pickup and stretched out in the bed. He closed his eyes against the bright sky, and pulled his hat down over his face, ignoring the grooves of the metal pressing into his back. He didn’t want to ride that bull. He was scared, really scared. He didn’t feel right and everybody knew it. He didn’t have a good reason to get on an animal like that. Hell, you didn’t ride in two-bit deals like that one for money. Maybe for some kind of stupid fun. Maybe for the attention of a woman, another stupid reason. He felt a bee land on his hand and he just lay still, hoping he wouldn’t get stung. He fell asleep, thinking that if the bee failed to sting him it would be out of pity.

His sleep was a sound one, complete with a dream that he couldn’t quite track down enough to enjoy or manipulate. He heard a voice coming from outside his head. It was the high-pitched whine of young Tim Giddy. Lawrence pushed his hat away from his face and felt the sunlight hit his lowered lids. He turned on his side and opened his eyes, finding the bed wall and a bit of rust he’d never seen.

“Wake up,” Tim said again.

“Wake up,” Lawrence muttered, trying to move away from the voice.

Tim reached a hand over and gave Lawrence’s shoulder a shake. “They’re about to start the bull riding. Kemp told me to come get you.”

“Okay.”

Tim Giddy left.

Lawrence sat up, then pulled himself out. He stretched and looked down at his boots, checking to see if he was steady. He gave himself a quick sobriety test, putting his feet toe-to-heel, closing his eyes, and tilting back his head. He was fine. He stretched again and cracked his knuckles.

He reached back into his truck, collected his gloves, and shoved them into his back pocket. He strolled past the bleachers and into a crowd of cowboys at the deck. Dust floated in the air. He was up third. He watched the first rider get thrown in short order. The man ran clear without a problem. The clowns just stood where they were and the bull ran across the ring and out. He didn’t see the second rider, but he heard the whooping and hollering and knew that the rider had stayed on for the full eight.

“Ready to boogie?” some wise guy asked, but Lawrence didn’t see who it was and didn’t care.

Lawrence held his eyes fixed on the bull’s head. The bull was so still, dead still. The animal’s side rose and fell slightly with steady, shallow breathing. Lawrence let himself down on the bull’s back. He heard Kemp’s voice somewhere far off asking him if he was all right, but he didn’t answer. He considered it a damn fool question. The big bull didn’t move even a tiny bit when Lawrence’s butt settled on him. The men working the chute became nervous and silent. Lawrence could feel the muscles of the animal between his legs and under the knuckles of his open hand working under the rope. The frozen stance of the bull prompted one cowboy to lean low and catch a glimpse at the bull’s eyes. The man came up shrugging.

Lawrence pounded his fist closed about the rope, stirring the smell of the animal so that it found his nose. He stared blankly at the back of the red bull’s head. Somebody asked if he was ready and he gave a quick nod. He was ready, ready for the explosion, ready for the twisting, ready for the push of pain through his back, ready for the violent snapping of his neck. The bull was so still those seconds before the opening of the chute that he believed the animal could feel the rapid pounding of Lawrence’s heart.

The gate swung open. The bull took a couple of easy steps and stopped, became dead in space. The onlookers in the stands made no noise. Lawrence was aware of their silence and even managed to look up at them. He chuckled inside his head; at least he had their attention. It amused him that he had time to think this, that he had time to think anything. He had expected the first twist of the bull to shake him silly; he’d even anticipated that the first twist would be to the right. When nothing came he felt lost, like when a train stops at night. The clowns walked softly around, their loose and colorful garments flapping with the steady breeze. One clown stopped and flailed his arms a couple of times, then appeared to become unnerved by the animal’s face. Lawrence kicked the bull in the sides. Nothing. He felt empty, hollow. There he was a black man, still, forever and always, as good as naked in front of everybody. The sun was beating down on him, making him sweat. He could smell the bull again. It had been a lot longer than eight seconds and his hand was stiffening, but he was afraid to loosen his grip. It was a trick. He would loosen his fist and the beast would end his life, shake him off and gore him beyond recognition. He kicked again. Harder. He found the muscles of the bull tense, frightening. Everyone looking on was scared as well. He could sense it, taste it.

“Kemp!” Lawrence yelled, his eyes still on the bull’s neck. “Kemp!”

“Yeah?” Kemp answered.

“What now?!”

There was no answer.

Ten minutes passed. Lawrence had time to pick out faces in the crowd, to nod to the familiar ones, but they were too terrified to notice. Connie was at the fence now, holding onto her sister.

He thought once that he felt the bull move, but there had been nothing, no dust rising from any hoof, no lingering ripple of a twitched muscle.

Lawrence took a long slow breath and as he let it out he loosened his grip slightly and the bull took a lateral step. The crowd sucked in wind collectively. Lawrence heard it and his fingers tightened again. A clown ran toward the bull and veered away quickly. The clown stopped and stood by a barrel, his chest heaving. Lawrence listened to the man panting. He swallowed. Another couple of minutes passed. Patient crowd, he thought. He also felt that he had had just about enough. In one quick effort he released the rope and pushed himself up and off the bull, rolling onto the hard ground and bolting away a few strides. He was still in the ring and the animal was still motionless, just looking forward. He walked around the animal, studied its back, and noticed just how big it really was, the muscles of the shoulders, the rump. He looked at the clown’s face and saw his fear. He moved wide and came to stand by the barrel with the man. The bull’s face was scary to see, blank, his eyes glazed over, unlike the dumb expression of a cow.

Lawrence turned to observe the people in the bleachers. They were still silent, standing mostly, and many had moved down to the fence. Lawrence stepped away from the barrel and stood in front of the bull. He was directly in front, not five feet away and the bull just stayed there, staring straight through him. He waved his arms, then he yelled. He yelled the bull’s name. He yelled for it to do something. Finally, he turned his back on the animal and walked slowly, leisurely away toward the fence. His senses fused. He was ready for the snorting, for the sound of a stamping hoof or the beating of all the hooves against the stiff ground. Nothing. He reached the fence and climbed over. Sitting there, he looked back at the bull.

A cowboy swung open the gate at the far end of the ring and the bull trotted through it. People began to quietly leave the stands. The concession booth was already closed. Cars and trucks lined up to make the turn out onto the highway. The team-roping event had not come up and wouldn’t. The hands were calmly clearing out the stock and moving it to the pens in back. Even the animals had become hushed, even sedate, their movements measured, methodical, deliberate.

Kemp came and slapped an arm over Lawrence’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Lawrence nodded, then turned to look back at the empty ring. The dust had settled.

The Infirmary was at the edge of town, rustic and old-looking in spite of its newness. Lawrence nursed his second beer, sitting across a booth table from Kemp and Hank Fussey. Fussey was a large man, taking up more than half of the seat, pushing Kemp up against the wall. Lawrence thought to offer Kemp a seat on his side so that he might have some breathing room, but he knew the man would decline. Kemp wanted to see Lawrence Miller’s face, to see the man’s eyes.

“I ain’t never been so scared in all my life,” Fussey said, shaking his big head. “I thought you were a dead man. Sure as I’m sitting here.”

“It was truly something,” Kemp said.

Lawrence shook his head and drank from his mug of beer. He saw Connie Flitner come through the door. He smiled and nodded to her. She came over and said hello. Lawrence got up and asked her if she wanted to sit with them. She slid across the green vinyl seat. Lawrence looked to find Kemp smiling and offering a covert nod.

Lawrence caught a passing barmaid and ordered a beer for Connie. He sat down and cleared his throat. “Lots of excitement today,” he said.

“He’s a brave man,” Kemp said.

“Kemp, the bull didn’t do shit.” Lawrence glanced over at Connie. “Excuse me.”

“I’ve heard the word shit before, Lawrence Miller. Been known to use it on occasion.”

Lawrence studied his beer, tracing his finger about the rim of the mug. He stopped when he saw Fussey mimicking his action.

“Truly something,” Fussey said.

The barmaid brought Connie’s beer and left. Connie thanked Lawrence and took a sip. Her right hand was on the seat and had moved across the vinyl to Lawrence’s hand. The backs of their fingers touched gently. Lawrence didn’t take her hand, but he didn’t move his away. He smiled at her.

Dean Phillips walked by and leaned over the table. “How are you gentlemen?” he asked.

“Doin’ good,” Kemp said.

Phillips slapped a hand on Lawrence’s shoulder and looked at him. “How about you?”

Lawrence nodded.

Phillips gave his shoulder a squeeze and walked away to the table in the back where some of the older guys sat.

The booth was quiet for a while. Lawrence guessed that Connie, Fussey, and Kemp were thinking about Phillips’s son. Lawrence was wondering why the man had a sudden interest in his well-being.

“Everybody’s saying it’s the damnedest thing they ever saw,” Fussey said, his eyes locked on Lawrence. His pupils were covered with the shine of a few beers.

“Are you going to eat me or something?” Lawrence asked Fussey. “I mean, stop looking at me like that.”

“What was it like?” Fussey asked.

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Come on, Lawrence,” Fussey pleaded.

“How did it feel?” Kemp asked, his voice low, his face leaning over the table.

Lawrence looked at the two men across from him and then at Connie at his side. She too was eager for some kind of answer. He drained his mug and set it down with a heavy fist for effect and leaned back into the seat. He looked at the people near the door and at the bar. Some were staring at him. All were aware of him. As always. “I felt …” He stopped.

“Yeah,” said Fussey.

“I felt horny.”

Kemp coughed out a laugh.

“Get outta here,” Fussey said.

“No, really,” Lawrence said. He was holding Connie’s hand now.

Fussey was open-mouthed and wide-eyed. “You felt horny. You mean like …”

“Why do you think it took me so long to jump off, Hank?” Fussey was shaking his head. Kemp was beginning to believe the story.

Lawrence was looking right at Fussey’s eyes. “Really,” he said.

Lawrence left the Infirmary alone after telling Connie he needed to drive and think. He was surprised at how stiff his body felt; the muscles of his thighs still felt cramped from having squeezed the bull so tight for so long. He fell in behind the wheel of his pickup and drove out of the dirt parking lot and back toward the arena. Connie had really wanted to be with him, but he wasn’t ready.

He brought his truck to a stop at the stock pens and got out. The bulls lowed a bit, the broncs nayed and whinnied, and the calves bawled. The sounds were quiet sounds that belonged there. Music. He walked between pens and the horses stamped the ground nervously. The he saw the red bull, almost glowing under the moonlight. No, the animal did not have dull bovine eyes, but eyes almost like a cat’s. He leaned on the fence and studied the bull.

“What is it with you?” Lawrence asked.

The bull stared at him, unmoving.

“I could have ridden you.”

The bull took a step backward.

“Did you see their faces?” Lawrence laughed softly, shaking his head. “They were more scared than I was.” Lawrence looked west at the field behind the pens and the stand of cottonwoods at the edge, the hills cut against the sky beyond it all. He walked the perimeter of the pen to the gate at back that opened to the west and the expanse of pasture. He swung out the gate. “Well, go on, crazy. Beat it. Hightail it! Hiya, get outta here!” Lawrence came around the gate and into the open.

The bull stepped back.

“The gate’s open. Go.” Lawrence stood in front of the bull, thinking he wished he were drunk just to have a decent excuse for standing there like a fool. He walked along the inside of the pen and tried to urge him out. “Get! Hiyah!”

The bull charged. Lawrence dove to the ground and rolled out of the way, and the bull ran on past and out into the field where he slowed to a walk.