Chapter 41: Heading South

March

Jesse and I spend the day familiarizing ourselves with the grounds, stopping at the at all the stalls to assess inventory. He walks me through what features to look for in Angus heifers and bulls.

"So, what are you in the market for, anyway?" I ask him.

"We need a new sire, so I've been searching for a while for a Black Angus bull with the right temperament."

"How do you measure that?"

"It's tricky. Lots of buyers go by the chute score. But I like to look him in the eye. Take his temperature, so to speak. We're heading south towards Brownsville tomorrow morning to check out a candidate at Refugio Ranch. If I like him, I'll ask to see him move in an arena under stress."

"What does that involve?"

"Me and Ash go in there with him, push him around a bit. See how he responds."

"Want any help?"

"Not this time. This time, you watch. We can practice with Redbo on a more docile cow after you see how it's done."

When we finish up there, it's time to head to the main stadium to watch Joe. The bullriding event starts at seven.

Before the first rider is released, Joe and two other bullfighters enter the arena. The other guys have their faces painted like clowns, wearing cowboy hats and suspenders over brightly colored jerseys. Attached to the suspenders is a wide baggy bullfighting skirt.

Joe isn't dressed like the others. His only makeup is like the eyeblack that football players wear, and he's decked out in high-top football cleats, a backwards ballcap over his long blond hair, black leggings, and long baggy shorts. His jersey is bright blue and says "Chaplin" across the back.

I've seen some video of Joe at work, but I've never gotten the chance to watch him perform live. Dad isn't too thrilled with Joe's career choice, so it's not like we ever followed him on the rodeo circuit. He's been on the road ten years, and this is the first time I've been to a show.

The first few bulls they release aren't too ornery. The clowns kind of dance around really close them when the rider falls to distract the bulls.

"See there?" Jesse says. "They stay in his blind spot. That's the safest place."

I nod. "Lord, would you look at the size of that bastard," I say under my breath. The next bull in the chute is short and stocky, built wide and low to the ground.

"That's Black Bart. He's a beast," Jesse says.

Black Bart rips out of the chute, kicking his hind quarters up over and over trying to dislodge the rider. Once he knocks him loose, the bullfighters engage so that the rider has a chance to flee. But Black Bart isn't done bucking yet, and one of the clowns gets a hoof to the kidney, going down.

"Holy shit," Jesse mutters. "Come on now, Joe, don't do anything stupid."

Joe gets right in front of the bull's line of sight, and Black Bart charges him. Instead of running away, Joe runs at him and jumps over his entire body, like he's playing leap-frog.

The crowd roars.

The clowns usher the bull back to the chute, and Joe takes off his hat, waving and bowing to his fans in the stadium.

After the show is over, we meet Joe at the 1st Street Bar in town.

"What'd you boys think?" Joe asks as he sets down an ice bucket of Buds. The waitress comes up behind him with three shots of tequila.

He sits down, winks at her, and says, "keep 'em coming, Lola." Then he turns to us. "Well?"

"Seems pretty dangerous," Jesse says.

"Okay, Grandad," Joe says and rolls his eyes. He pops three beers open and passes them around. Then he pushes the tequilas in front of us. He picks his up, and gestures for us to do the same. "To wedded bliss," he says, and we click our shot glasses together.

The liquor burns my throat, teasing my gag reflex. I suck on a lime slice to neutralize the poison still left in my mouth. Then I take a few swigs of beer. Compared to the tequila, it tastes like the purest spring water, cold and straight from the source.

"What'd you think, chief?" Joe asks me.

"I agree with Jesse. You could get hurt real bad, Joe."

He shrugs. "Just gotta keep moving, or you get stuck. If I have to take a hookin,' then I have to take a hookin.' It's the job. As long as I stay on my feet, I'll stay safe and so will my rider."

"And if you get knocked off your feet, who does the bull attack?" Jesse asks.

"Me, usually. But look, if we let fear drive the trolley, then nobody'd ever leave their damn house. Any day of the week, you could be walking down the street, get mowed down by a jogger pushing a double stroller, or beaned by a flying object, a damn hubcap knock you upside the head or some shit. Hell, you could get trampled by an elephant."

Jesse laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah, Jack. Gotta steer clear of those elephant herds running rampant in Texas." He winks at me.

"I'm just saying, there's always a risk," Joe says. "That's life."

"But, purposely putting yourself in front of a live bull that outsizes you by a couple tons on a daily basis," I argue, "that's gotta increase the risk, don't you think Joe?"

"I guess. But, damn, I feel it's worth it. I wanna feel alive every day. I wanna do what I want every day." He tips his head back to unload the rest of his beer, then he slams the empty bottle on the table. "Besides, I don't wanna sit back. I don't wanna sit at some desk. I don't wanna sit at an auction and bid on cows and horses. Shit's boring. I ain't tryin' to work just so I can eat. I want to live, son."

I nod my head. Sometimes I wish I had that zero fucks attitude.

Lola brings another round of shots. "Thanks, Sugar," Joe says real smooth. Joe's been a lady's man since birth. Ma said he came out of the womb flirting with the nurses. It doesn't hurt that he's tall and lean, athletic and rugged, but with a face of an angel. He's the only one of us that has those golden curls and big seafoam-colored eyes. The rest of us have light brown eyes and  hair, except Jesse who's a ginger like Ma.

He passes out the next round of shots. I may not survive this night.

"So tell me about this fiancé of yours."

"What do you want to know?" I take a few swigs of beer to chase down the tequila.

"Everything. But I need a visual. Show me some pics. Doesn't have to be a nudesie."

"That's good, because I don't have any nudesies to speak of." I open her Instagram profile and hand the phone over to Joe.

He whistles, long and low. "Damn, son, she's a smokeshow."

I nod.

"I bet she's real horny right now, too. Pregnancy does that to a girl."

I put my elbows on the table and rest my forehead in my hands, shaking my head. "I'm not really sure I want to know how you discovered that, Joe."

Jesse giggles.

"Well, I meet all kinds of folks on the rodeo circuit," Joe says, smiling. "All kinds of ladies."

I did not need that visual.

"So, is she?" he asks.

"Is she what, Joe?"

"Frisky."

I think back to the night I said goodbye to her and how aggressive she was. But the weird part of that was it didn't feel like a sex drive kind of thing. It felt more like she was insecure and needed reassurance. Needed to bind me closer to her somehow.

I look up at Joe. "Maybe she is, but I'm not."

"Oh, you ain't attracted to her now she's got a bun in the oven. It happens. Not to me, but I hear it happens."

Jesse just shakes his head and keeps drinking.

"No, it's not that," I say. "She's beautiful no matter what."

"Yeah, I bet. Pregnancy has its perks," Joe says putting his hands up to his chest like he's holding a cantaloupe in each one.

"That's not what I mean, Joe. It's just hard for me to think about her in that way right now."

Joe leans back in his chair and downs another beer. Then he says, "son, you're about to make her your wife. And you're telling me you don't wanna bang her. She's gonna be your wife, and you're gonna be with her the rest of your life. That's a long time to go without sex. This seems like a problem you're gonna need to fix before you make it official."

I guess he's right. I can't quite figure out what my problem is. Part of me thinks it's the situation—I'm in survival mode, so sex is the last thing on my mind. Then there's Peyton, and even though I can't be with her, it still feels like a betrayal.

But there's something else, something deeper. It has to do with Bree being an obligation rather than a choice.

After our third shot, Jesse is tapped out. "Alright boys," he says. "Old grandad is hanging it up for the night."

"Aw, come on, Pappy," Joe says. "It's the little chief's bachelor party. Can't quit now."

"I'm quitting, Joe. We're heading south before sunup tomorrow. Y'all don't try and drive, ya hear? We're less than a mile from the fairground. Couple of young bucks like you can walk."

"Okay, Dad," Joe says shaking his head.

At this point, I'm so drunk I can barely see straight. When we finish off the beers, Lola comes over to collect the bucket and hand us the check.

"What gives, Lola? You're empty-handed."

She smiles and bats her eyelashes at him. "That's cuz it's a Wednesday night, Joe. Last call was thirty minutes ago. Y'all want me to call you a ride?"

"How 'bout you just take me home with you?" He asks.

She smiles and shakes her head. "Not tonight, Josiah. Not tonight."

As we're stumbling home, I can't even think straight. But I just start yammering away anyhow.

"Hey Joe," I say. "I've been thinking a lot about everything that's happened...with dad and us. Peyton, her brother died, it's horrible."

"Uh huh. Trying to follow you, bud. Who's Peyton?"

"She's magical, electric. A moon goddess. I love the shit outta Peyton."

"Thought your betrothed was named Bree."

"That's right. Bree. But Peyton said that before her brother died, she was always running ...interference...for him. He never quite measured up to their dad's expectations."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know. It just made me think about you and all the things you did to get dad's attention to distract him from the rest of us, especially me. And I just want you to know that I see it now, what you've done. I used to think you were kind of a hothead or just stupid, but now I get it." I stop and turn to him. "I just want you to know that I appreciate it. I see you, Joe. And I'm real sorry he drove you away."

Joe is quiet. He stops and takes out his Marlboros, packs them against the heel of his hand like he likes to do and places a cigarette in his mouth. He cups his hand over the end and lights it with his Zippo. He takes a long drag and blows the smoke up into the night sky.

"You know what? I don't know if I ever really saw it quite like that. The way I see it, there's two types of people in this world, the ones that let things happen and the ones that make things happen. And I'm one of the latter. I don't like to sit around and wait for somebody to come at me. I like to be...proactive."

We continue walking back to the show grounds.

"And he didn't drive me away, exactly, but he is one of the reasons I left. We locked horns more than two goats in rut." He stops again to light another cigarette. "You ever heard of Machiavelli?"

"Mac who?"

"Machiavelli, the philosopher."

"No, Joe. Don't think I have."

"Well, his theory is that there's two types—them that rule through love, and them that rule by fear. Dad found fear to be the most effective approach...so did Machiavelli."

I think back to Dad's reaction the night I told them about Bree. There was judgement in his voice, his words. He seemed to be saying that if I didn't marry Bree, I wouldn't be a real man. He was trying to shame me into doing what he thought was the right thing. He used my fear of looking like a weak coward against me. "Yeah," I say to Joe. "I can see that."

"But there's a problem with that logic," Joe continues. "A catch-22."

"What do you mean?"

"Those who rule by fear only do so because they're scared of losing power. Machiavelli's argument is that them who choose fear are more powerful. But the fact that they choose fear reveals that they're scared of losing control. In my eyes, it makes a man look weaker."

"So, you prefer to be ruled by love?"

"I prefer not to be ruled at all, son. I'm a riser. I rule myself."

"A riser?"

"Someone who drives his own destiny. A revolutionary. Upriser. I wasn't running away from him as much as I was running to something that I wanted. I'd always had rodeo in my blood, so I made it happen. At fifteen years old, I knew I wanted to be in the show, but I didn't have a whole lotta skills, not a whole lotta education neither seeing as how I was only in the ninth grade when I left. But I had something that couldn't be taught."

"What's that?"

"Grit, son. It's called grit."