Nothing is Fixed

FICTION FRIDAY (Short provocative originals.)

When people ask his name he tell ‘em, Rufus B. Marshall. Always they ask when somebody give an initial, what it stand for?

Rufus used to say Bull Rider. Then he say, Bronc Buster. Then he say, Bull Fighter. Then he say, Barrel Man. Now he don’t say nothing at all, just keep walking.

Rufus dips the pocked, crusty edge of the sponge into an eight-ounce jar of Ben Nye Clown White. Shit’s expensive at twenty-five a pop. Anything else burns his face.

His bowlegs press against the floorboard, back against the sagging, coffee-stained driver’s seat as he angles for a better look. Puts a fist to his eye, outlines around it, do the same with the other, leaves big black unmade saucers, fills in the rest.

Rufus disappears in the truck’s rearview and Ruf Ruf appears. Dalmatian rodeo dog born a economic necessity.

Kinda like everything else in his life; army, divorce, nomad-living in an old horse trailer he drags behind this F150. Thing’s so old should a had chariot wheels instead a tires.

Rufus checks his look in the mirror again, then his watch. Still got 20 minutes or so. Turns over the dog-eared paperback on the truck’s dashboard.

People surprised by it but Rufus is a reader. Read all kinds a shit while in the sandbox, even this. His girl at the time, and then, for a few months his wife, packed him off to war with it. Read it in his bunk slipped inside a Hustler so thumbed over, almost nothing left but the articles.

She didn’t last, but the book did. Always read just the same one before he head to the ring. He heard Baldwin was a poof, don’t care like he don’t care about the Brazilians being the best at bull riding. Everybody find their own way.

He likes the one poem, ‘cause to him it’s two ideas at once. His lips move, but silently as he presses his finger under each line. Done it so often the oil from his skin and the paint nearly washing out the words or making up new ones of their own.

. . . it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing . . .

Rufus is bone-weary tonight. Ain’t been sleeping great, never sleep great no more, can’t kill that sound, that popping sound, like water boiling in a campfire log. Only time he don’t hear it is in the ring. Why he do this.

A Wednesday night in August. Carbon County Stampede Rodeo. Hot as Hades even after sunset. Rufus rode his first bull here at 22. A barn blazer name of Twitchy. Got all the way to six when Twitchy switch-kicked; caught his hip locked in the wrong way for a sweep to the other side.

Face plant off a peeling plank painted Marlboro red. First scar too. Swollen nose and cheeks, diagonal temple dent like a slash a prisoner might make across four others on a wall. His Daddy joked he looked like a rodeo clown. Maybe more curse than joke. Cause here he is now.

Announcer Billy Lee Lardner is already calling the first rider. He and Rufus got a show banter when they’re working the same spot. Been going on now for three years or so. Started after covid. Maybe a few dozen rodeos.

Work like that create a rhythm. Seems to Rufus like both crowd and cowboys be smiling listening at it. Rufus ain’t in the mood tonight, but Ruf Ruf got to be. How it is a man gets more work. How it is a man gets paid.

How Rufus do it. He become Ruf Ruf. Like Billy Lee Lardner always say, he the bravest dog in the ring ‘cause he ain’t got no ameeg-dala or whatever, he say. That part of his brain all burned out.

He flip on the transmitter then dangle drop it down his black-and-white snap-button shirt, adjust the headset mic, then lock it in place with the crown of his black hat with the four-and-a-half-inch brim.

Big hat like that can overtake a man. Not Rufus; he’s got a head like a solid block a ice. No one ever accused him a being all hat.

Rufus got a routine. Like the book. Right before he go out he takes a deep breath, makes three circles to his left like a dog ‘bout to lie down, takes a knee and say a little prayer. He do this every time.

Don’t know if anyone listening. Don’t think so, just what he do. Then he’s ready.

Billy Lee Lardner just finishing up the stats. First rider getting in the chute. Regular hand. Been around. Ain’t wowed nobody yet, Rufus thinks.

But tonight he drew a wild one named Tiny Dancer. Smoke breather. Bull more than the rider got the crowd’s attention. Rufus gives Billy a nod, Billy nod to the soundman, punch a button.

“Who, who, who, who, who? Let the dogs out,” Baha Men all tinny and hollow from the PA, and now Ruf Ruf, roll-walking his barrel into the ring.

At 42, he’s getting too old to do this. But crowd still loves seeing Ruf Ruf shovel-stepping on top of the dusty barrel staves. Hop off when he gets to center ring.

“Ladies and Cowhands, we know who let the dogs out here at the Carbon County Stampede Rodeo. It’s Ruuuuuuuf Ruuuuuuuf,” Billy Lee Lardner stretch it out, “How you doing tonight, pardner?”

Ruf Ruf swings around, taking in the opening night crowd, most seats filled. And now he got a little wind.

Remind him of the first summer he come out from Maryland to visit his Daddy.

Them two driving down the endless back roads where the bouncing rhythm of the truck’s suspension lulled him into a stupor and ushered in through the open windows a dust so fine it might come from the moon. A Wyoming dirt baptism.

Found his forever place in the vast empty land. No houses butted against each other. No people you needed to cross to avoid.

His Daddy was fine with him staying on, but his Momma wa’nt. Didn’t think much of the schools in Wyoming, nor her ex-husband for that matter.

Figured the boy would end up another shiftless ranch, drifting from job to job, spending his paycheck on beer and cigarettes, not two quarters left in his pocket, just like his Daddy.

Happened anyway, as it was. But it was Momma told him to go on back out there after Eyerack. Him all moody, drinking all the time, hardly leaving his room, anyway.

Might as well do it outside she said. Might as well do it where less a chance a hitting something human if he driving drunk.

Ruf Ruf inhaled it all in again, fresh. Looked up to the announcer box in the stands.

“Billy Lee,” Ruf Ruf starts right in, “you know what they call a cow with one leg?”

“No, sir I don’t – and knowing you Ruf Ruf, I don’t think I like where this is going.”

“Lean beef,” the crowd chuckles and groans, while Ruf Ruf plows ahead.

“Billy Lee, you know what they call a cow with three legs?”

“No, sir, I don’t – but you better not be up to what I think you’re up to.”

“Tri-tip,” scattered guffaws. “Billy Lee, you know what they call a cow with no legs?”

“No, sir, I don’t – but I’m warning you Ruf Ruf. . .”

“Ground Beef,” folks laughing so hard now, they slapping each other’s knees. Ruf Ruf gets ready to land the bit. “Billy Lee, you know what they call a cow with two legs?”

“No, sir, I don’t, and it better not be . . .”

“Your mama!” Ruf Ruf doubles over, like he can’t contain himself, but nothing comes out. An eruption of volcanic laughter from the crowd. Ruf Ruf can’t hear none of it over the pop, pop, pop in his ears.

“Well, that’s just plain mean,” Billy Lee Lardner says, talking over the laughing of the crowd. Time to transition.

“But there is one thing in this ring meaner than you, Ruf Ruf, and Laramie’s Braden Sheffield is sitting on top of him now. A 1900 pound monster named Tiny Dancer who’s making quite a name for himself this season. Tiny Dancer’s already got a 23-rider buck-off streak. Got the crowd curious whether Braden Sheffield’s going to be number 24.”

Ruf Ruf eyeballs the chute while Billy Lee goes through his spiel. The rider’s got a helmet on but he thinks he sees something in his eyes just behind the mesh of metal.

Seen eyes like that before. Right before pulling the bags over their heads. ‘Soften’em up,’ they said. So that’s what they did.

Ruf Ruf looks longer at Braden Sheffield. He knows what it’s like to be that cowboy, knows what it’s like to straddle the rails of the chute, stare down at the bull’s back, sharp smell of sawdust, sweat and fear inside the gate, all of it ganging up on your brain at once, drop down in the seat, bull’s muscles tense and glistening, puller hand you the tail of the rope, glove on your left hand so rosin’d up looks like you dipped it in powder sugar, wrap that rope so tight like you got $3,000 in your fist already, you slide up front on the beast, dig your crotch into your knuckles, squeeze your knees, feet forward, tuck your chin, lift up your right hand like you’re swearin’ to tell the truth, which you are, as much as you know it.

But Sheffield’s holding his shoulders too tight, hesitates before he raises his hand. Ruf Ruf sees that boy gonna need him and kicks down on the end of his barrel so it’s standing up right.

Sheffield nods like the condemned, the gate opens, and Tiny Dancer explodes out the chute.

Ruf Ruf knows the boy ain’t gonna last two seconds. The hardest part is figuring which way the bull is going to break into his spin, left or right.

A cowboy got to commit which way to put their weight to ride that inside turn. Sheffield chooses wrong.

Sheffield is already off his rope. Bull dipping deeper than the cowboy expected. He’s way off center now, flying over the bull’s left flank, tucks his head before he hits the ground, finds the dirt hard with his shoulder.

Ruf Ruf hears a snap, Sheffield’s right hand goes to his collarbone while the left just dangles. He sees Tiny Dancer already swinging back around, head down ready to lift the fallen cowboy to the light stands.

The two bullfighters rush the animal, waving their hands to distract him from the broken rider who’s just finding his feet. Ruf Ruf sees the bull’s got his mind on the man. Won’t be dissuaded. Ruf Ruf pulls the barrel over himself and throws his body into a fast roll right at the monster.

Bull got no choice but to fend off the barrel. It spatulas under it with its horns, sends Ruf Ruf’s barrel skybound. This what they felt, weightless, limbs yellow from drained blood. Soften ‘em up, they did.

He stays crouched inside his barrel, knees and elbows forcing tension to keep him in place. The barrel lands. Pop. Pop. Pop.

He feels a stabbing streak through his back, an impact jar. Walked away from worse. The bull fighters boost Sheffield out of the ring and rush Tiny Dancer back through the open gate.

“Braden Sheffield looks a little worse for wear after that one, but he’s still walking thanks to Ruf Ruf and our bullfighters. Tiny Dancer extends his buck-off streak to 24 with that one folks. But wait a second folks,” Billy Lee Lardner says, as his eyes drift to the unmoving barrel. “You okay, pardner?”

More seconds tick by and still nothing. Finally, when the crowd expects the worst, Ruf Ruf punches out his legs, rocks himself up, starts running with the barrel over his head like a cartoon character who can’t see where he’s going, runs in circles blindly until he hits the fence, bounces off, lands barrel up, feet sticking out like shrimp dumped in cocktail sauce. The crowd roars.

~ ~ ~

Billy Lee Lardner is announcing the next rider, Arturo Silva, the 2019 PBR champ trying to reignite some past glory. Silva is short, Ruf Ruf’s seen him in his boots, no more than 5’8, 5’9 but it ain’t a deficit always.

Low center of gravity can be a gift for a bullrider, easy to shift when the bull do. Downside is he don’t have length in his legs to encircle a rodeo bull’s massive girth. But what Silva lacks in length, he makes up for in that Brazilian jiu-jitsu strength.

He has bowlegs like Rufus, thick as tree trunks and once on the back of a bull they grip like giant squid suckers. He needs ‘em on this ride. Rufus thinks. Silva drew one of the most feared bulls on the Wyoming summer circuit, Horatio Hornblower.

Billy Lee Lardner explains the literary pedigree of the bull’s name, though most folks didn’t give a lick about that stuff, especially the bull.

Hornblower just waiting for the chute to open, to throw off that thing clinging to his back.

~ ~ ~

Silva gives his nod, Hornblower got all four hooves off the ground before his head clears the chute. Billy Lee Lardner talking but Ruf Ruf don’t know what he says. The Pop. Pop. Pop. Too loud now.

Rufus feels like there’s a football field between him and Ruf Ruf’s barrel. He see black smoke pouring out. He back at the burn pit. Stuffed all those things with the war’s garbage, empty MRE boxes, empty ketchup bottles, letters and cardboard boxes, secrets and mistakes, cruelty and innocence.

Sprayed it all with JP-8 and set it a blaze. Sometimes as they was burning, you’d hear it: the popping like something bursting to get out. Like something ain’t supposed to be in there.

He looks around, the crowd don’t see it. All the eyes are locked on Silva still clinging to Horatio Hornblower’s massive back.

Rufus still can’t hear nothing but the popping noise, look like a scorched hand covered in a ball of orange flame, clawing out of the barrel.

Black smoke coming off the tip of the fingers, like it trying to write his name in the air. Let the world know where he is. Dark and light.

Ruf Ruf look up at the clock ticking away.

“Two, three, four...”

He just needs to last a little longer.

Billy Lee, “five, six, seven,”

The buzzer sound; Silva uses Hornblower’s last buck to dismount. Ruf Ruf should be helping the bullfighters but he just stand there.

He’s right behind his barrel now, peering down at the flames. Outlasted them one more time.

-END-

Order Kevin Sites’s award-winning debut novel, The Ocean Above Me.