Barnstorm (10 page)

Rufus leaned over the counter, into the crowd. He looked left, right as if checking for the boss man. Rufus reached back, pointed to the biggest Teddy Bear with his yardstick.

“Ya know, son, if you win that purdy littl’ gal this Teddy Bear, she’d be kissin’ ya all night ‘hind the grandstand.”

The newly-gathered crowd cheered the young boy, encouraging him. Were he a riverside preacher, Rufus could have baptized fifty sinners about now. Even Gerty had taken a position beside the young girlfriend to marvel at Rufus, the magician. Best entertainment at the fair. Rufus handed the good rifle to the boy. “Okay, everybody. Stand back. Wyatt Earp is at the OK Corral. Let ‘er rip, Wyatt.”

The boy took careful aim. Pop, pop. He hit targets straight-on with both shots. Bells rang, two ducks flopped over. The crowd cheered. The young girlfriend jumped up and down. Bait-and-switch is a two-step process. Rufus had successfully dangled the bait. Now for the switch; he retrieved the good rifle from the boy, laid it on the counter, and held it securely under his hand.

“One doller,” he said. “Five easy shots and the kisses stert flowin.’ How ‘bout it, Wyatt?”

As his girlfriend squealed, the boy dug into his blue jeans, pulled out a wadded up dollar bill. As the boy looked at his dollar bill, Rufus cleverly switched back to the bum rifle under the counter. Bait-and-switch; both now completed. The trap was set.

The boy laid his money on the counter. Rufus handed him the bum rifle. Taking careful aim, the trigger was eased. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. No bells, no whistles. The crowd sighed ‘ah’ in disbelief. The boy missed everything. Embarrassed, he slumped his shoulders. The girlfriend was disappointed.

Gomer reached for Gerty’s purse as she abruptly moved to stand beside the boy. Gomer, furled brow, missed his pickpocket target. Before Rufus could retrieve the switched bum rifle, Gerty had it in her hands. Observing from a distance, Robinson settled into the back of the growing crowd.

“Mr. Wyatt Earp, hold this a second,” she instructed the defeated boy as he fumbled with her purse over his elbow.

Gerty looked down the bum rifle sight line and darted an accusatory stare at Rufus. “Crooked as a dog’s hind leg,” she announced.

Rufus took another swipe to retrieve the bum rifle, but missed. The front row of the assembled crowd gasped and jumped back as Gerty smashed the barrel end of the rifle hard on the shooting range counter. Squinting through one eye perched aside the stock handle, she looked down the sightline. She lifted the end of the rifle barrel to her eyes and bent the sight bead with her thumb. Again, looking down the sightline, she licked her thumb and swiped the end of the barrel sight bead.

“There, that should do it,” she said.

Gerty exchanged the newly repaired bum rifle for her purse with the shocked young boy. He had never been around such a take-charge woman. She opened her purse and authoritatively slapped a dollar bill on the counter.

“Our little friend would like to try again.”

Rufus opened his mouth to object. He had barely initiated a cautious inhale when Gerty cut him off.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she lectured. “You must not have understood. Shut up and stand back, skunk breath. I said our little friend here would like to try again.”

Rufus reluctantly slid the dollar bill off the counter and shoved it in his apron. He stood aside. The crowd cleared back as the boy shouldered the rifle. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. Five dead-on hits. Ducks and rabbit targets flopped over, bells rang, whistles tooted, the crowd hooted and hollered. Passersby within fifty feet joined the action to see what all the commotion was about.

The boy raised the rifle triumphantly over his head and laid it on the counter. His girlfriend cheered, threw her arms around the boy’s neck. Rufus’s banter had been right, the kisses might start flowing. Rufus reluctantly handed the huge prize bear to the boy. Now in possession of her new Teddy Bear, the girl grabbed the boy’s hand as they retreated through the separating throng.

The boy paused, dropped the little girl’s hand, and took a few steps back to Gerty, saying, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You did the shootin.’ What’s your name, son?”

“Luke, ma’am.”

“Well, Luke, you have fun at the fair.”

The young couple, Teddy Bear in tow, walked off, hand-in- hand. As the crowd dispersed, Robinson left the shadows and approached Rufus. He whispered to Rufus, pointing to Gerty, as he slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. Rufus and Gomer made eye contact. They had a new assignment.

☁ ☁ ☁

The public address speakers blared an announcement that the rodeo was about to start at the main grandstand. Trip eyed the rodeo banner above the grandstand entrance. Recalling that Buzz and Deb had entered the grandstand, he decided to avoid the swarm of people at the main entrance. It would be better to disappear into the overflow crowd on the infield track. He joined the late-coming stragglers and circled around the left side of the grandstand. He grabbed a space in the middle of the dirt track in the second row. This would have been acceptable, except for the six-foot-five cowboy with the ten-gallon hat standing in front of him. Trip bobbed and weaved and missed most of the calf roping event.

He gave up as the barrel racing event commenced. The only saving grace of the second row was that the first row blocked most of the dust, dirt, and horse crap that filled the air as the horses made their tight turns around the barrel in front of the six-foot-five cowboy. Trip noticed an older couple abandoning their front-row spot to his left. Before he could nab the spot at the rail, two young teenagers cut him off. Heck, he thought, they’ll get covered in dirt, anyway. He gave up and meandered toward the backstage area in the racetrack infield.

Trip was amazed at the flurry of activity behind the scenes. Horses, cowboys, everyone crisscrossed every which way. In the shadow of a raggedy old canvas tent with a tattered ‘Crew Tent’ sign posted above its entrance, he saw a rodeo clown. Seated on a bale of straw, the clown was drinking Jim Beam whiskey straight from the bottle. Finished with his afternoon refreshment, the tipsy clown tossed the bottle aside.

The clown’s timing could not have been worse. The discarded bottle landed directly at the feet of the rodeo manager as he exited the crew tent. The rodeo manager picked up the bottle, gave it a quick sniff. He threw the bottle back at the feet of the inebriated clown.

“Tex!” he screamed. “That’s it. Yer fired! Get yer drunk carcass outta here.”

The clown stumbled to his feet, ripped his bright orange wig off, threw it, hitting the rodeo manager in the chest as he staggered off. The rodeo manager caught the wig and kicked the bale of straw beside the crew tent. Still holding the orange wig, the rodeo manager turned on his heels, without looking, he bumped into Trip. As he shoved him aside, the orange wig dropped at Trip’s feet.

Ignoring Trip, the rodeo manager shouted one last expletive toward Tex, “And the horse you rode in on.”

Turning his attention to Trip, he grumbled, “Get outta my way.”

With that, the rodeo manager stomped off. He scratched his head under a well-worn cowboy hat. Now what? Can’t have bull riding without a rodeo clown.

The rodeo manager kicked a clod of dirt as he heard Trip ask, “You got fifty bucks?”

Still frustrated, the rodeo manager stopped in his tracks, turned, and saw Trip wearing the bright orange wig and muttered, “Excuse me?” The rodeo manager gave Trip a quick once-over. Trip fully extended his arms, palms up; as if ‘ta da.’

“Fifty bucks,” Trip repeated as he did a full circle spin.

Rodeo day at the county fair would be a good time to burglarize farmers’ homes. Everyone was there, hanging from the grandstand rafters. Buzz and Deb, stuck behind a support post, sat about halfway-up in the grandstand. Eating popcorn and waving at crop-dusting customers and farmers, they craned their necks around the post to see the rodeo action.

The rodeo manager, having resumed his role as interlocutor, ringmaster, and public address announcer extraordinaire, pumped up the crowd, “Cowboys, cowgirls, cinch up yer britches ‘cause it’s the main event. Six tons of snot-snortin’, poop-squirtin’, gut-wrenchin’ beasts are a’comin’ yer way. And heck, that’s jest the cowboys. Wait ‘til ya see our bulls.”

The crowd cheered wildly. They had waited for this bull-riding event since last years’ rodeo sent two cowboys and one overly fed spectator to the local hospital. Nothing better than the mixture of blood, bull snot, and torn human flesh. This was a show not to be missed.

A female rodeo clown skipped around the dirt track in front of the grandstand. Introduced as Flossie, her baggy pants, wild colors, huge polka-dot bow tie, and floppy hat elicited squeals and giggles from the kids. Facing the grandstand, hands on her hips, she scratched her bottom, then stretched her pant front out far enough that she could double over, fully inserting her head into her oversized pants. The crowd roared in delight, what is she looking for? Resurfacing from her deep dive, she threw her hands in the air, as if where is it?

“Over here,” the rodeo manager shouted. “Ya left it over here,” as he pointed to a large rubber barrel in the corner of the dirt track arena.

Flossie hopped, skipped, and jumped over to the barrel. She looked down into the barrel, flailed her hands inside the barrel as if stirring a kettle of porridge, and motioned, it’s empty. She rolled the barrel into the center of the dirt track arena and balanced on the side of the barrel like a log roller. She righted the barrel.

Retreating from the barrel, Flossie placed her hands aside her head, fingers extended like bull horns and swiped her feet on the dirt track. Pretending to be a bull, she charged the upright barrel and knocked it over. As it rolled around, a second clown extricated himself from the barrel and rose. Obviously dizzy from his ordeal, he staggered to face the grandstand. Full make-up, big red ping-pong sponge nose. And the bright orange wig. It was Trip.

Flossie cupped Trip’s head in her hands, kissed him on the mouth, and whispered, “Do as I say, ya might actually live through this.”

“Oh crap,” Trip muttered. “Heck of a way to make fifty bucks.”

Losing his nerve, Trip turned to exit the arena. True to his nickname, he tripped over his oversized clown shoes and landed right in front of the chute where a cowboy rider and bull number one were ready to be released. Trip stood face-to-face with the bulging gate. The gate exploded open. A leaping bull grazed his shoulder, its tail whipping directly across his face. Eight seconds, a horn blew, and the successful rider jumped off. The rider scampered to the fence, climbed to safety, and waved to the crowd.

The job of a rodeo clown is three-fold: protect the cowboy by distracting the bull, entertain the crowd, and lastly, stay alive. So far, with his first bull, Trip was two for three. The cowboy was safely astride the fence. Goal one–check. The crowd was delirious. Trip’s close call as the bull grazed his shoulder and his resulting somersault across the arena was hilarious. Goal two– check. Goal three, staying alive? Still in doubt. A bit dazed, Trip stumbled to his feet. Dusting himself off, he had garnered one hundred percent of the bull’s attention.

Flossie, fingers from both hands in her mouth, let loose a blood curdling whistle. She waved frantically communicating get your butt over here! Trip made eye contact with the bull, then Flossie. He took a half-step toward Flossie and the rubber barrel– thinking he might sneak to safety. Rodeo bulls are generally unfamiliar with the ‘sneak’ concept. The bull pawed the dirt with his front hooves, lowered his head and snorted snot high over his back. The crowd fell silent, now concerned over this new clown’s safety. Trip abandoned the sneak strategy and high-stepped his way as fast as he could to the rubber barrel, thinking, who ever thought floppy, size twenty-seven red shoes would be funny at a time like this?

It was a footrace. Followed by a hoof race. Two clown feet quickly losing ground to four bull hooves. Trip started out ahead, but the bull closed fast. Flossie was helpless to be of any assistance; it was too late to distract the bull. Trip and the bull simultaneously converged on the barrel. Trip dove in head first and disappeared, his clown shoes wind-milling out the top of the barrel. Flossie kept the barrel between herself and the bull. The bull rammed the barrel, flinging it skyward. The crowd sucked all of the oxygen out of the air within eyesight of the grandstand with its collective gasp. The previously hilarious moment was replaced with terror. No one expected to see a rodeo clown get mauled before their very eyes. This was supposed to be fun. Children might be traumatized for life.

The barrel landed hard, a mixture of dirt track dust and rodeo animal poop rose in mini-tornadoes. The barrel bounced twice, and rolled, stopping at Flossie’s feet. She righted the barrel and danced behind its shadow, protecting herself from the bull. Now bored with the whole affair, the bull trotted to an open gate and left the arena.

It was now only Flossie and the barrel. The crowd was silent. Two cowboys, with a stretcher, ran to center arena, ready to retrieve the body of the new rodeo clown. In hushed silence, mothers covered the eyes of their young children. This wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

Flossie peered into the barrel, shook Trip’s shoulder and inquired, “You alive in there?” She tipped the barrel onto its side.

Trip slowly wiggled out of the barrel, his back to the grandstand. The crowd saw his bright orange wig as it flopped back and forth. He stood erect and turned to face the crowd. Arms extended in triumph, he took a bow. The crowd went nuts. Flossie gave him a quick hug. Together they loaded the rubber barrel onto the stretcher, which rolled off as the cowboys unsuccessfully tried to carry it out of the arena.

Trip skipped around the arena to the delight of the crowd. Goals two and three accomplished–entertain and stay alive.

Getting a bit cocky, he was quickly brought back to reality as the second, one-ton bovine burst from the bulging gate. Trip slithered into his barrel as the second bull pitched him across the dirt track. All he saw was spinning faces and dirt. Bull number two lost interest as Flossie righted the barrel. Accepting another round of bows and applause, Trip concluded, this wasn’t so bad.