pride’s revenge. . .
My Guns ‘n' Roses T-shirt with cutoff sleeves overlapped my faded Levi shorts. A braided ponytail hung at the square of my back pointing at the tattered sneakers on my staggering feet. Six-foot thick and full of attitude, I walked through the gawking crowd with confidence next to my older brother Jim. Similarly dressed, Jim had on jeans and an old Kiss shirt accented by his darkened, greasy Ozzy Osbourne cap.
A night on the town, we were two men looking for fun, secretly looking for trouble. Everyone around us was in full country boy getups, sporting cowboy hats, boots and large belt buckles. Their mouths were stuffed and overflowing with what is sometimes referred to as worm-dirt causing them to appear as if they had been in a fight and lost, also making them spit a lot. An occasional brown trickle could be spotted dripping onto an unyielding mustache. The disturbed looks we were receiving were not exactly friendly.
Although I was born and raised a hick-from-the-sticks, I had grown away from the country boy antics associated with it. Previously being married to a redheaded, Mexican from Los Angelos, it was easy for me to be led astray. The L.A. woman convinced me that I was much better off without such a naive outlook on life; being a long-haired rebel suited me and society much better she would say. Crazy thoughts and reminiscences of my youth flushed through my head as we had to literally push and shove our way to the bar and order a drink. We were infiltrating the red-necked people like a bulldozer would a small grove.
After a few drinks a piece, Jim and I settled in at a makeshift Blackjack table. The game was the exact same as Vegas, even boasting a real life casino dealer, with one exception: you could not win money. Five dollars to play seemed hideous after learning this. It was easy to settle there; the dealer herself was the only person that would share small talk with me or my brother. Just three feet away, there was a large wooden railing encompassing the establishments main attraction: the infamous Claire Lee—Springfield, Missouri's only existing electric bull.
Claire Lee did attract the wildest of sorts, claiming the pride of hundreds of men and a few crazy women. Her shiny hydraulic cylinder glistened in the beer neons and the nearby dance floor light show. The polished, black leather, stretched ever so tightly around her outer shell, shined and enhanced the sheer power she possessed. The crowd was ecstatic each time a new daredevil would mount Claire Lee, one glove on shoved into her handle of deceit. Her nobility would remain until someone could make it to the buzzer. Conquering her only took eight short seconds, eight very long and strenuous seconds.
Cheers and accusations flew wildly around the group of seventy-five or more hicks and chicks that had gathered around Claire, adding to her prestigiousness. Trying to keep from a fight, I spent the better part of an hour losing five-dollars at a time to Miss Casino, tipping back the building mounds of courage all the while. "Hey, Jim, do you think I should try and ride the bull?" "Are you insane? That thing can kill you. Besides, these country folks probably wouldn't allow it," was his meager reply.
Remembering the fifty-five-gallon drum with a rope tied from four separate directions, which played such an important part of my younger days, I started to convince myself I could ride her, maybe even conquer the beast where she stood.
The simulated bull from back then was an adventure in itself. Fellow country folks would come for miles to ride my neighbor's famous, four-man roped excursion. Each line being pulled in its own direction, teaching the best bull riding habits and techniques to all of its riders. Without my brother's support, I stood and started to stumble my way toward the entrance of Claire Lee's wooden pen.
***********************************************************
After paying eight dollars and fifty-cents, signing my life away six times, and chugging my Segram's 7 and Seven til ice tickled my lip, Claire Lee and I were about to be introduced. Suddenly I was reminded of a verse from a Hank Williams Jr. song I heard in high school: "...and somebody introduced my nose to the floor, and now you just don't get it no more." The six or seven drinks that had so graciously played their courageous role were now starting to spin and twirl; I was beginning to wish I could turn back, perhaps share another conversation with Miss Casino.
"Hey, G-n-R," Claire's attendant yelled above the crowd, making reference to my shirt, "are you ready?"
I could not answer. I simply nodded my head as if I was wearing a cowboy hat tipping toward a lady. My words were lost.
The presence alone of an individual such as myself already had the crowd stirring and rustling, sharing mumbled words about my inevitable fate. Even if I wanted to, I could not run. The surroundings assured me I was riding a bull tonight. Unlike some of the times as a teenage farmhand, riding the spirited, young calves around their stalls, or close to pure danger trying to master the roped, four-man bull in the neighbor's yard—this was real. Pride and alcohol were the strong ones; nerve and embarrassment just accentuated the journey.
As I slid the sweaty, used leather glove over my left-hand, it finally dawned on me what I was about to do, or so I thought. The cold, firm surface of Claire Lee's backside escalated my awareness as I moved around to find just the right spot. My stomach was now in a twisted mess, begging me to calm down or lose the cookies. I could feel the slightly warm spots from the legs of the latest victim; his image of flailing arms and legs mixed with an ejected launch to the hard-padded floor still swarmed my thoughts. His landing was just after the red, digital clock on the wall ticked three point five seconds. Not even halfway, the poor, humiliated cowboy picked up his hat and shamefully trudged away through the dense crowd. Soon forgotten by the spectators, the ashamed cowpoke haunted me. I thought I could still see the top of his hat above the crowd. Claire Lee's height and mass allowed his lowered head to be seen from far away.
Turning over my right shoulder, Jim's uneasy stares were not very reassuring. Miss Casino had already forgotten me. Looking over my left, the overbearing, red numbers of the eight-second legend maker scared the shit out of me. Fidgeting with the rope handle around my glove and rearranging my buttcheeks to fit into the grooves, I stared into the pestering group of onlookers for someone to talk me out of it. Not even Jim was going to miss this action. Realizing the ride was inevitable, I looked at the bull's control master and gave the familiar cowboy nod to make the clock start to run.
***********
Bucking! Jerking! and Jumping! Claire Lee was determined to live up to her record of kicking-off the best. I was only concerned now with the fear of embarrassment; I must ride this thing the full length. The clamp my legs had on her belly and sides could have bent sheet metal steel. The tightened grasp of leather glove and rope were also extremely taunt. Holding on for dear life, my ride lacked style and poise. But, what it did do was last until the buzzer sounded.
The thrill was immeasurable. Crammed together, the onlookers were going crazy. They could be seen jumping, shouting and saluting me with their drinks. Another over the shoulder glance revealed Jim's equal excitement. I had done it; I had conquered the legend; I sheltered the nature of the beast.
Claire Lee seemed to be whipped, slowing more and more as if she were shot with a tranquilizer. By the time she stopped completely, I had already taken my hand from her handle and removed my glove. Sliding off her with the eight-second clock raised to full, I was truly shitting in high cotton. My new found friends were congratulating me, offering me drinks, and patting my rock 'n' roll T-shirt with approving gestures. Everyone was happy for me except Claire's master and trainer; he was not happy at all.
"I'll give your money back if you can ride her again," the angry trainer slyly beckoned.
My biggest mistake was not taking my pride, my legendary status, and my virtually unharmed physique right the fuck out of there. I should have kept on walking, no looking back. The crowd of course overheard my newly oppressive challenge and proceeded to make sure they got a good show. I suppose I cannot blame them; I would have done the same thing. Needless to say, I slipped the glove back on and pranced around Claire as if I had bragging rights. It felt like she was staring at me like a warning signal, reminding me of her long list of in-pain victims.
Claire Lee's master began then to make it a point to ridicule me about my riding style. "A real bull rider moves back and forth with the flow of the animal, kicking feet high and laying back his head flush with the rump of the beast. A real rider has more style than a leach hanging on for dear life!" he shouted, loud enough for the crowd to hear and instantly burst into an unbearable laughter. For no other reason, Claire and I were reintroduced.
The mechanical beast felt different this time, almost surreal, perhaps slightly more powerful than before. As if she were humiliated and scorned, Claire Lee seemed pissed off. Trying to remember the rodeos I watched in the past, cowboys with style and grace flaunting their skills, I envisioned myself as a world champion bull rider executing a flawless ride. With the trainer's harsh remarks still fresh in my head, world champion visions were quickly stolen. My once earned sweat trickling down my back had turned cold and uninviting making me sure the nervousness would promote the churning in my stomach to toss up the evening's intake. The shit-eating grin on the trainer's face brought on even more uncomfortableness.
With the clock reset and my glory erased, I gave another tip of the head toward the bull's master. The whole time I was trying to remember to move with the animal, not clamped onto her. I knew the second ride, especially with the trainer's record of success, would be more difficult, but I had no idea.
**********
One rock forward and then instantly shocking backwards, Claire Lee was on fire. No more had my head snapped like a soggy pretzel backwards with Claire's rocking, before it was thrashed forward and down, connecting my nose and inner eye sockets with the tightly gripped, leather glove on my left hand. The force Claire possessed was incredible; literally, there was no controlling her. As soon as the leather glove rammed my face, it embedded itself into my nose peeling away about seven layers of skin and sending stars into my consciousness. I could no longer hold my body in an upright position, thus leading to me exiting the beast in an unfashionable manner. One, two, three times, Claire Lee bucked into my rib cage and hip before I could remove my gloved hand from her treacherous grasp. The instant pain was overwhelming. My nose was immediately on fire and throbbing; my eyes were blurry and flickering; my whole-left side was surely bruised in its entirety, and I could not comprehend the surroundings. The once glorious moment I gloated by had been ripped away, in just a smidgen of time, leaving a newly found hero dying and rotting trying to regain any pride I had left. Claire Lee's trainer was now extremely happy, bragging to the crowd about his undying success. He and the mighty beast had kicked my ass.
Very little time had passed before I knew I was hurt pretty bad. The lustful spectators did not care at all. What were once cheers of respect were now degrading gestures and shrewd comments. I could barely stand. All I could do was point toward Jim and slide along the wooden rail.
"Jim, that bull fucked me up. I'm not doing so good. I think we should go." Three short sentences were the extent of my last conversation with my brother that night. Though I do not remember (due to my deliriousness and trauma state), Jim claims that is all I said before somehow miraculously making it to my truck and then leaving him at the bar. If I was to glance back at the battlefield that crippled my heroics, I could have seen the clock. Now, with eight-seconds a distant memory it read an unflattering two point six seconds.
***********
My brother argues that he tried for hour-and-a-half to revitalize me, after receiving a ride to my house, swearing I was comatose. I did not recall any of the evening's events until rubbing my incredibly sore, bruised nose first thing after waking up. The pain struck like a ball bat swing to the face, causing my head to throb with great intensity. The blows Claire put on my ribs were remembered as soon as I tried to sit up; I could barely breathe. Practically crawling to the restroom, the mirror, though blurry and in a skew, came into view. Not only had my nose suffered great skin loss and now screamed of raw, painful flesh, but the corners of both my eyes were swollen and turning black. I had won a battle—but lost the war.
Because I did have about two-minutes of glory, I do not totally regret being introduced to the infamous Claire Lee. I have learned of her massive power and abilities. I was never back in the Midnight Rodeo (Springfield's corral for Claire), but I will never forget her. She has marked me in such a way that my thrill seeking endeavors have came to a denouement. I have had other painful attempts at stardom, but none like the respectable time I shared with the emotionless, inhumane likes of Miss Claire Lee. Electric bulls or cliff diving, pain will teach. I have learned a lot; I have matured.
tmez 07, july 97
Tom Mezzacapa—English 220, sec. E101—Mr. C. Closser, Instructor—24, July 1997
A night on the town, we were two men looking for fun, secretly looking for trouble. Everyone around us was in full country boy getups, sporting cowboy hats, boots and large belt buckles. Their mouths were stuffed and overflowing with what is sometimes referred to as worm-dirt causing them to appear as if they had been in a fight and lost, also making them spit a lot. An occasional brown trickle could be spotted dripping onto an unyielding mustache. The disturbed looks we were receiving were not exactly friendly.
Although I was born and raised a hick-from-the-sticks, I had grown away from the country boy antics associated with it. Previously being married to a redheaded, Mexican from Los Angelos, it was easy for me to be led astray. The L.A. woman convinced me that I was much better off without such a naive outlook on life; being a long-haired rebel suited me and society much better she would say. Crazy thoughts and reminiscences of my youth flushed through my head as we had to literally push and shove our way to the bar and order a drink. We were infiltrating the red-necked people like a bulldozer would a small grove.
After a few drinks a piece, Jim and I settled in at a makeshift Blackjack table. The game was the exact same as Vegas, even boasting a real life casino dealer, with one exception: you could not win money. Five dollars to play seemed hideous after learning this. It was easy to settle there; the dealer herself was the only person that would share small talk with me or my brother. Just three feet away, there was a large wooden railing encompassing the establishments main attraction: the infamous Claire Lee—Springfield, Missouri's only existing electric bull.
Claire Lee did attract the wildest of sorts, claiming the pride of hundreds of men and a few crazy women. Her shiny hydraulic cylinder glistened in the beer neons and the nearby dance floor light show. The polished, black leather, stretched ever so tightly around her outer shell, shined and enhanced the sheer power she possessed. The crowd was ecstatic each time a new daredevil would mount Claire Lee, one glove on shoved into her handle of deceit. Her nobility would remain until someone could make it to the buzzer. Conquering her only took eight short seconds, eight very long and strenuous seconds.
Cheers and accusations flew wildly around the group of seventy-five or more hicks and chicks that had gathered around Claire, adding to her prestigiousness. Trying to keep from a fight, I spent the better part of an hour losing five-dollars at a time to Miss Casino, tipping back the building mounds of courage all the while. "Hey, Jim, do you think I should try and ride the bull?" "Are you insane? That thing can kill you. Besides, these country folks probably wouldn't allow it," was his meager reply.
Remembering the fifty-five-gallon drum with a rope tied from four separate directions, which played such an important part of my younger days, I started to convince myself I could ride her, maybe even conquer the beast where she stood.
The simulated bull from back then was an adventure in itself. Fellow country folks would come for miles to ride my neighbor's famous, four-man roped excursion. Each line being pulled in its own direction, teaching the best bull riding habits and techniques to all of its riders. Without my brother's support, I stood and started to stumble my way toward the entrance of Claire Lee's wooden pen.
***********************************************************
After paying eight dollars and fifty-cents, signing my life away six times, and chugging my Segram's 7 and Seven til ice tickled my lip, Claire Lee and I were about to be introduced. Suddenly I was reminded of a verse from a Hank Williams Jr. song I heard in high school: "...and somebody introduced my nose to the floor, and now you just don't get it no more." The six or seven drinks that had so graciously played their courageous role were now starting to spin and twirl; I was beginning to wish I could turn back, perhaps share another conversation with Miss Casino.
"Hey, G-n-R," Claire's attendant yelled above the crowd, making reference to my shirt, "are you ready?"
I could not answer. I simply nodded my head as if I was wearing a cowboy hat tipping toward a lady. My words were lost.
The presence alone of an individual such as myself already had the crowd stirring and rustling, sharing mumbled words about my inevitable fate. Even if I wanted to, I could not run. The surroundings assured me I was riding a bull tonight. Unlike some of the times as a teenage farmhand, riding the spirited, young calves around their stalls, or close to pure danger trying to master the roped, four-man bull in the neighbor's yard—this was real. Pride and alcohol were the strong ones; nerve and embarrassment just accentuated the journey.
As I slid the sweaty, used leather glove over my left-hand, it finally dawned on me what I was about to do, or so I thought. The cold, firm surface of Claire Lee's backside escalated my awareness as I moved around to find just the right spot. My stomach was now in a twisted mess, begging me to calm down or lose the cookies. I could feel the slightly warm spots from the legs of the latest victim; his image of flailing arms and legs mixed with an ejected launch to the hard-padded floor still swarmed my thoughts. His landing was just after the red, digital clock on the wall ticked three point five seconds. Not even halfway, the poor, humiliated cowboy picked up his hat and shamefully trudged away through the dense crowd. Soon forgotten by the spectators, the ashamed cowpoke haunted me. I thought I could still see the top of his hat above the crowd. Claire Lee's height and mass allowed his lowered head to be seen from far away.
Turning over my right shoulder, Jim's uneasy stares were not very reassuring. Miss Casino had already forgotten me. Looking over my left, the overbearing, red numbers of the eight-second legend maker scared the shit out of me. Fidgeting with the rope handle around my glove and rearranging my buttcheeks to fit into the grooves, I stared into the pestering group of onlookers for someone to talk me out of it. Not even Jim was going to miss this action. Realizing the ride was inevitable, I looked at the bull's control master and gave the familiar cowboy nod to make the clock start to run.
***********
Bucking! Jerking! and Jumping! Claire Lee was determined to live up to her record of kicking-off the best. I was only concerned now with the fear of embarrassment; I must ride this thing the full length. The clamp my legs had on her belly and sides could have bent sheet metal steel. The tightened grasp of leather glove and rope were also extremely taunt. Holding on for dear life, my ride lacked style and poise. But, what it did do was last until the buzzer sounded.
The thrill was immeasurable. Crammed together, the onlookers were going crazy. They could be seen jumping, shouting and saluting me with their drinks. Another over the shoulder glance revealed Jim's equal excitement. I had done it; I had conquered the legend; I sheltered the nature of the beast.
Claire Lee seemed to be whipped, slowing more and more as if she were shot with a tranquilizer. By the time she stopped completely, I had already taken my hand from her handle and removed my glove. Sliding off her with the eight-second clock raised to full, I was truly shitting in high cotton. My new found friends were congratulating me, offering me drinks, and patting my rock 'n' roll T-shirt with approving gestures. Everyone was happy for me except Claire's master and trainer; he was not happy at all.
"I'll give your money back if you can ride her again," the angry trainer slyly beckoned.
My biggest mistake was not taking my pride, my legendary status, and my virtually unharmed physique right the fuck out of there. I should have kept on walking, no looking back. The crowd of course overheard my newly oppressive challenge and proceeded to make sure they got a good show. I suppose I cannot blame them; I would have done the same thing. Needless to say, I slipped the glove back on and pranced around Claire as if I had bragging rights. It felt like she was staring at me like a warning signal, reminding me of her long list of in-pain victims.
Claire Lee's master began then to make it a point to ridicule me about my riding style. "A real bull rider moves back and forth with the flow of the animal, kicking feet high and laying back his head flush with the rump of the beast. A real rider has more style than a leach hanging on for dear life!" he shouted, loud enough for the crowd to hear and instantly burst into an unbearable laughter. For no other reason, Claire and I were reintroduced.
The mechanical beast felt different this time, almost surreal, perhaps slightly more powerful than before. As if she were humiliated and scorned, Claire Lee seemed pissed off. Trying to remember the rodeos I watched in the past, cowboys with style and grace flaunting their skills, I envisioned myself as a world champion bull rider executing a flawless ride. With the trainer's harsh remarks still fresh in my head, world champion visions were quickly stolen. My once earned sweat trickling down my back had turned cold and uninviting making me sure the nervousness would promote the churning in my stomach to toss up the evening's intake. The shit-eating grin on the trainer's face brought on even more uncomfortableness.
With the clock reset and my glory erased, I gave another tip of the head toward the bull's master. The whole time I was trying to remember to move with the animal, not clamped onto her. I knew the second ride, especially with the trainer's record of success, would be more difficult, but I had no idea.
**********
One rock forward and then instantly shocking backwards, Claire Lee was on fire. No more had my head snapped like a soggy pretzel backwards with Claire's rocking, before it was thrashed forward and down, connecting my nose and inner eye sockets with the tightly gripped, leather glove on my left hand. The force Claire possessed was incredible; literally, there was no controlling her. As soon as the leather glove rammed my face, it embedded itself into my nose peeling away about seven layers of skin and sending stars into my consciousness. I could no longer hold my body in an upright position, thus leading to me exiting the beast in an unfashionable manner. One, two, three times, Claire Lee bucked into my rib cage and hip before I could remove my gloved hand from her treacherous grasp. The instant pain was overwhelming. My nose was immediately on fire and throbbing; my eyes were blurry and flickering; my whole-left side was surely bruised in its entirety, and I could not comprehend the surroundings. The once glorious moment I gloated by had been ripped away, in just a smidgen of time, leaving a newly found hero dying and rotting trying to regain any pride I had left. Claire Lee's trainer was now extremely happy, bragging to the crowd about his undying success. He and the mighty beast had kicked my ass.
Very little time had passed before I knew I was hurt pretty bad. The lustful spectators did not care at all. What were once cheers of respect were now degrading gestures and shrewd comments. I could barely stand. All I could do was point toward Jim and slide along the wooden rail.
"Jim, that bull fucked me up. I'm not doing so good. I think we should go." Three short sentences were the extent of my last conversation with my brother that night. Though I do not remember (due to my deliriousness and trauma state), Jim claims that is all I said before somehow miraculously making it to my truck and then leaving him at the bar. If I was to glance back at the battlefield that crippled my heroics, I could have seen the clock. Now, with eight-seconds a distant memory it read an unflattering two point six seconds.
***********
My brother argues that he tried for hour-and-a-half to revitalize me, after receiving a ride to my house, swearing I was comatose. I did not recall any of the evening's events until rubbing my incredibly sore, bruised nose first thing after waking up. The pain struck like a ball bat swing to the face, causing my head to throb with great intensity. The blows Claire put on my ribs were remembered as soon as I tried to sit up; I could barely breathe. Practically crawling to the restroom, the mirror, though blurry and in a skew, came into view. Not only had my nose suffered great skin loss and now screamed of raw, painful flesh, but the corners of both my eyes were swollen and turning black. I had won a battle—but lost the war.
Because I did have about two-minutes of glory, I do not totally regret being introduced to the infamous Claire Lee. I have learned of her massive power and abilities. I was never back in the Midnight Rodeo (Springfield's corral for Claire), but I will never forget her. She has marked me in such a way that my thrill seeking endeavors have came to a denouement. I have had other painful attempts at stardom, but none like the respectable time I shared with the emotionless, inhumane likes of Miss Claire Lee. Electric bulls or cliff diving, pain will teach. I have learned a lot; I have matured.
tmez 07, july 97
Tom Mezzacapa—English 220, sec. E101—Mr. C. Closser, Instructor—24, July 1997
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