Young Writers Society

That dusty arena was all too familiar in its glory. The dimmed lights set off dark shadows that created somewhat of a somber mood as I walked over toward the chutes I called my home that night. You could almost hear the ghosts of angry bulls pushing against the gates, snorting, stomping and hitting their horns, the ghosts of fans still there screaming out my name and cheering me on for that eight second ride, lingering, refusing to depart from the air where they hung as if suspended by puppet strings. I could almost feel the warmth of all the bodies packed into the seats to come watch my ride, feeling to nervous tension as they all watched in amazement as they cheered me on for all of it. I could hear the thoughts of little cowboys saying one day that’s going to be me. Just as I had when I was their age. I could almost feel the hot breath from the bulls as they waited to be let loose. This was what I lived and breathed for. I was convinced it was in my blood - my soul.

As I came close to the chutes, I tipped down my hat as if to acknowledge these ghosts before casually leaning against the gates and lighting myself a cigarette, the amber light from the lighter seemed to be the light of my life, one small flame burning on will for one purpose. I inhaled and let the smoke curl out of my nostrils which tenderly seemed to kiss my face. I couldn’t stop thinking about moments. Not just any moments, but moments that made me. Moments that meant something. I started to realize I didn’t have too many of them. Bull riding was all I ever knew, or at least that’s what I convinced to believe all these years. I pushed away most memories and hid them back in my mind, like children hid broken things from their parents. I damn sure knew where they were, but I never considered bringing them back to the surface and really pondering the again. That was until now.

This life that I made for myself, this rough and tough cowboy I was. It took all I ever had. My addiction left the one woman I had ever loved lonely at night hoping for a call or just to hear my voice. Needless to say, I never called… After I had lost her from my negligence, I knew I would never feel the same about another woman. Then when she was gone I had nothing, nothing but bulls. So I fell headfirst into the outlaw scene. I began drinking avidly and got into fights with men over random women I didn’t care for at all. Night after night, it was the same thing. And really didn’t matter what those women looked like or who they were, just that they showed interest in me and my intentions.

I had the scars to prove my reputation. One above my right eye where the biker got a jump on me and split my eyebrow with the big gaudy ring he was wearing – an obnoxious cliché skull. I had a small fishhook scar on my cheek from when I got into a tussle with some self-absorbed asshole who was hitting on the same woman as me. The bastard smashed a bottle off the bar and went after me with it. Through all of this, I never backed down from the fights. I always knew there was just one difference between me and the other man I was fighting. These women were just some drunken decision I knew I would regret in the morning. I just couldn't stand losing. Maybe one of them would have married one of those poor girls. But I didn't care. I wasn’t physically capable of caring for those women, they did it to themselves. All they wanted was the same thing I did.

They were buckle bunnies going after all the rodeo boys trying to get lucky. This is why I probably I can’t remember the women clearly; just everything that lead up to getting to whatever hotel room I had at the time. If I didn’t bring them to the hotel where I promptly had a cab pick them up within the hour after the deed was done, I perfected art of sneaking out of whatever room I ended up in. If you couldn’t tell. I never really loved anyone but one woman, she was all I would have ever needed, and I knew that. I should have called or visited. I knew she was there waiting. But my pride ripped me back like bungee cords, letting me get only so close before being snapped back away. I didn’t leave on a good note, and I knew I was wrong. I could never admit that.

So my days were full of broken bones and black eyes, my nights lonely hotels with cold linens and beds. It destroyed me inside, chewed me up and spit me out. I became as cold as ice without her. I had thought so many thoughts about going back for her, turning around and dropping all I worked for just to be with her, I wanted to. I was ready to hang up my hat and marry the only woman I ever loved, like I promised her, but something always stopped me, some fear that settled in the back of my brain that was never really anything I could explain.

I was afraid of not being good enough for her, amongst other things – this only made that feeling stronger, I wanted her to have only the best of everything. I wasn't the same farm boy anymore. I was hardened, cold and mean. I would never be the man she remembered. One night, as I packed my bag in yet another seedy hotel room that stank of beer and cigarettes from my recent self-destructive tirade, I had it in my mind I was done with all this; I was going home to her. I had planned to get flowers, her favorites which were lilies and a ring on the way there, this was it.

I had enough money with me to keep the sitting pretty until I could find some work. I was ready to turn back, 50 miles south, an hour and thirty minutes. I wasn’t that far gone, but something stopped me as I hopped into my truck. I looked at her necklace hanging from my shifter and her picture by my speedometer, inhaling deeply. I could almost smell her, she always smelled like strawberries. That’s when I knew I couldn’t go back. I wasn’t good enough for her, I would never be. The next ride was six hours away, 250 miles. So as that unexplainable feeling took hold of me, it seemed to take hold of the wheel too. I went north to my ride, only letting myself look back into the rear-view once or twice before turning up my radio and pulling my hat low in small pity for myself and the life I would never make with her. The life I wanted so desperately I could literally feel my heartstrings pulling away and snapping every time I thought about it. I would never forget that day. It still haunts me to my very core.

I also started thinking about my Pa. That was the only man who’s ever been able to throw me around, the only man I could lay my guilty and sinning conscious on without judgment. I always wanted to be rough and tough just like him, I looked up to the man. As I grew up, my father pushed me to do everything I wanted. I wanted to be a bull rider, the next Lane Frost. That was always my dream; I used to go out on a barrel my father strung up for me between the two oak trees in the back yard and practice with my Pa every day. I would get on little bull calves and try my hardest to set my feet and hold on just long enough for my father to make a buzzing noise, these were my favorite memories.

I will admit, I’m self-destructive. After I lost everything it seems like my drive for life and making one just went down the drain. All I did was ride. Now, if you have never been to a rodeo, you should know that it’s not a walk in the park. There’s no guarantee that I’ll come out of the ring alive. Maybe sometimes I was wishing I didn’t. I never really thought much about anything I did. I just knew that I was trying to be the best bull rider out there, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t achieve that goal. Reflecting back on it now, I would have done anything to have been the worst. I would have had August. Maybe we woulda had some little babies running around too on our little ranch with dogs and horses. The works. But there’s no reason on dwelling. It is what it is.

I wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t cold. At one time, I would have gave up anything to have stayed with my girl and my Pa and Ma. But life has a funny way of throwing a curveball at you and making you out to be the way you are. You could say instead of taking everything in stride I fought against all I knew. That’s where my life story begins.

My life started out normal, like everyone else. I was born on a Sunday morning where the sun was shining and birds were chirping right on my own family farm. My ma and pa loved me just the same as the rest of my siblings. I was the youngest of three and amazingly the only boy. I never met my sisters, though. Before I was born both of them died. Annie - the second youngest, took pneumonia while my ma was pregnant with me and died. After Annie died, Shannon who was the oldest up and disappeared. Ma and Pa never knew if she ran away or if something real bad happened to her.

After all the bad that happened to them, they were extra careful with me. They never really talked too much about Annie or Shannon, but I knew they were still hurt by losing them. Sometimes when you love someone so much, it's hard to accept that they are in a better place. The pictures of them still sat in the same place they always did in our house, right on the shelf in the living room. I remember staring at it for hours wondering what both of them were like.

I never could really be as sad as my parents about them, I never knew them. But I felt bad. They were both beautiful. Annie had blue eyes like me and my Pa. A curly mop on top of her head that was the color of sunshine like Ma. On her face she had one of those beauty marks, right below her right eye. She had such a beautiful smile. Shannon seemed like her polar opposite with Pa's dark hair like me and in all her pictures she just shyly smirked in a sideways motion. I came to think that I was the two of them combined.

I was always shy, I never really could talk to many people without blushing or looking at my shoes. People used to tell me though, that I had such a nice smile. Just like Annie. It was a lot of pressure being the only kid in a family that had lost so much. I wasn't allowed to walk home by myself from school or go out with my friends and play in the woods. I worked all day with my Pa on the farm and I never once questioned it. That's where my passion for animals started.

"Bo, get out here boy!" yelled my Pa one day. I was around the age of six I believe.

I came running as fast as my little feet would take me.

"I wanna teach you sometime son, but you best promise me you ain't gunna tell your momma about it!"

I nodded, looking up at man who created me. He was big and strong and there was a mischievous twinkle in his light blue eyes as he smiled.

"Alright son, follow me."

That was the day my father first put me on a young bull calf and started teaching me how to ride. I was instantly in love with it. My Pa would smile and laugh at me holding on as the little calves ran around and I held on. This was our secret and our passion. He continued to teach me more and more as the days turned into weeks. Soon, I remember him slapping his knee and yelling "Well I'll be damned! You're a natural son!"

It never occurred to me as a child that my father was trying to prepare me to be a bull rider. I was so excited about having my pa proud of me. It made me feel so great, so I tried my hardest to do everything he instructed me to do. I hid the practice from my Ma and I continued also working on the farm and helping my Pa. I was in heaven on earth and for a few years, that was all we did and I was content with it. As I grew older he taught me more techniques to stay steady on a bull. He created a practice bull by stringing up a blue barrel between two trees in our yard and he would have me practice that way too.

By then my mother had caught on to what he was doing. She never said anything about it, but I knew it worried her. She was a very fragile woman and never spoke out much. In little ways she would remind me she was worried.

"Be careful with your father today Bo, we don't want you gettin' hurt now." or "Bo, you best not be doin' anything stupid with your Pa."

I would just smile and walk on out to meet my father.

But it wasn’t long before my father started getting tired easier and easier. I would have to find other alternatives to the bull calves and barrel, this is where I began to break horses, only accepting the most challenging ones just for the hell of it. I never made anyone pay a cent. You can now imagine I became strong and broad, just like I had hoped. I was finally amounting up to my father. But that was the most bittersweet moment in my life because that’s exactly when my pa started to wither before me, everyday looking more like an old man dying than the strong man I grew up knowing. I never thought anything of it; people grow old and wither every day, right? He probably just seemed smaller because I had gotten so big and strong. It wasn’t until I was about 17 until I found the reasoning behind my father’s fading figure. You see, I’m not a bad man, I just never realized what kind of consequences came with my decisions.