Barnstorm (11 page)

Flossie ruined his day with, “Nice job! Two more bulls and we’re done.”

“Two!?”

The barrel fell over as Trip crawled out onto the dirt track. He put his hand smack in the middle of a pile of bull poop. Wiping his hand on his baggy, checkered pants, he announced, “I’m outta here.”

As he took a few exaggerated, oversized floppy-shoe-induced high steps to exit the arena, another bull was released. The cowboy contestant was immediately thrown and limped to safety astride the fence. Because his floppy clown shoes impeded his running ability, Trip reluctantly retreated to his rubber barrel.

“Only one more,” Flossie assured.

“Promise?” Trip begged as he adjusted the orange wig on his head.

“Promise,” Flossie said.

As the cheering of the crowd subsided, the PA system blared the rodeo manager’s announcement of the final bull. “Cowboys. Cowgirls. Little buckaroos. Are you ready? Here comes The Widowmaker. Meanest bull in the free world. Only Washington D.C. has more bull. Hold on to Grandma. Grandpa, zip up yer pants. Let’s hear it for Diablo.”

A combined gasp, cheer came from the grandstand. Trip looked at the gate as it strained to restrain Diablo. A cowboy struggled to get onto this last bull. Two other cowboys jumped off the gate in fear.

Trip furled his brow and asked Flossie, “Diablo? Isn’t that Spanish for somethin’?”

“Muy bien,” Flossie agreed. “The devil. Those other bulls? Angels. Stay away from Diablo. Stick close to the barrel.”

Before Trip had a chance to react, the gate exploded, its hinges breaking. The gate didn’t actually open; it more accurately collapsed and fell into the arena. Diablo thundered out of the chute, leapt over the destroyed gate and immediately threw his rider. This final cowboy contestant was flung skyward and landed, face first in the dirt. Everyone could tell that this cowboy was seriously injured. Trip looked at the hurt cowboy, then Diablo. Diablo snorted, pawed the ground. Trip eased toward the injured cowboy.

Trip evaded Flossie’s reach as she screamed, “NO! Get back here.”

Trip flailed his arms in the air as he ran toward Diablo. Hoping to distract this nastiest of bulls from the injured cowboy, Trip slid, head first, in the dirt like Pete Rose stealing home plate in the final inning of the World Series. Diablo snorted and directed his attention to this orange-wigged clown. Trip crawled to his knees, placed his thumbs in his ears, taunting Diablo like a donkey. Diablo charged a defenseless Trip and plowed to a stop two feet short of him. A cloud of dust enveloped Trip.

Did he get hit? As the dust cleared, a woman spectator covered her mouth, gasping in fear. Trip had survived. He rose, pawed the ground, again taunting Diablo. Trip had positioned himself directly between Diablo and the injured cowboy. He stared mysteriously into Diablo’s eyes. He flashed back to his hypno-magic routine with Socrates, will it work on Diablo? He shook off the memory of his lack of success with Thunderbolt. Stupid rooster. Plus, the chicken coop was too dark.

Flossie had recovered the barrel and motioned for Trip to join her. Without breaking eye contact with Diablo, he held out his hand to Flossie communicating, don’t move. A clown team for only one afternoon, Flossie disobeyed, and slowly rolled the barrel closer to the injured cowboy. She was now between Diablo and the injured cowboy. Rule number one–protect the cowboy.

Trip maintained eye contact with Diablo. To the crowd’s shock and horror, Trip sat on the ground, pretzel-knotted his legs, assuming a yoga position in front of Diablo.

Not recognizing Trip, Deb and Buzz fell silent and squeezed hands. Deb whispered, “This fool is nuts.”

“All part of the show, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think so,” Deb said. “That bull doesn’t look like he’s reading from a script.”

Two cowboys slowly moved behind the injured cowboy and lifted him onto their stretcher. Diablo stood directly in front of Trip, ignoring the cowboys as they carried the stretcher out of the arena. Diablo’s total focus was on Trip.

In his yoga position, Trip stared Diablo down. Diablo snorted, shook his head. He pawed the ground. The deadly charge could come at any moment. Trip swayed his head from side-to-side. Low whispers wafted from the grandstand. Diablo snorted one last time and lowered the front half of his one-ton fury to his knees. Diablo flicked his tail and finally laid down. He was putty in Trip’s hands.

Some in the crowd started to applaud. Others offered a shush sound, fearful that, hey, this isn’t over yet. As the crowd quieted, Flossie moved behind Trip, tapped his shoulder, and helped him unknot his legs. Diablo looked as docile as a newborn lamb in a spring meadow.

“Wet my pants,” Trip whimpered. “I wet my pants.”

Choking back a nervous laugh, Flossie held Trip’s hand, turned him around to face the grandstand. Raising his hand high, above their heads, they bowed. Collective fan inhales and exhales returning to a relieved crowd, the grandstand exploded in cheers.

A small boy in the front row tried to whistle through the two-toothed gap in his mouth. Deb looked directly at the clowns with a puzzled gaze. Buzz talked to the man beside him. Flossie removed Trip’s wig and handed it to him. Trip laughed and tossed the wig to the gap-toothed boy.

Deb made eye contact with Trip. Trip’s feeble effort in smoothing his cowlick should have been a dead giveaway. The clown makeup, distance, and partially blocked view by the post frustrated Deb in solving the puzzle. She elbowed Buzz to get his attention. Making eye contact with Deb, Trip concluded it was time to get out of here.

The gap-toothed boy now wearing the orange wig, raised his arms over his head like a football referee signaling a touchdown. Deb directed Buzz’s attention to the clowns. It was too late, Buzz only saw the back of the clowns as they held hands and skipped across the arena. It was over. Trip had not been recognized.

Exhausted, Flossie and Trip collapsed onto the bale of straw beside the crew tent where it had all started. Laughter, back slapping, and congratulations abounded as cowboys, roustabouts, and rodeo hangers-on made a fuss over Trip. He had never experienced success quite like this. Steven Craig Morgan was a hero.

Flossie and Trip escaped into the relative calm of the crew tent. A musty, old canvas pole tent measuring a square of twenty-by-twenty, the tent was crammed full of racks of clothes, costumes, and props that might have been found in any circus, sideshow, or traveling carnival. Seated at a makeup table, the triumphant rodeo clowns stared into a foggy mirror ringed with hot, incandescent lightbulbs. Globs of cold cream and tons of Kleenex attacked the exaggerated eyebrows, clown smiles, and bulbous red noses. Flossie and Trip gradually returned to normal people.

Making eye contact with Trip’s reflection in the shared mirror, Flossie inquired, “Who are you? Yer actually quite good at this clown business. Are you a bull whisperer?”

Before he could conjure up a response, the rodeo manager burst into the crew tent. Placing his hands on Trip’s shoulders, he gave him a solid shake. As a smear of cold cream worked its way into Trip’s mouth. He choked and coughed.

Leaning down to see Trip’s reflection in the mirror, the rodeo manager exclaimed, “Un-bee-lee-va-ble! Never seen anything like this in my thirty years of rodeo.”

Trying to clear his throat of cold cream, Trip was speechless.

“Where’d ya learn all that bull crap mumbo jumbo, psycho-babble, hypnosis? Best dang rodeo clown I’ve ever seen. Ya gotta join the show!”

The rodeo manager reached into his wallet and pulled out fifty dollars. He flipped the bills onto the makeup table directly in front of Trip. “Best fifty bucks I ever spent.”

Rising from her chair, Flossie shook a finger at the rodeo manager, flinging a dollop of cold cream on his chin, saying, “Billy Bob Thomas, you are such a jerk. Fifty bucks? You want cut off or what? Give him another fifty.”

Not overly happy about it, but complying all the same, Billy Bob tossed another fifty dollars on the table.

“Thanks, Mr. Billy Bob Frank Thomas,” Trip fumbling the name as he shoved his hard-earned fortune into his blue jeans. “Mr. Rodeo Manager, much obliged.”

“Come on, you gotta join the show.”

“No way,” Trip said. “You folks are nuts.”

With one last appeal, Billy Bob begged, “We’re goin’ up the road to Columbus for a full week at the state fair next week. Ya sure?”

Recognizing when ‘no’ meant ‘no,’ Flossie gave Trip’s nose a quick wipe of her Kleenex, followed by a smooch on the check. “Good luck,” she said, as she patted him on the shoulder.

Trip limped toward the crew tent entrance, hand rubbing a bruised hip. Stopping at the tent opening, he turned and waved goodbye to Flossie. Bright sunshine cascaded into the tent as he parted the dusty flaps.

Trip was now silhouetted by the sun as Flossie shouted out to him, “Diablo! The devil incarnate. Diablo! Diablo!”

Had he mounted a horse, Trip could have ridden off into a Hollywood movie sunset.

☁ ☁ ☁

Blinding light. Flash. Flash. Standing in front of her exhibit, Gerty held a large, blue ribbon rosette in one hand and balanced her prize-winning pumpkin pie in the other. The photographer, now finished with his Gerty pictures, enough to fill an entire page in the next edition of the local paper, left the Grange Hall to find other winners.

The lady beside Gerty, holding the second place red ribbon, scowled, “Gertrude Murphy, I’ve come in second to you for ten-straight years. Next year, I’m going to enter some daisies in the flower show.”

Gerty grinned as she secured the prize money in her purse. She didn’t notice that Rufus and Gomer were taking her measure. Gomer nodded to Rufus.

The photographer had worked his way to the poultry barn. Trip followed him into the barn, but stopped inside the entrance. Do I really want to do this? Trip reached into his front jeans pocket and looked at his newfound wad of rodeo money. Summoning his courage, he entered the barn, and walked down the center aisle. Flanked on each side by wire cages of clucking, threatening hens and roosters, he shuddered at a flashback of Thunderbolt. As he walked too close to the left cages, the chickens, necks extended into the aisle, pecked at his elbow. He overcorrected and bumped into some cages on the right-hand side. He zigged and zagged his way through the chicken maze in a cold sweat. He hadn’t been this scared facing Diablo.

Trip paused as the photographer finished documenting best-in-show rooster. A farmer in bib overalls, red-checked flannel shirt, and straw hat was holding his prized Rhode Island Red. He struggled with the first place blue ribbon and dropped it on the ground. Trip retrieved the ribbon, handing it to the farmer.

“Thanks, son,” he said, “Ole Jake here is a handful.”

The mingling crowd couldn’t hear what Trip said in return as the poultry barn hadn’t yet settled down from all the photographer’s flashing strobes. Passersby did notice that the farmer clutched ole Jake tighter and shook his head ‘no.’

As the farmer turned to walk away, Trip reached in his pocket and extended his hand with his hundred dollars. Stopping in his tracks, the farmer caressed ole Jake, stroking his feathered and combed head. The farmer bit his lower lip.

☁ ☁ ☁

Darkness settled over the fairgrounds. Magic. Merry-go-Round lights flashed and spun. The smells were richer. Sound traveled faster and farther. A whisper of ‘I love you’ atop the Ferris Wheel was overmatched by the ringing bell as a young strongman wielded his sledgehammer to the delight of his sweetheart.

The Grange Hall interior was awash with lights and colors. Blue, red, white ribbons adorned roses in Coke bottles, quilts, and colorful jars of jams and jellies. The ladies, with bored husbands, milled around and congratulated each other. Mostly, they congratulated Gerty. Folding chairs were arranged in rows facing the main platform. Seventy-five neighbors had gathered for the evening presentation of awards and auction of prize-winning wares.

Gerty stood at the back, behind the last row of chairs. A master of ceremonies made an indiscernible announcement to intermittent, polite, and mostly ignored applause. Gerty only halfway paid attention. She was surveying the crowd. Trip walked in and camped beside her. The background voice of the master of ceremonies had been replaced with the rapid fire patter of an auctioneer. Gerty acknowledged Trip’s presence and noticed that he had a chicken feather on his shoulder. She dusted it off and gave him an inquisitive look. Trip averted her glance and applauded.

“So, where have you been all day?” she asked.

“Oh, clowning around.” Again, avoiding a searching look, he said, “The fair is a lot of fun.” Noticing the bundle of blue ribbons Gerty was clutching, he continued, “I see you’ve had a productive day.”

The bank secretary, Dorothy, walked in and stood on the other side of Gerty. “Evenin’, Gerty,” she greeted.

Initiating a sincere hug, Gerty smiled, “Good to see you, Dottie. Ya alright?”

“Suppose. Fair is kinda tough.”

“Time helps,” Gerty assured, with a touch on Dorothy’s elbow. “Hope so.”

The voice of the auctioneer took over as he announced the next sale item, a beautiful, hand-stitched quilt. “Ladies and gentlemen. This is full-sized, hand-pieced, hand-quilted. Gerty Murphy, where are you? Take a bow.”

The crowd turned in their chairs and applauded. Gerty grinned and waved acknowledgement.

“Traditional log cabin pattern,” the auctioneer continued. “Each log is hand stitched. That’s 537,413 individual, tiny hand stitches.”

As the crowd laughed, the challenged auctioneer barked, “Don’t believe me?” He squatted at the edge of the quilt, pointing to the small stitches, “One, two, three. . .”

The crowd groaned, roared, and clapped.

Shorty, a diminutive, squeaky man, stood up and shouted, “Somebody stop ‘em ‘fore he gets to eleven, or he’ll have to take off his shoes.” Waiting for the crowd laughter to subside, Shorty continued, “Jeepers, if he gets to twenty-one he’ll have to-“

Shorty’s wife jerked him down into his seat before he could embarrass himself any further.

Ever quick with his banter, the auctioneer interrupted, “-Good thing there’s a kissin’ booth here at the fair, Shorty. That’s