Chapter 40
Take life by the horns.
I mean, that’s what they say at least. So, here I am, finally putting the narrative in my own court. After months of healing, months of finding out what life’s about, it finally feels right to be back here.
I march through the rodeo looking for a very specific reporter, the one who finds himself lurking around, working hard for his craft even if it pisses most of us off.
A handlebar mustache and dark, beady eyes. Ones that lack trust, but seek truth.
Why him? God, if I only knew, but for whatever reason, he’s the one everyone takes the most seriously, and I don’t want to do this shit twice. Speak my mind and walk. That’s the plan.
Eyes follow me from every direction. Fans and foes each wondering why I’m here, if I’ll ever ride again, or hoping I don’t.
People reach out and touch me, to shake my hand, to greet me, to question my presence, but, steadfast, I keep my eye on the objective, remaining polite, but not taking the time to say more than hello.
The concession stand is thriving with people all ready for a rodeo dog and soda, and there, amongst the crowd, is good ol’ Clay Cassidy. I stop in my tracks and sigh, trying to prepare myself.
This ain’t any different than performing. He wants a piece worth writing and I want to come out unscathed.
He turns toward me, corn dog half way to his lips, before we make eye contact.
He stills, his food still poised in his hand, those beady eyes now zeroed in on me as if he can’t quite decide if what he’s seeing is real.
A wistful smile finds its way onto my lips and I nod as he places his meal back into the confines of its wrapper.
I close the gap between us.
“You’re a hard man to get a hold of, Rogers.” He doesn’t appear shocked, more so subtly surprised. Like of all the places he’d have expected to find me after trying and failing to track me down, here was the most unexpected. Though I can’t imagine he didn’t read the roster today.
“Only when I’m tryin’ not to be found, sir.” I joke, even though it also happens to be the truth.
“This…” He motions between the both of us. “Your way of saying you want to be found?”
I fill my lungs with air. Well, you wanted to give them a story, let’s give them a story. I nod. “Sure is.”
“How about right now?”
“Lead the way.” I keep my responses curt. He and I both know there’s no reason to drag this out. What’s most important is getting this story, my story, on record.
“Follow me.” He tosses his corn dog into the trash as he walks past, taking one last sip of his drink before doing the same.
I follow him through the crowd of people and straight for a spot gated off for the media.
Thankfully, the events haven’t started, so beyond a small group of reporters, it lies rather vacant.
He pulls a tape recorder out of his pocket, taking a seat at a table away from everyone else.
“Moving forward, everything will be on record.” He clicks the little red button of his machine and sets it down on the table between us, pulling out a small pad of paper and pencil. “September 4, 2004, Rhett Rogers and Clay Cassidy. The Come Back.”
I furrow my brow as I look up from the recorder, but I don’t say a word. I guess if you’ve done this your whole life it only makes sense he knows why I’m here, but in a sense it feels like a treaty. Like he’s letting me know his expectations for this interview before it ever starts.
“Mr. Rogers, I’ll fill in readers and state my questions clear and concise. Please answer them how you see fit.”
I nod, feeling like I’ve just entered an interrogation room and he’s the cop ready to take down my alibi.
“So, Rogers, your last ride ended in tragedy. One we all believed to be a career ender. Yet, here you are back in the arena, and from my recent digging, you won’t be just a spectator.
” A question has yet to pass his lips, so I nod in agreement.
“Was this always the plan? Or did you need to be cleared? Better yet, have you been cleared to ride?”
I know my words will be permanent, no going back once they’re spoken, but he knows they wouldn’t let me on a bull at a mainstream event if I wasn’t cleared.
He just wants me to verbally end the rumors that I haven’t myself.
“Yes, sir, I’ve been cleared. As for the plan, ridin’ is in my blood.
The only career ender I know is one where I physically can’t get on a bull. ”
He jots something down, but I don’t see the need since it’s all right there on the tape.
“Fans, myself included, would like to know why? Why the delay? And moreover, why the disappearance?”
I chuckle. Why? It’s the same question every time, with the same expectation. Fear or force. He frowns at my lingering silence then urges me to answer aloud, gesturing with his hand for me to continue.
“Ya see, Mr. Cassidy, healin’ no matter what capacity, takes time. Sometimes it’s a day, others it’s a week, and for me, it was months. I wasn’t ready to come back until now.”
“So what you’re saying is you were waiting for the green flag, so to speak?”
He would focus on this section of the conversation like there’s more to it. And I’d be willing to bet he knows the answer, even if he shouldn’t.
I flash a telling smile, hoping it’s enough to end his pushiness before I decide to end this conversation.
He gestures again, urging me to answer, and I start to doubt why I decided to give him the chance for this interview, when I know other reporters would choose to let me run the narrative in the fear that I’d walk.
“As I said. I’ve been cleared. My return wasn’t based on a timeline suited for others.
But as all riders know, this is an itch that can’t be scratched any other way.
So just like ridin’ a bull, I followed my gut.
Waitin’ for the time to feel right for me.
Not others. I had the go ahead right away, but that didn’t mean I was ready. ”
He jots a few notes again, looking up from his paper every so often before returning his gaze downward.
“Mhmm. And what changed? What made now the right time?”
My mind reels. I could tell him the truth, I could tell him that I wanted a life that wasn’t solely about the rodeo, that my family needed help, and that it took all this time to square away each of my worries. Or I could tell him all of that, but in a much less direct way. Neither suits me.
“The storm, sir.” He looks up from his paper, his eyebrows furrowing with questions, but silence from his lips.
“There ain’t ever goin’ to be a moment where the sky’s clear enough that the path doesn’t have obstacles to overcome.
Ya can’t move forward if you’re stuck waitin’ for perfect conditions.
Ya either head into the storm or ya don’t.
” I think about Helfire and the hold he has on so many people, and how, oddly enough, that hold doesn’t seem to remain on me.
“Ya either aim for the eye of it or ya watch everything ya worked for be destroyed. I ain’t gonna let that happen unless I am the storm. ”
I didn’t invite anyone to the event. Actually, I didn’t even tell them I signed up for it. Today’s ride is for me and only me. To prove that I belong here, and to have no other distractions besides those forced on me by the interview, which, honestly, I felt went really well.
Walking toward the chute, the routine feels natural.
Each of us lined up, waiting for our turn to prove ourselves.
Some riders shoot the shit with one another while others rally themselves behind a playlist they created for their mp3 players with headphones firmly planted in their ears.
We all follow our usual pattern, but mine is missing my family’s presence, and I’m feeling it.
“Rhett Rogers is up.” Enthusiasm seeps from the announcer and I keep my head down because I can’t fathom making eye contact with anyone in the crowd now that nerves settle in my stomach. “Today, he’ll be riding Grit-n-Gore.”
I exhale, thankful that I don’t know the bull so I have no pre-conceived opinions before I climb on top of him.
My boot clanks against the rusty metal of the green gate bar as I climb it.
Grit seems lean. His coat is a light tan color all over with large, uniquely shaped red spots scattered throughout.
I guess that ought to be the gore. His toned muscles twitch, a deep bellow bursting from his lungs as he slams into the iron walls of the chute.
He isn’t hurt, at least not as far as I can see, but he is pissed and he sure as hell ain’t scared to show it.
Swinging both my legs over the bar, he slams toward me, nearly knocking me off the gate. A laugh sounds from one of the riders, but I don’t waste my time looking to see who it is. He settles and I take it as my chance to climb on, securing my hand under the strap and raising the other.
I don’t allow myself a minute, mostly because this time around it feels like the first ride all over again.
The one where you think you’re ready, but give yourself time to talk yourself out of it, and that’s the last thing I plan on doing right now.
I nod, and the door swings open as his body meets it.
A loud bang sounds as the gate hits the fence beside it, but luckily it’s stopped from swinging back in our direction.
Focus.
Grit hits the sand with speed, his back arching and lurching me forward. My hips follow the flow of his body. Back and forth. Left and right. Up and down. Every which way he can manage. I consider counting the seconds but decide against it, hoping that they will fly by unnoticed.
He spins again, forcing me to follow. My body aches. No amount of training can compare to not only the emotional weight of a returning ride, but also the physical stamina required to do well.
Impatience gets the best of me and I try to glance at the clock.
The moment I see the number six is the moment he decides to switch his pattern.
Worry takes over, the reminder of what it feels like to hit the dirt echoing through my body.
And then the most damning thought crosses my mind.
What if this time is my last? My grip loosens, but it doesn’t matter, because as if the two were connected, my free hand meets the bull.
Fuck. I’m out.