BULLFIGHTER Rex Adams I ight bulls. American style. No cape, no tights. No sword either, or a bunch of picadors stabbing the poor bull, wearing him down. I like my bulls living, all their hot blood pumping through their veins, not streaking down their briskets and forelegs and blackening the dirt around their hooves. I wear a cowboy hat, baggy shorts, cleats, and pads. I wear a little makeup, but no clown face. It’s war paint. I’ve watched those Spanish and Mexican bullights on YouTube. The matadors remind me of ballerinas, especially when the ighting bulls pick them up and toss them around. My dad, he rode bulls. He also bareback and saddle bronc horses. He could steer wrestle and rope, too. At least that’s what he always said. If he did I never saw it. Not even a video. He had one buckle. Although it had a bull rider on it, I knew it was a steer riding buckle from the Eighties. Dad didn’t just tell me he did all those things. He told everyone behind the chutes, in the arena, around the concession stand. He would stand on the back of the bucking chutes yelling at my friends and me, “You girls better try hard!” Once I was old enough to realize everyone laughed at him, I’d try to ditch him. But it was hopeless. He always found me. Usually I was behind the chutes rosining my bull rope. He’d strut over, his belly pressing against his championship steer riding buckle and slap my back and ask something like, “You got a good one today?” I would stand there staring down at my gearbag, thinking, Please Dad, get the hell out of here. But he wouldn’t leave. He’d go around slapping all my friends on the back too, saying, “How about you pussies? You got a good one?” His voice loud, almost yelling. I couldn’t stand that he had to pull my rope every time I got on a bull. But I loved the bulls so I escaped Dad by heading out into the arena to ight them. Dad, he doesn’t embarrass me anymore. Mom shot him. The shooting even made the news: Local Woman Shoots Husband with Hunting Rile. Mom, a tall, slender brunette with long hair braided into a thick rope that trailed down between her shoulder blades, was out of Dad’s league and he knew it. I suppose that’s why they fought all the time.
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