Bullighter

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.

It was one of their typical ights. Screaming, cussing. Dad slamming his ist into the wall or the refrigerator. Mom grabbing her truck keys and storming out the door, headed out to who knew where. But this time Dad followed her out into the driveway, stood in front of the driver side door and let his voice boom. “You ain’t leaving! Not until we work this thing out!” Mom turned and stomped back into the house, grabbed her .300 Savage out of the coat closet, spun around, walked outside. She stopped a few feet from Dad and pointed the rile at his chest. Later she would say, “I was just trying to scare him.” Maybe she was just trying to scare him. I don’t know. I was upstairs in my room. I didn’t come down until after I heard the shot and Dad screaming. Anyway, when he wouldn’t move out of her way she pulled the trigger, supposedly thinking the chamber was empty. It wasn’t. I suppose I should be happy. He’s not on the back of the bucking chutes spouting his mouth of. If I wanted to, I could head back behind the chutes and start riding again. But the bullighting, it has me now. I guess I should thank Dad for that. American bullighting is more like boxing than ballet. It’s all about your footwork, knowing where to step in and get their attention without taking a shot. And once you get their attention, that’s when the footwork really matters. Bulls have four legs. Humans two. That’s like a four banger racing a V8. You’ve got no chance if you run straight ahead. Catch their eye, move to their hip. No hurry, no panic. Once you panic you take a hooking. You’re going to take one eventually, no matter what, but if you panic it’s a guaranteed every-bull event. Taking a hooking is part of the deal. Sometimes you don’t have a choice. Take the other day. I was ighting in a practice pen south of town. Practice bulls are young with no brains. They’re all buck and ight. When they whirl on you the rage gets into their muscles, ripples under their hides. Anyway, this kid landed on his back. The air burst from him and he lay there like a lipped over stinkbug, legs and arms waving around. I stepped in, slapped the bull between the eyes, but he just closed them and kept spinning. I grabbed a horn, but the bull jerked it out of my hand and kept whirling. Feet landed all around the kid, stepped between his legs, next to his head. Landed everywhere but on him. Soon he’s going to take a hoof to the face or guts, maybe the nuts. Somewhere real bad. That’s when you have no choice. So I jumped right in on the bull’s

head. I folded my legs up like I was doing a cannonball. My ass landed between the horns. The bull’s head lipped up and I lew into the air. When I came down I was on my feet and already running, the bull right behind, inally out of the spin and of the kid. The kid rolled away and crawled back to the chutes. It didn’t take much to shake the bull. He stopped and pawed, lipped up dirt and shook his head. But it was a bluf. As soon as the out-gate opened he trotted out of the arena. That move got me a lot of love. The kid I saved walked over and shook my hand. I knew him well enough. He was one of those who gave my old man grief. Two girls sat on a bench next to the arena. They watched me real close after that. One of them, a short thick-thighed blond — the kid’s girlfriend I found out later — smiled at me in that skin-tingling way. I smiled back. Later, while I leaned against my car slipping out of my gear, she came up and asked my name. I told her. That night she PM’d me. It won’t be long and I’ll move in on her. In her message she told me I was brave. A lot braver than her boyfriend, she said, who may act like he wants to ride bulls, but really he’s scared shitless and is always looking for a reason to turn out. I kind of feel bad for him because I understand. I’m scared all the time too, just not panicky scared. That’s the kind that hurts you. If my dad was scared dying there in the driveway, he didn’t show it. After I’d called 911, after the paramedics and county sherif had shown up, he yelled in that same voice he always used behind the chutes; he yelled over and over again, “She didn’t mean to! It was an accident! Please! It was an accident!” Is it true? I hope so, but I’d never known anyone in our family to bring a loaded gun into the house. But I wasn’t there. He was and she was and while he was dying the only thing he cared about was saving her. He did. Saved her from prison anyway. He used to embarrass me, but now I ind myself wanting to brag about how he told my mom over and over again that he didn’t blame her and he was sorry for blowing up at her. I want to tell about how my mother leaned over him while he lay with his organs and arteries ruptured and bleeding out and how he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to him, smearing a bloody hand print on her back. How he held her and wept and begged those cops and paramedics not to arrest her. I want to tell everyone that my dad was as tough

as he always pretended to be, no matter how much they laughed at him. But I don’t say anything. Because at the same time I want everyone to forget who I am, who my dad was, who my mom is. I want to ight bulls. I want to save bull riders, the ones who laughed at my dad, and then slip into their girlfriends’ private messages, into their cars, and eventually into them. That’s what I really want because each time I do I’m getting a little something back for my dad.