by Tim Dorsey
“Hang tight! I’m so sorry for getting you into this! I’ll never forgive myself!”
The rest of the clowns reemerged with the other rodeo staff, who were expert in handling this most dangerous aspect of the event. They surrounded the bull, speaking softly with calm movements. Then they lassoed its horns and brought the beast under control before guiding it into a secure chute.
The clowns righted the barrel, and Serge pulled off the lid. “Buddy! Are you okay?”
“What’s happening?” Coleman had made himself into a ball. “Is it over?”
“You’re safe now.”
Coleman slowly stood up in the barrel. As soon as his curly red wig was visible, the crowd went wild.
One of the top rodeo officials trotted over in seriousness. “We saw everything that happened. We know what was going on.”
“You do?” said Serge.
The official nodded. “And you guys aren’t on our official list. What’s your name?”
“Serge.”
“No, him.”
“Uh, Coleman.”
“Coleman, come with me . . .” They pulled him out of the barrel, and the official took him by the arm. “This way.”
Serge ran alongside. “I can explain.”
“Save your breath.” They reached the center of the arena, and someone handed the official a wireless microphone. He tapped it to make sure it was on, and the sound bounced off the metal roofs. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have just witnessed an amazing display of heroism. While Idaho Jack was in danger of serious injury, and the other clowns weren’t having luck controlling the bull, Coleman here . . .” He turned. “It’s Coleman, right? Coleman here took stock of the situation and swung into action without regard for his personal well-being, getting the bull’s attention and bravely provoking it to attack his barrel, thus averting tragedy . . . Coleman, to what do you owe your quick thinking?”
Coleman leaned toward the microphone. “Pot makes me smart.” He stood back up straight and grinned extra wide.
“Uh . . .” said the official. “Well, there you have it. Let’s hear it for Coleman.”
The standing ovation was deafening.
Serge stood next to Cheyenne and Kyle. “Unbelievable.”
The quartet of new friends grabbed nachos and sat at a picnic table on the side of the rodeo.
Serge scooped salsa and sour cream. Crunch, crunch. “Normally I never eat sporting-event nachos because they’re covered with the kind of kiosk-vat molten cheese that you’re forced to deal with later, so I’m baking that into my schedule ahead of time. Don’t let it affect your appetite . . . Kyle, what’s next for you?”
Kyle looked at his sister. “I have that thing tomorrow morning, so I need to come by and get the flags.”
“What thing?” said Serge. “What flags?”
“A funeral,” said Cheyenne. “North of here an hour.”
Kyle wasn’t eating. “Someone from my unit.”
“Sorry for your loss,” said Serge. “So the flags? You’re in the color guard or something?”
“I wish it was like that.” He pushed his cardboard container of chips toward the center of the table. “No matter how hard I try, I just can’t understand it.”
“Understand what?” asked Serge.
“Protesters,” said Cheyenne. “They picket military funerals.”
“Come again?” said Serge. “You’re stringing words that don’t go together.”
“And they shouldn’t,” said Cheyenne. “But here we are.”
“What on earth can they be protesting?” asked Serge.
“Our nation’s growing tolerance for gays in general, and those serving in uniform in particular,” said Cheyenne. “The protesters claim that all our fallen heroes—gay, straight, whatever—are God’s punishment for our wicked ways. I can’t bear to repeat what’s on the signs they wave.”
“Wait,” said Serge. “Is this that wacko church in Kansas?”
“They may have started it and gotten the headlines,” said Kyle. “But the movement’s spread. They also picket recruitment centers and pride parades and even other Christian churches that they consider too inclusive. But the worst are the funerals.”
“Not to make any excuses,” said Serge, “but relative to the size of the country, we’re talking about an extremely tiny number.”
“How few is an acceptable number when you know the person being laid to rest?”
“True, true.”
“But you raise a good point,” said Kyle. “The idiots yelling in the streets are a small fraction. The problem is the complicit silence of a large segment of the population. They may not care for that kind of cruelty at funerals, but they’re plenty cruel the rest of the time.”
“Please elaborate.”
“The bellwether is political campaigns,” said Kyle. “One thing politicians can be counted on is to follow the polls, regardless of what they personally believe or who gets hurt. A while back it was ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’ Then society evolved, or at least fifty-one percent did, and that cynical ploy is no longer reliable. So now when some elected cretin needs a poll bump, they’ve moved on to attacking one of the last acceptable targets—transgender citizens—which is code for broader hate that’s not exactly cool to articulate anymore. And these leaders wouldn’t be doing it if the polls didn’t tell them enough of the public was behind them. That’s what really hurts . . .”
Serge didn’t know what to say, so he did the right thing and didn’t say anything.
“Those of us out in the field know these people. We are these people, whether it personally applies or not, because all we have out there is each other, and when you know you can trust someone with your life, you wouldn’t notice or care if they’re a Martian. When all is said and done, you realize these are some of the finest people you’ll ever meet in life. That’s why it’s so hard to fathom our political leaders today. Can you imagine what it’s like to be in a gun battle, and you’re fighting shoulder to shoulder with a member of your unit who just heard on the news that morning that some idiot back home is trying to score votes by saying people of his faith aren’t welcome in the very country that he’s risking his life to protect? And people cheer this shit in large arenas. The funeral protesters are just the spearhead.”
“So this cause of yours is a liberal thing?” asked Serge.
“Not remotely,” said Kyle. “It runs the whole spectrum. We got artsy-fartsy types, bikers, pointy heads, guys with shotguns in the back windows of their pickups. Most of us are vets, and the one principle that unites us all is: Don’t mess with our brothers-and sisters-in-arms.”
Serge nodded. “Explain the business about the flags tomorrow.”
“Courts have ruled that the protesters are protected by the First Amendment, which I agree with because that’s part of what I fought for—”
Serge inadvertently glanced at an empty sleeve.
“—But they also ruled that the picketers must stay at least three hundred feet away from the funeral. Me and my friends, on the other hand, aren’t protesting, so the buffer zone doesn’t apply to us. We arrive early and line up twenty feet in front of the protest with our huge, overlapping American flags that completely block the view of those at the cemetery paying their respects.”
“But I’m sure the protesters are shouting,” said Serge.
“That’s why we play inspirational music on boom boxes,” said Kyle.
“Like what?”
“Like ‘This Land Is Your Land.’”
“Where do I sign up?”
“Can you carry a flag? . . .”
The night eventually wound down, and the friends bade each other good night with plans to meet in the morning.
Serge went back in the motel room, heading for the fridge. “I’m already regretting the nachos.” He uncapped a bottle of water and turned around. “Coleman!”
“What?”
“You left the door open! Here come the frogs!”
&nb
sp; Coleman looked down at something huge leaping through the wickets of his legs.
“Dammit!” Serge dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed. Coleman screamed and ran out the door.
Serge snagged the jumbo amphibian and scooted backward out from under the box spring. As he did, two more frogs hopped under the bed. “The door’s still open! Where’s that fool?”
He headed for the sidewalk to release his captive and almost bumped into someone.
“Cheyenne! Sorry, didn’t see you.” He bent down to let the creature hop off into the dark parking lot. “What are you doing back here?” He checked out the cowgal outfit she was still wearing. “I thought this was your rodeo night.”
“If you work at a motel, you accept the hours.” She gestured back over her shoulder at a sheepish Coleman. “He said you needed a frog rescue.”
“Not me, but Coleman definitely needs a rescue, and frogs are the least of it.” Serge looked up at a small swirl of insects around one of the porch lights on the motel’s walkway. “Are those the blind mosquitoes?”
“That’s them.”
“What’s the big deal everyone’s talking about?” said Serge. “I’ve seen worse swarms of butterflies.”
“Oh, that’s not remotely close to a swarm. Just a few stragglers out for a stroll. But it does mean they’re coming.”
“How long?”
“Could be a day, could be three.” Cheyenne didn’t even know she was doing it, but she leaned against the doorway with subconscious body language. “You know, you were pretty good out there tonight. Most clowns just run around randomly to create confusion in the animals.”
Serge noticed she was absentmindedly rubbing the tip of a cowboy boot on the ground. He cleared his throat: “Uh, you wouldn’t happen to have any more vacant rooms tonight?”
“Sure, right next to yours. Why? Expecting anyone?”
“Something’s come up. We’ll take it.”
“I’ll go get the key . . .”
She returned in a moment, opening the second room herself. “There you go.”
Serge grabbed Coleman by the arm, shoving him inside. “And there you go.”
“Hey!” yelled Coleman. “What’s the deal? . . . Ah, frogs came in! Help!”
“And there are plenty more where that came from if you open this door. Now stay put!” Serge slammed it shut.
“What’s going on?” asked Cheyenne.
“Coleman’s a crowd. Please, come in.”
The second the door closed, Cheyenne’s head slowly swiveled around the room with open eyes. “If you’re a motel manager, you develop instincts, but I didn’t peg you for the damage type. Did you invite a rock star you didn’t tell me about?”
Serge threw his arms up in exasperation. Just about everything was knocked over. Broken lightbulbs, torn curtains, pillows disemboweled. “It’s Mr. Zippy.”
On cue, a ferret jumped up to the TV, standing on his hind legs and chattering demonically. Then he hopped down and scattered Coleman’s empty beer bottles like bowling pins. “He’s wrapped way too tight, and I’m afraid we’re unfit parents. But I’ve been putting off the inevitable because I didn’t want it to reflect poorly on the adoption rights of two dudes.”
“No problem,” said Cheyenne. “This is a family-run place, and we have a large cage in the back room for the day manager, who has an older cat that needs care. I can put the ferret in there, and I know lots of pet people around here who would be more than happy to take him.”
“Thank God,” said Serge. “He was getting on my last nerve.”
“Be right back.” Cheyenne lovingly grabbed the ferret and disappeared.
Then she returned. As soon as Serge opened the door, she slammed into him without warning, and they fell onto the still-made bed. Violent kissing and groping. Clothes flew in all directions. “Can you leave the boots on?” asked Serge. “You can make requests, too.”
“Shut up!”
“Haven’t had that one before.”
They were soon going at it like—well, they deserve some privacy.
Shrieking and banging came from both sides of the wall connecting Coleman’s room to theirs.
Serge raised a hand. “Can I talk now?”
“Sure, just don’t stop.”
“That’s not really my call,” said Serge. “If you haven’t noticed, you’re the one on top.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes! . . .”—pounding the headboard—“ . . . Yes! Yes! Yes! . . . Before we go any further, I need to ask a question.”
“Further?” asked Serge. “I don’t see any more stop signs.”
“It’s about commitment. You’re not one of those guys, I mean . . .”
Great, Serge thought. Here we go again.
Cheyenne continued thrusting. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“No, that was a twitch. Please, ask your question.”
“Every once in a while I’ll find a guy where there’s the perfect combination of a meeting of the minds and broiling animal attraction. But more often than not, they turn out to be clinging vines.”
“Wait,” said Serge. “That’s your commitment question? You were worried I’d be the smothering one?”
She nodded and thrust. “I hope you understand. There’s too many places I’ve got to see. I’m sure you’ve heard the song.”
“In my sleep,” said Serge. “Believe me, you have no worries. And I completely understand about the travelin’ jones.”
More screaming from Coleman’s room. A crash against the wall. “Frogs!”
Thrust. “Is your friend okay?”
“Not even close. I just tune out the meltdowns.”
Thrust, thrust. “The whole history thing is what first attracted me to you.”
“Really?” said Serge. “Me too! Would you like to see my tombstone rubbings?”
“Now?” Cheyenne thrust harder as she whipped her hair side to side. “Isn’t that part supposed to come before, when you’re trying to get me in bed?”
“You’re right,” said Serge. “Life is all about timing.”
“Man, you’re weird,” said Cheyenne. “For some reason, that just attracts me more.”
“And this concludes the slow middle movement of our song. Now it’s time for the triple-guitar crescendo.” Serge quickly flipped her on the bed, and moans became shrieks, louder and louder. To the point where Coleman stopped shrieking himself and became more afraid of the sounds coming from the next room . . .
The lovers finally collapsed on their backs in pools of sweat.
Serge wiped stinging perspiration from his eyes. “My compliments to the chef.”
“I’m still fluttering,” said Cheyenne. “And speaking of fluttering, what was that deal with your eyelids and your pupils going up in your head?”
“I had a simultaneous.”
“Don’t you mean we had a simultaneous?”
Serge shook his head. “Just me. I came and had A Moment. Thinking about all the murals in town and early telephone service.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“You’d rather me think about old girlfriends, or picture you wearing a walrus mask?”
“I’m not sure.” She turned her head on the pillow. “Let’s find out.”
“Serious?”
She nodded eagerly.
“Where’s your cowboy hat?”
“In the office.” Cheyenne jumped out of bed. “I’ll go get it.”
She wiggled into her blue jeans and opened the door. A truck with a full rack of amber lights was pulling up. “What the hell is that?”
“Ordered a rental fishing boat,” said Serge. “They attach a temporary hitch on your car and everything. I always figure if you’re going in, go big!”
“If you say so.”
“Just realized something,” said Serge. “What if other guests are trying to call you at the front desk with an emergency?”
“Screw ’em. They’re just frogs.”
Chapter 2
9
Pahokee
The Blue Devils were an early-season favorite, and they lived up to the hype. Pahokee tore through their district schedule, undefeated after six games. And it wasn’t even close. All double-digit victories. You could always pick out the loudest voice on the bench shouting encouragement. Guess who?
A few weeks earlier, before a game, Coach Calhoun was smiling behind his desk as Chris sat on the other side. He actually looked forward to her visits now, and felt something conspicuously missing on the days she didn’t show up.
She was wearing her shoulder pads and game jersey: 00. He noticed she was unusually serious.
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” said Chris. “It’s just that I feel awkward asking you for something.”
“Never stopped you before.”
“But you’ve done so many favors for me in the last few years.”
“What’s one more? Fire away.”
“But I promised you.”
“Promised me what?”
“That I didn’t care if I never got on the field,” said Chris. “I just wanted to wear the uniform.”
“And?”
“I learned that to earn a varsity letter, you have to be in at least one play during a regular-season game.”
“Is that so?”
“Coach, in several of these games we’ve had big leads late in the fourth quarter.”
“Some actually huge.”
“What I’m asking is, if we’re leading by several touchdowns near the end and we score, uh—”
“You’d like to kick off?”
She nodded.
“All right, you’ve asked,” said Calhoun. “We’ll just see how it goes. Now, if I could have the office, there’s a few things that need dealing with before tonight.”
That evening’s game proceeded like the previous six Fridays. The Blue Devils built up an early lead, and the defense held their opponent to only three first downs. By the beginning of the fourth quarter, it was 35–0. It was raining.
Calhoun walked over to the head coach for a private talk. By the body language, it seemed that Lamar had to be persistent. Finally, and in no small part simply in order to get Calhoun off his back, the head coach said: “We’ll just have to see.”