One Last Ride

A rusty, used-to-be red, Ford truck pulls into the first row of parking at the Two Guns Saloon outside of Cortez. The sun is setting in the New Mexico sky, panning deep reds and purples across the white desert. This lonely bar leans westward, following the sun to its resting place.

Mick Cooper steps out of his dingy truck with worn brown boots, clean wranglers, a pressed shirt and simple straw Stetson. It has been at least 20 years since he stepped foot in Two Guns. He was hot on the rodeo circuit then, enjoying a few recent high finishes that tossed a few more bucks in his pocket.

Two Guns would have been the hottest honky-tonk in town the night before a big rodeo. Tonight is desperately quiet.

"Buzz? I'll be...it's been a long time," said Mick.

"Coop! What brings you through here, haven't ran into you in ages," Buzz pulls himself to his full height from the small table he hunched behind. Gray hair pokes out from under his hat at the temples.

"I'm heading in to Cortez for the rodeo this weekend, just figured I would stop in here for a minute," said Mick.

"Have a seat. I'll get you a drink." Pointing to the bar Buzz shouts, "Mags, bring over two more."

"Don't worry about that Buzz; I actually stopped drinking a few years back. Some coffee will do fine," said Mick.

"Well alright. Where you been? It was like you dropped off the planet," said Buzz.

"Got married. Jumped on board with the railroad. Been riding from Winslow into California the last 10 years or so," said Mick. "You settle down yet, Buzz?"

"Oh no. I'm still chugging through the rodeo circuit. Been years since I rode. Picked up a camera and started shooting the bull riders. I've been making better than when I rode, and it keeps me close to the action," said Buzz, pulling out some photos from a coffee stained manila folder.

Buzz spreads prints of cowboys heroically riding two-ton bulls across the table. "The trick is catching the moment where every kid is in control of the bull. Those are the ones that sell."

"I've got a few of these," said Mick. "Some of those rides are hard to remember."

"Some of those weekends are hard to remember," laughed Buzz.

Maggie brings over a warm beer and a small cup of coffee. She has been working at the Two Guns for about eight years. She changes her shift when the rodeo comes to town so she doesn't have to deal with Buzz hitting on her. She had to fill in for someone else tonight. Her disdain for Buzz is clear, and is now shared with his guest, who must be equally as rowdy.

"Mags, when are you going to leave this dump and hit the road with me? I've got plenty of room in the camp trailer, and you'll see all of the country you can handle," said Buzz.

"I think I've already seen all I can handle, thank you," replied Maggie. At least the back of Maggie's head as she walked away.

"What brings you around for this rodeo, Coop?" said Buzz.

"I'm going to ride one last time."

"How long's it been?"

"12, 13 years."

"What would make you want to ride now?"

"I don't know; it's been a long time since I really did anything. Maybe I am getting one of those mid-life crisis things. Didn't sow all my oats."

The evening crowd was filing in to the Two Guns. The jukebox gets a little louder. It's amazing it still works. Not a single song on it from after 1983. The old owner had a thing for George Jones. Another lonesome love song ebbs from the speakers.

"One more ride, eh Coop?" said Buzz.

"I just remembered this place. Were you here that night old' Waylon Jennings came through?" said Mick, changing the subject.

"Oh yeah, we got him up on the bar, picking some songs. Took a couple of beers to get him up there, but those gals went crazy over him," said Buzz.

"I spent the next six weeks picking Waylon's songs in the backseat of Jimmy Clinton's car heading down the highway," said Mick. "Should have been sleeping, instead of drinkin' and pickin'."

"Yeah," said Buzz. "Maybe you would have hung on to those bulls a few seconds longer."

"I probably did more carousing than I should have," said Mick. "Sure was fun."

"That will be $16.89", said Princess Buttercup.

Her nametag had obvious updates that were not part of the standard issue hotel tags. Not older than 15, she must have wiled away the hours tossing pencils at the ceiling. She sure never bothered to tidy up the lobby. The brochure rack's disheveled, dusty appearance made it clear nobody came through here on their way to Santa Fe or Carlsbad Caverns.

"I should have got a decent room," said Mick. "This would have been fine when I was 21. I ain't 21 anymore."

For less than a twenty, Mick bought himself the fine luxuries of a queen bed with no pillows, one lamp, a hairnet and two washrags. Other items like, soap, towels, a toilet seat and telephone are curiously absent. Mick doesn't sleep anyway. The radiator is perfect to strap up his gear. Cracked leather and rusted metal scrape against the cold radiator. It has been a long time since these leathers wrapped around an angry bull. It has been a long time since they have been out of the chest in the basement.

"What am I doing here? Reaching for something I lost years ago?"

The mellow flicker of some old Twilight Zone episode reflects off the lone lamp. Mick turns off the television and stares at the ceiling. He feels the phantom wedding ring that was there just 3 months ago. The small callous underneath the joint weakens every day.

"This is ridiculous. How am I going to expect to ride a bull on no sleep?" Mick unfolds the map on the dresser and lines up the two coffee shops on the route to the rodeo grounds.

"How old is this phone book? 1983? Here's hoping they are still open."

Mick turns the lights off for the third time, including the television. The silence is disarming. Until that rusted radiator sputters, spits and pops. Then complete silence. Mick sits with his thoughts for hours before he finally passes out at 4 am. The night desk will call at six.

"Good Morning! This is your friendly wake up reminder! Good Morning!"

The bleary-eyed Mick is in no mood for the canned wake-up recorded back in 1974 by the hotel owner's wife. The call was not necessary; Mick has been up since 5:30. He has to be at the rodeo grounds early to draw a bull.

Coffee shop number one is now an auto shop. Number two is a white bread donut chain. Instant black in a paper cup must do for today.

"That will be seven dollars," said little girl with a 4H sash. "Maybe it's a good thing I didn't stay somewhere nice last night, at seven bucks just to park I'll be sleeping in my truck tonight," said Mick.

Rodeo events won't start until around 11. The kids get to chase chickens and ride sheep. The business end of preparing the days events is underway and Mick just drew his bull for the day.

Red Strike is one of the smaller bulls in the pen. He is also one of the fastest and angriest. With red streaks fading from his face into his broad shoulders, his name is an obvious choice. The bull was ridden. You can count the times on one hand.

"Maybe I should have come back riding one of those sheep with the kids," joked Mick to no one in particular.

Mick is done checking in. He knows where to go and what time he needs to be there. A date with Red Strike is set for 4:30 this afternoon. It is 11:30 right now.

Rodeo lunches do not offer the most in nutritional benefits. Mick sits down with a hot dog and a Coke to watch the barrel riders prepare for their competition. He always did love the barrel riders. He married one.

"Coop! You took off early last night," said Buzz, lumbering up the bleacher stairs. "These newlyweds came in and bought everyone a round. They were really whoopin' it up."

"What brings you around here so early? I thought you just shot the bull riders," said Mick.

"Oh, I came in early as this friend of mine has a daughter racing the barrels. He wanted some shots of her before she goes off to college," said Buzz. "She's on deck right now. I had better get down there. Knock 'em dead, Coop."

"Thanks, but I think I'll just try to hold on."

In a small rodeo like this, you see many amateurs and many people roaming the grounds, visiting and eating. Everyone makes time to watch the bull riders.

Mick is up third. Before the team roping ends he makes his way down to his truck to grab his gear. Mick is still maneuvering the back pens when bull rider number one is strapped in and ready to ride.

"Go!"

The chute flies open and the bull spins out and up. Mick can't see the rest of the ride, but the anxious crowd moans, as the young man becomes short work of the bull in 5 seconds.

The back pens rattle and dust kicks up as a black agate colored bull stomps into the chute. In the rough and tumble, steel and dirt world of a rodeo, butterflies begin to well up in Mick's stomach.

"Go!"

Bull rider number two spins out, then back towards the closed chutes.

"Blackie is notorious for taking a rider dangerously close to the chutes, Stevens is hanging in tight though," shouts the minimum wage play-by-play man.

"5...6...7..." chants the crowd in unison. "...8!"

Bull rider number two hangs for the full ride much to the delight of the crowd and his father standing right in front of Mick.

"That's my boy!" said the father.

As the announcer gives the judge's scores, Red Strike rattles his way through the back pens. A score of 76 for the rider and his proud papa.

"Come on son, you're next," said the grizzled owner of Red Strike. His beard could shine rusted metal. "I'm going to be your flank man."

The crowd is still up from the last ride but in Mick's ears everything has grown quiet. Pulling a glove on to his left hand, he notices what's left of the callous from his wedding ring.

Red Strike crashes into the steel chute with his horns. Spit and snot mixes with the dust as he snorts. Mick climbs the chute and starts to lower himself down on the bull. With the flank strap in place and Mick in position all that is left is to pull the chute.

With nothing left to lose, there is nowhere else to go.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mick can see Buzz. Crouched and ready to shoot. A smile a mile wide on his face.

"Go!"