NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2014 | Page 13
After conferencing with the girls by the
jukebox, Harold proudly came over
to me and announced that two of the
girls wanted to get booty. He pointed
at the young vixens, who blushed.
Hell, I blushed too. I hadn’t got booty,
didn’t really know how except with my
action figures, and that didn’t count.
Harold then started to chide me about
being scared of girls. This went on for
hours until Arthur Duncan stepped
into the refreshment shack with two
young bunnies on his arms saying, “Lil’
Frenchy! Ya daddy ’bout to rope.”
“You Frenchy’s son?” Harold asked as
the older boys gathered around me
with looks of astonishment. I told you
he was a legend.
“Oh yeah?” I responded, rather
impressed that his redheaded,
pedophile father was a bull rider.
Father won both events and left me
under the care of a hideously obese
woman who sold catfish sandwiches
from an Igloo cooler so that he could
flip his winnings with a throw of the
dice. But I didn’t mind because the
main event was coming as the sky
darkened and the stolen stadium lights
illuminated the dusty arena. It was
time for the bull riding.
There are only two rules when you’re a
youngster watching bull riding. Don’t
put your fingers in the fence and don’t
sit on the fence. Usually, when you
become a teenager, you show your
courage by sitting on the fence but
only after you have stopped shooting
duck water. Bull riding is grown men’s
business and deadly, as I would soon
learn. After Arthur Duncan locked in
a competitive time on his bull, a flurry
of challengers came and went, most
thrown off and some with rides too
pathetic to garner any respect or score.
Harold didn’t show up empty-handed
either. Three prepubescent girls sat
with us, smelling like candy, bbq,
cigarette smoke, and the all-toofamiliar manure. They started pinching
me. Harold’s daddy climbed onto
the beast with hurried confidence,
staring down at the animal’s head
with occasional nods to the chute boss
and cowboys who strapped his right
hand into the bull’s collar. He nodded
quickly and the chute opened.
Then a gracile, pecan-colored man with
a reddish brown “shag” (black folks’
answer to a mullet) confidently hopped
the fence into the arena and headed for
the chutes. His Wranglers looked as
brand-new as his floral-print Western
shirt, both of which looked heavily
starched. I smirked, remembering
Father once saying, “Cain’t trust no
redheaded nigga ’cause a nigga like that
grow up mad at hisself, mad at how his
hair turned out.”
“That’s my daddy,” Harold said as he
joined me next to the catfish sandwich
woman.
The animal charged out of the chute
with angry bucks. Up and down. Twist
to the left, then the right. And Harold’s
father held on. You could hear Harold’s
heart racing as his father reached the
eighth second.
buzzzz.
The crowd roared. It was a fine ride
indeed, worthy of a champion’s score
if only he could dismount. He was
stuck, locked to an angry animal that
only sought to get the damn tickling
rope off its hinds. But Harold’s father
wouldn’t let go. In fact, he couldn’t. He
was tied down to a series of ropes that
extended to the bull’s hinds, behind
the ribs. This is a sensitive area for
many animals that arguably may tickle
if touched. The bull hates this feeling
just as most people do when tickled.
Then there’s the cowbell that’s strapped
to the animal for dramatic effect but
also confuses it with every ring. So this
half-ton beast is getting tickled and
a bell is mocking it. No wonder they
kick like hell.
BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE
Harold was ten years old and was
missing his front teeth. Big brown eyes
and complexion with a dusty red afro.
He had a lot of energy, but most of the
boys didn’t play with him because the
rumor about him and his father had
circ ulated around the rodeo circuit for
some time although no one dared to
investigate.
“Yeah,” I answered as humbly as I could,
then left with Arthur Duncan and his
foxy escorts.
11
This attention didn’t go unnoticed
by the older boys, who were plotting
to get their fingers stanky or pull a
little tongue. I inadvertently thwarted
their plans and would soon become a
victim if I didn’t figure something out.
One of them, a little closer to my age,
noticed what was going on and decided
to befriend me, maybe thinking that
some of this female attention would
rub off on him. It kind of worked. His
name was Harold and his father used
to fuck him.