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.