'Send in the Clowns', by Jody Padumachitta Goch
This story was originally published in the collection Short Stories From Strasbourg 2021.
Jack rodeoed.
He tried to ride rough stock for eight seconds, before bailing out for the comfort of a hard landing. Those re-acquaintances with the ground had Jack questioning his chosen profession, but they never knocked enough sense into him to quit. He liked to say, “I’m a simple person. I’m defined by eight seconds."
Years earlier, it had taken him exactly eight seconds to get into his car and drive away from Scott and Jean.
***
One Friday night after sponging cow crap off his neck from a spectacular spill, Jack wandered over to the tavern. His buddies made room at the round, rough table and Big Mo poured him one from the pitcher.
“Hey Jack, let me buy you a beer for your pains.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if you do.”
Jack hoisted the beer and tipped his chair back, ready to listen to the tales of the day.
Conversation ranged from horses to women, with most of the men agreeing, both were better fast, tall and blond. Jack was glad for the companionship, but not so comfortable with the ribald bar talk. He nursed his Foster’s, letting his mind wander. He knew he was liked, and there were a few guys he could call friends. Still, he never felt completely part of the cowboy tribe and its stereotypical, often macho masculinity.
What he really wanted to do was to hit the practice arena and hang out with the barrel racers. Jack finished his now warm beer and stood up.
“Thanks for the brew.”
“Yo Jacky boy, you off for the barrels? What’s with you and them racers?”
“I just like the horses is all.”
Jests and laughter followed him and his thoughts out of the bar. His route took him past his truck and trailer. Jack’s ancient barrel horse Gus stood alongside in a makeshift corral. Jack stopped to lean on the familiar flank and felt the faded echo of power in the old horse. A good barrel race time is around seventeen seconds, and in his day Gus ran in the sixteens. That for Jack was a long time ago, and twice as much as he liked to remember.
“Be good, old boy. I’m off to help the gals.”
In the practice arena cowgirls and horses were a kaleidoscope of color and speed. Jack picked up a barrel that had been knocked over and stood with half closed eyes enjoying the atmosphere.
“Hey Jack. Can I get you to work the kinks out of Hotshot?” Cathy asked.
He swung his leg over and spoke a few quiet words to calm the horse. He could feel every eye on him and Hotshot. Then the familiar heart explosion of joy as together they flew in figure eights, his feet scraping earth as the horse leaned into the turns.
He pulled up and handed the horse back to Cathy.
“He’s one of those that like his head, he wants to stretch out more. Loosen up on the reins, he’ll do the rest.”
“Thanks Jack. One day you’re gonna tell us how come you can ride the barrels so well.”
“Maybe. But not today. See ya tomorrow.”
Jack walked away feeling disjointed. No matter what he did, he had one boot toed foot on either side of the line.
Rodeo is a pretty much a gendered sport. Cowgirls do one thing and cowboys another, and you best have the clothes and the character to stay in your lane. Then there’s the two types of events: the speed events where the lowest time wins, like barrel racing roping, and the bucking stock events where just staying up there for eight seconds is good. It’s really a matter of attitude, one either races to lower times or one tries to hang on for eight seconds. Jack had tried both, now he just grabbed what he could, and hoped no one slotted the pieces of his life together.
Jack had moved from saddle bronc to bareback and finally on to bull riding. The thing with bulls is, it’s never just eight seconds. It's the litany of minutes in the bucking chute that matter, when thousands of pounds of bull try to bash you into bone pulp. Thinking is suspended. The moment your legs touch the bull, fate is horns and hooves. The present is held in a glove, death gripped to a rope. The past stays behind tucked into Jack’s trailer. It moves with him from one rodeo to the next, his pain, his choices, his missing family. He spared Scott and Jean the mess of his life, the decisions that kept his love silent. Once the gate opens choice implodes. It’s only hang on and pray the clown saves your life. Jack was about to know this better than most.
Sunday afternoon of the last rodeo of the season had the audacity to be a pleasant day. Jack pulled up his Levis, kissed his photo of Scott and Jean and headed to the arena. He looked around the grounds trying to stay out of Scott’s sight. It was a risk to come back home, but he’d wanted to see the barrel races, to see his little girl fly. Jean had done well placing in the top five, her horse Gerry a half-brother to old Gus. He’d sent Gerry to her on an anonymous trailer a year ago, hoping they’d be a good team. God, it seemed like two life times ago that he’d raced barrels. A whole different person had taken Gus and run.
The loudspeaker scratched out his name, “Jack you’re up in two on Thunder.”
“Shit”, Jack thought, and was glad to see that extra rodeo clowns were sent into the arena.
They nodded to Jack, letting him know they were ready to distract Thunder when he either fell or dismounted. Most of the rodeo clowns had ridden bulls before switching to being clowns. They were the bravest ground crew in the world, risking their bodies to save cowboys. Over the years they had tried their best with Thunder. But he wasn’t a pleasant bull, and even with the Clowns’ help a number of cowboys had Thunder tattoos on their scarred bodies.
The chute shook with Thunder’s berserker bull rage. He threw his head into the air, his nose trailing chunks of snot. Thunder’s horns snagged on the fence and the rails shook with the impact. The miasma of heat, dust and manure created a weather system of its own, with Thunder at the epicenter. Jack usually felt all thought leave his body, until only fear remained. It was this numb push against survival that Jack needed to stay alive. Only around the bulls was he able to still the echoing grief of leaving his former life. This time around he closed his eyes against the remembered joy of seeing his girl race the barrels, and for the first time wondered if Thunder would be the bull to end him.
Jack started to take off his gloves, to step away, when one of the clowns slapped in on the back and yelled, “We got ya Jack my boy, go get ‘em”
The spell broken Jack settled his hat and tightened his gloves. He waited on empty, ready for nothing. Handler’s restrained the bull enough for Jack to drop onto his back. He barely nodded okay before the gate popped open.
Two jumps and Jack hit the dirt. He heard rather than felt the hoof crunching through his ribs. His pearl snapped shirt ruined forever. Clowns pulled Jack out and paramedics circled him like hungry calves on a milk rail. Jack, in shock and bleeding, tried to crawl away. When the medics finally calmed him down and took off his shirt, Jack closed his eyes. It was over, he knew it.
“Jasus man, what the holy hell!” one of his friends said.
Scars in small silver lines ran across Jack’s hairless chest. Jack wondered how long it would take before his secret was as open as his shirt.
Someone jumped the arena fence and raced to his side.
“Jaqueline, oh my god, Jaqueline. It’s you isn’t it?”
Scott’s voice broke through the noise.
Scott met the ambulance at the hospital. Jack was sedated and placed on oxygen while the Medics sorted out his injuries. There was no talking yet, and both were relieved to have some time to process the crazy ride they were on.
Two days later, Jack was at Scott’s house recuperating. Jean was staying with Scott’s parents for a few days.
Scott set coffee on the kitchen table and curled his hands around the warmth of a mug. He was a patient man, whose art photography echoed that stillness. It’s what had drawn Jack towards him all those years ago, when Jack was still wild off the ranch, struggling to fit into college. He hated Agriculture classes and didn’t last long, just long enough to meet Scott and his arty, slightly hippie family. They used to laugh together about how laid back Scott’s family was coasting along. While Jack’s parents ran along a pretty narrow road with very definite boundaries.
“Right cowboy, start talking and start clear.”
Scott took a pull of his coffee.
“I never quit loving you two. That’s the whole reason for the rest of my decisions. You know I never felt like I fit in. I felt stuck between. Having Jean was the best time of my life. But it didn’t solve my feeling wrong deep inside. I couldn’t stay and do the things I needed to do. Couldn’t ask Jean to have two dads. Even that didn’t feel right.” Jack grimaced.
“So what are you saying, Jack? You could have talked to me! I was always there for you.” He paused. “Gawd, it’s not like I don’t work with non-definable people.”
“I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed and scared and I did the clichéd thing. I left rather than risk losing you.”
“Well don’t that just sound like a line out of chic-flick!”
It fell to silence then, that sort of quiet when a herd is waiting to stampede. When the dust will fly, and the fear and anger gallops in rings around everything. Jack’s scars itched, his taped ribs bashed against his heart. He was going to run again, he could feel the need building. He pulled his boots under him.
“You sit down, you sorry assed cowboy. You sent our little girl a great horse. She’s picked up your damn rodeo bug. Her and that horse need more training for her to compete next year in high school. I’m thinking you best stay around and get that job done.”
Long talks and tears later, with moments of wonder (and) these two men still shared the love of another. It was enough, it had to be.
On Friday night Scott brought their girl Jean home from the grandparents.
“Jean say hi to …” he started, but Jean interrupted him right away and faced Jack, paused for a moment and then said quietly:
“Grandma explained it to me. I’m pretty pissed off you left us for so long. I sort of get why - but it still hurts.” Jean sneaked a glance over at Jack, “Dad says you’re gonna stick around to train Gerry and me. That might take the mad off a bit.”
“Maybe so. You have any questions?” Jack asked, hoping they were simple ones.
“We got a kid at school called Jamie. They’re okay. So - are you non-binary or transgender? I mean, did you transition?”
Stunned to honesty Jack answered, “No not completely, just the breasts removed. Turns out that was enough. Now I’m a bit of both.”
“Must have hurt worse than what Thunder did to you.” She gave Jack a hug, “I’m just glad those clowns hauled your ass out of there.”
A week later Jack found himself living in a trailer behind the small barn on Scott’s parents place. He still felt torn between lives. Every way he turned it felt like a debate, everything was up for discussion. Jean had taken to calling him Jackie, she said it was a proper non-gender name. She already had a dad, and Jack wasn’t a mom. He couldn’t argue with that.
Today, the doctor had advised his rodeo days were over. He’d come home and sat on the porch with a cup of coffee all out of ideas. Jack watched Gus and Gerry grazing together. It was a quiet sort of day and Jack realized with some trepidation - he didn’t mind. He picked up the phone and ordered enough hay in until spring.
Jody Padumachitta Goch is a Canadian living in the German Black Forest. Their jeans and shirt pockets are full of stories. It’s hell on the wash machine. They enjoy lighting the wood stove and rescuing words from the lint catcher. Jody has work published in Does It Have Pockets, Wild Word, Rise Up Review, Comlit and Poetically Yours.
Photography by Michelle Leman