Torqued Tougher than a Texas Train
It’s the peculiar memories that give a special glare to retrospective days; on the move, down the living-grind...take horse sweat, for example, and how it feels, just as gross as it looks...especially, against your face. That was a day in life’s saddle that really hammered my soul.
I learned that the hard way; out on the derange flatlands of Comanche country; up by the pan-handle of north Texas, close to the Oklahoma border. There was a brisk chill, but it was sunny, at the end of November, and I thought, cowboys are a dedicated breed, because my crotch and ass are killing me.
Roger rode in the lead position, and proved his horse-back expertise – he’d been bragin’ about it. I tried to keep up, but old westerns, like Joe Kidd, deceived my capabilities. I had done Roger a favor; I’d provided him transportation here, from the gulf coast, and his down-home disposition – Texas-to-the-core – wouldn’t let me leave, unless the favor was returned.
The steeds blasted off, out of the corral, and, instantly, the ride got gnarly. Roger was a genuine cowboy soul, and his veins pumped lone-ranger grit – it was a real shame that he was born a hundred years, too late.
My nerves didn’t feel right, the gallop speed increased, and Roger whipped around like an owl rotates its head, perched on its stationary body, and yelled, “when we drop! Lean back! Shoot y’ur legs out – V-shaped – in the stirrups!”
I’ll tell ya, sitting upright is a tremendous strain on your inner thighs; legs contorted in a death grip on the fast churn of shifting horse-tack (don’t go blowin’ steam at my terminology – that’s how Roger referred to the horse equipment). I shouted, “what!?!” because the rush of clopping hooves made his voice inaudible.
The horses sprinted faster like an electrical surge, beneath low, face-scraping branches. My bobbled vision obscured any anticipatory foresight, and suddenly, Roger abruptly vanished. “Oh shit,” I stated deliberately like anybody who’s about to make a plunge they’d rather not.
We shot like bullets down the canyon, and my neck hurled backward like I bounced off the ropes in a wrestling match, catching a trachea-trasher of a clothesline. I wailed terrible bellows of fear, as we ran like thunder, until I finally managed to execute the V-shape stance – which is a skilled maneuver that alleviates the painful smash of your taint on the saddle.
I was stiff as a lamppost, pensively petrified, and things got worse: I could see the sharp incline we were about to shoot up, and Roger showed-off again, “lean forward at the bottom – grab the mane!” he hollered.
I'm about to eat a face full of broken neck dirt, I thought – my heart beat worse than panic.
It’s hard to accurately control the shift of your weight at breakneck speed – WHAM! – my face got flung forward, and slammed into the slimy nape of the horse like the sound of a baseball, pitched at high-speed, pops in the catcher’s mitt – better than pile-drive neck snapper, I thought – I clasped to the animal like a desperate baby chimp to its mother.
My teeth were filled with grimy hair, which muffled my shrieks like duct-taped lips, and I was on the collision end of a CTE diagnosis. My head bounced at the tempo of a dribbling professional on the And One, Mixtape tour, off the muscular neck of the horse.
My vision blurred, and I thought, I’m gonna need a bottle of whiskey to numb my skull, at the end of this ride!
All I could see was the canyon’s, rock wall of layered earth. I could feel my grip loosen. I thought, it’s been a short, but fun existence...when the speed of whiplash chaos reduced to a mild trot. I could erect myself, now, and the calm allowed me to catch up to Roger.
“Holy shit, bro! Give me a heads up! Before you toss me in the fire, why don’t cha!?!” I vehemently spat – gassed out.
“Eh, I knew you could handle it, cowpoke – sometimes, we ain’t where we expected to be, and we gotta do the thang we don’t think we can; and in those times, we gotta trust our instincts, get on with it, despite our confidence, and get it done,” Roger said, with the tranquil conviction of a Zen-cult-leader, “take a gander for a moment – you made it – still alive, and you’re still on life’s ride.”
His point had validity – I'll give him that – plus, the charisma to deliver it. He wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t refute his logic, and in a weird way, it was a poignant statement in my mind. I had just finished two years, rebuilding homes on the gulf coast in the wake of hurricane Katrina.
I was transformed, unsure how to explain it...but it was in that spiritually developed way...that only proves it’s worth in the future, long after the labor has been done. We go through times that have meaning, and mean times that make us who we are...we’re cultivated by all those moments we promised we wouldn’t forget.
I was heading home, to California, and soulfully modified, so Roger was correct – that kind of elevated perspective attained at the completion of immensely difficult experiences; you never believed you could handle – I was no desperado, but I felt fine in my own mind.
“Fair enough – it was pretty cool – ya know, to gallop like a bandito on the run,” I said, and flashed a proud grin.
“Good, cowpoke – means y’ur gettin’ in sync with the animal. That’ll help – because right on, up ahead, the ride’s ‘bout to git hairy,” Roger apprised me, and all that philosophically conscious bullshit infuriated me because I’d actually have to be what I believed.
Fuck – of course, I thought, ain’t nothing easy, or ever ends, on a poignant smile. The trees filtered away, and we stood over a dark blue lake; a scene that God had painted, just for us – marvelous, he’s just fuckin’ wit my rookie boot-heels.
“Sho’ is purtty, ain’t it,” Roger said. The majestic view, almost made a dude think about relocation.
“Fo sho, bro – I see the allure of the boot-scoot lifestyle. You’re never really alone, and after all the drudgery, there’s moments like this – bonded with your steed – that assent the world’s benevolence, and dissolve the triviality of our hassles,” I said.
“Yup. ‘Bout sums it up, cowpoke. I reckon, y’ur right, and I’ll tip my hat to it. Alright, well, better get a move on – sun’s settin’ soon,” Roger said.
“Cool, bro, my groin is killin’ me – do we just head back the way we came?” I asked.
“Not-a-chance, cowpoke. You’ll get caught in the dark, and lost in the pines, that way,” Roger said, “we gotta go ‘round that big rock, out there, in the water – on the other side, we’ll run right to the barn.”
I hated the plan. “Bro, what the hell are you talking about? It’s like a nine-foot drop, down to the shore, and, look at that huge rock, jutting out in the water, like, almost thirty feet – can horses even fuckin’ swim!? – we’re gonna get fuckin’ soaked!” I said, distraught.
Roger chuckled – glad shitin’ my pants, can make you smile, fumed in my brain. Then, Roger said, “horses are great swimmers. Give the ole gal a swift, all-business, heel nudge – you gotta mean it, though, or she won’t go – right there, in her sides, and then, as she submerges in the water, pull your feet outta the stirrups, and sit Indian-legged ‘till we back on land.”
Fuck horses – there was a multitude of apprehensions boiling in me – we had to go through to get back – it was pointless to sulk. Roger got down to the shore like the tutorial you watch your first day on the job – that never goes as shown.
“Think less ‘bout it – just do & go with it – hold tight and stay calm. Be confident, and trust the horse; she’ll take care of ya. Don’t let doubt creep in or she’ll read that – they can feel your energy, and they don’t like insecure commands.”
“Real easy to say from down there, and with a belt-full of experience,” I said, irritably, and attempted to make the horse perform a leap that neither of us wanted to do.
Needless to say, she didn’t budge, and I’m sure the ole gal thought, this motherfucker is crazy, and STUPID, to go down this way.
Roger hollered, “take a moment! Center yourself, and get committed to the dive – she knows you ain’t ready!”
He turned away, probably, so I felt less pressure, or, because he didn’t want to see me head spike into the lake. I paused, wrangled my mind, and breathed deep. My heart raced, but it bolstered me, and it was now or never.
I ripped a loud, “fuck-it!” and cranked decisive heels into the ole gal’s underbelly, and we were airborne – all I could think, as my ass floated off the saddle, was that the term, “fuck-it,” has probably, progressed humanity more than it gets credit for.
Your scream goes mute, frozen in a free-fall. Internally, I noted every damn vicious insult I was gonna lay on Roger, but the list got cut short when the ole gal’s front hooves landed firm, like Simone Biles sticks a gold medal performance, and I slammed my nuts into the saddle nob, resulting in distracted agony – there goes my dreams of fatherhood.
“Ahhh! Hell! Shit! Fuck that hurts!!” I moaned, loud enough for ears, across the lake to hear – the horse, just walked...aloof to my pain – I shoved my hands in my pants, and made sure my balls were intact.
“Well, look at that...the hard parts over,” Roger said, on the trot, in the manner of cowboy-cool; grin hangin’ heavy, like he knew, ya had it in ya, “kick them stirrups loose, hold your core tight, and sit like a monk meditates.”
We waded out, the horses sunk into the frigid water, splashes of icy water hit my faces disapproval, and I was blinded by the nervous sweat, shaking down my face – wipe the brow, loose the reigns & get a swimmin’ sprain. I was smoothly stiff in the spine; astounded by the horses, since they had clubs for feet, but they paddled like dogs.
We emerged, around the rock, dry and trotted fast, back to the barn. I felt rodeo ready – at least, I thought I was, or my ass went so numb that I couldn’t feel the pain of the ride. The sky ignited with an incredible sunset; it roared like a blaze of gloriously pink fire. We unloaded the horse tack, and I was glad I gave the cowboy existence a whirl – it wasn’t for me, though, and I wouldn’t sit right for a week.
“That was fun. But I’ll leave the ridin’ and ropin’ to you,” I said, “hot damn! I need a shot, a beer, plenty more, and a fat joint to fire up – that beat the hell outta me, and I don’t think my knees will ever retain true alignment – is this why old cowboy’s walk like old whores?”
“Yup, this life’ll pound ya into a shape you don’t recognize –just part of livin’ – for err’body, really – you gotta just keep on...hold your shine and find a reason to survive the madness,” Roger said, “the years will mangle your soul. Part of humanism, I guess – we’re gonna die – which means we’re merely born to lose, and the only way to win in that type of game is to stoke some flame of joy, and pummel on through the time, you get to ride.”
“Sure, dude, sounds fuckin’ inspirational, but Ima be real honest, I’m tired of the cowboy-zen shit...it sounds beautiful, and all...but, I gotta believe you need reasons like that when you suffer in the saddle, all fuckin’ day,” I said, “now, let’s get a buzz on – I gotta block out this awful throb in my crotch, you son-of-a-bitch.”
“You got it – I know a cure-all, for everything, kinda spot,” Roger said.
The desolate highway we cruised, under an eternal, prairie stretched sky. It was clear of any clouds, and the twinkle of a zillion stars, like bright diamonds, so tangibly vibrant you thought you could pluck one from the universe.
“Hang a right on that dirt road, up there,” Roger directed.
I did, and up a gravel road there was a house in the moonlight, and the ambiance was similar to that of a Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I felt skittish like a deer being hunted, as I parked my champagne Cavalier. I looked around – edgy and vigilant.
“So, uh, are we about to get greeted by leather face? Um, how do you know these people?” I asked.
“Relax, cowpoke, it’s a friend’s house. I’ve known him for longer than we got time to explain. But if you looking for something to smoke, pop, or snort – he's your man,” Roger said.
He knocked on the door, a scuffle ensued, voices murmured – I’ve got a bad zing of trepidation – the door flung open with aggression that usually results in guns pointed at your face.
“Roger! You goat-fucker! Good to see ya!” blurted, a loud, bald, behemoth of a man – he was Juggalo built, but lacked the face-paint.
They embraced, and we entered the home. On couches, frayed at the seams, and days away from disintegration; cradled the behinds of three women – clad like pole-performance professionals. On each side were two, twitchy dudes and they were dressed like the familiarity of dirt bike mechanics and recipes for methamphetamines.
Roger told the monster-of-a-man that we came to buy weed – he was an affable beast, but I sensed that he could twist on a heel point, and rip a person’s head off – he handed me a Lonestar beer, and I observed the bizarre medley of Texans.
The home was decoratively bare, like it could be abandoned at the soonest alert of sirens. Weird chatter resumed, which appeared normal for them. I looked towards the kitchen, where I could hear the monster-man shuffle, and I noticed the hospital bed – tubes ran from a bagged solution into the arm of a coffin-less corpse.
Roger approached me, and asked, “You alright, there, cowpoke?”
“Nope. Gettin’ nightmare waves – is that dude dead?” I asked.
Roger turned his head. “Nah. That’s Hank – ya know, the dealer man,” Roger said.
“Uh, ok, so is he alive?” I asked, “dude, I get why this is the fly-by-region of America – you’ll get stopped and stuck in bizarro world, here,” I said, curiously conflicted.
“Yeah, cowpoke, guess it’s rather strange – but it’s home. Anyway, ole Hank, over there, has been the dealer-man for years – he used to sample, quite heavily, which led him to the permanently prone lifestyle,” Roger stated.
“You don’t say, huh,” I said – obvious, noted.
“Yeah, he was fucked up on the train tracks, over yonder, and I don’t know the full details, but let’s just say, he pecked a fight with a locomotive, and ended up on the losin’ end of smashed-to-shit,” Roger said.
“No way...that’s gnarly bro, and he’s still kickin’?” I asked, “like can he talk, make moves, or, like, c’mon bro, how does he run a fuckin’ drug business in that condition?”
“At any rate, nowadays, ole Hank’s just the brains of the operation – ya know, he’s got all the contacts – but, neck down, that skeleton don’t dance like it used to...and the burly boy – Steve – ya know, he’s the mover & the shaker of the operation; he’s the hands of their partnership, and takes care of ole Hank,” Roger said.
“So, does everybody here, like, work for Hank?” I asked, “they’re a farily grotesque group...but quite affable – must help with customer service.”
“Yup, most weirdos in the country get served up here...but nope – these’re just friends,” Roger said, “see, Hank likes company – especially, bein’ bed-ridden...and...some of the ladies, ya know, take care of him – a transaction of muscle contraction.” The hint emphasized by the flutter of his brows.
“No shit...his dick works?” I inquired, baffled.
“Oh yeah, cowpoke,” Roger said, “ole Hank’s broken, but he ain’t beaten by this thang called life...everybody, even in the worst circumstances, has gotta work to find a pleasant release from their burdens.”
Ole Hank, was certainly torqued tougher than a Texas train. He was trapped alive in gizmo-pumped purgatory...but, I guess, there was some admirable quality in his survival – almost an arrogant artistry of persistence.
The monster, Steve, blundered over with a hefty ounce of the finest bud that the flatland had to offer – 60 bucks for a cheap ounce of dry dope that was dry as a tumbleweed, rolling over sunbaked pavement.
I bought it – any stretch of bad, can still chase the right kind of highs – made an exit, smoked under the stars, and after three, or four joints; the size of foot-long hot-dogs, I caught the cadence of the cosmos and it rolled my soul...in the window, ugly expanded, and it seemed more appropriate for the glaze of my skull to remain where I was...so, I climbed in my car...locked the doors, curled up to sleep, and preserve my energy to make a run for the horizon line, at day break.
