The Poker Report

Special Edition LIVE FROM THE SALINAS RODEO

7/24/01

"Bulls, Broads, and Beer Since 2001"

The Rodeo

I wake up Friday morning feeling better than I should when one considers the long life I’ve had. I wake up in one of the artist studios at Stanford knowing that I’ll be wearing the same clothes all weekend because after work I’m going straight to Salinas, I’m going to the rodeo.

This weeks poker report opens at the Rodeo in Salinas, California, holed up in a small hotel room playing hearts with Ben, Jon, Julie, Coons, and Jeremiah. I bought a big brown suede hat from the trailer across the street. Jeremiah shoots the moon three times but still comes in second between my quiet yet superb playing. Julie loses her shit and her mind, exploding into a hailstorm of expletives after Jon passes her the queen again for no good goddamn reason except for spite. And then seventy-five year old Frank Stead pulls up in a long grey caddy, pours himself a glass of scotch, and sits down to tell us about Lee Marvin and thirty years on the long-shore.

This is what we see at the rodeo on Saturday: We see men lined up at every other urinal because cowboys give each other room. We see t-shirts boasting confederate flags and stickers that read ‘I’ll pick my own damn cotton.’ We see overt racism and bulls, their nuts clenched in a vice grip of knotted rope, bucking and kicking until the cowboy flies over their hoofs and to the dusty ground swatting their Wranglers with a Stetson, sponsored by Jack Daniels, Justin Boots, and the Christian God. We take pictures of ourselves, hanging out on the benches, trying to fit in our new hats.

Frank sits in the corner of the bar behind the good seats. Some time long ago Frank spent a few years on the back of a bull. During the parade today Frank sat in the front of the Wells Fargo stagecoach and the announcer sung out, "Frank Stead in his sixtieth year at the rodeo!" Frank is royalty and sheriffs and deputies bring him drinks and pay their respects but it wasn’t always so smooth for Frank, who tells me, while making stabbing motions with an imaginary knife, of the rodeos he wasn’t allowed to compete in, sleeping in the truck back of the fairgrounds. Rodeos where black guys had to ride three bulls instead of two and still couldn’t qualify. And now here’s Frank, seventy-five years old. Says he likes to have a good time. Says he isn’t taking any more lip from no KKK. Stabs the air, stabs the wall.

At the bar a woman accuses me of kicking her which I assure her is impossible. She asks me what her husband wanted her to get and I say Jack and Coke and she says oh, yeah. A certain amount of yelling ensues and I threaten to kick her again though I didn’t kick her the first time. Then, just off to our right, a fight breaks out.

**

Back at the hotel. Another game of hearts ends early with Julie in the lead and Coon on the floor lying in the stickiness of his own lies a whopping 82 points in the hole. I decide to circle the scores of people who are beating me creating an enemies list. The game ends with the arrival of Fox, Jons, Monica and Monica’s old man as well as Jeff Alvarez and two honest to goodness rodeo queens.

Saturday night we take our hats down to the Saloon. Of course there is another fight, that’s the way cowboys are, sometimes they don’t give each other enough room. And then Fox is dancing, swinging along Ben’s arms, walking Ben’s shoulder like a magician, then she leads Jeremiah past the shooting gallery with a rope in his teeth. Julie and Jons give it a go on the dance floor but only Fox and Ben can really be considered smooth. They dance like a couple that has loved each other all their lives.

People are drinking heavily. Shots of whiskey. Shots of tequila. Who’s counting? I ask Leslie and Bobbie Joe for advice on how to be a real cowboy. I give a girl a dollar for some hard lemonade and two in tight shirts are calling blackjack near the fire exit. Someone says, "Go home now cowboy." The bartender says, "I hope y’all ain’t driving." But we aren’t. On the walk home Jeremiah falls knees first to the cement.

Back in the room Monica makes a bed for her man in the back of her truck while Jeremiah cozies next to the tub on the bathroom floor. Julie falls against the dresser and then the wall landing in a pile of gym shoes and dirty shirts. I sleep below the television and read a book on Israel under the light of a cowboy moon.

In the morning everybody wakes up, which is surprising. We head to the rodeo early because inside the gates is the only place in Salinas to get a decent cup of coffee and a funnel cake. We arrive in time for cowboy church service in the grandstands. Ms. California Rodeo 2001 gives thanks for her perky breasts and the smooth, natural curve of her thighs. She says she just wants to thank God so much. Part of me wants to offer my help as a messenger or an intermediary. The rodeo queen is followed by the rodeo king. A man known for holding tight to the netting, fists strapped against the rolling waves of muscle on the bulls ribs. The cowboy tells the crowd his story, he says it’s a simple story. He says he was popping pills. He says he only knew women and booze, unhappy good times. He said he would ride bareback all day and wake up on a different pile of hay every morning. Then he found the lord. The lord wanted him to win the rodeo. The lord blessed him and his wife with a million dollar purse and a fine house. Listening to the cowboy I feel myself getting mad at the Lord for making me only five eight and bestowing me with a moderate income when He had the power to make me handsome and rich beyond my wildest dreams. Oh, how I would have believed if only He had given me everything and made me better than everybody else. It is a simple story the cowboy tells, there is no doubt about that. The cowboy is followed by a preacher and I am just finishing the last drops of a double Americano and I look and I see my faith lay down with the calves, its ears stapled, its hind legs branded. My faith is wallowing in the protein feed in the small fenced in yard. The preacher says when you’re a cowboy it only costs you a quarter to make a phone call to God. When you’re in Salinas it’s a local call.

The Sunday rodeo is the best of the week. The finals. The bulldoggers leap after monster steers, wrestling them to the ground by the horns. Bareback riders smack across the backs of the craziest horses kicking insanely to free their swollen gonads, the riders eventually shepherded off the horses back, the horses nuts freed. Bullriders have to stay on the thick beasts for eight seconds or no purse, no purse no money, dust off the Wranglers, head on back to Dakota. Of course there’s also bull fighting, barrel racing, team roping, and saddle bronc riding. All beneath a fat California sun. The rodeo clown skis the dirt in a pair of green shoes tugged along behind a horse. Frank slaps his knees. He says he never saw anyone ski on dirt before.

Steve Elliott

Editor

The Rodeo Report