“Sorry,” Clay offered the woman in the light blue uniform. “I’ll clean it up.”
“I’ll call someone from housekeeping. Mr. Knox, are you still planning on leaving?” She seemed kind of pissed at me. Not sure why. I was an American with rights. I could walk out of here if I wanted.
“Yes,” I snapped.
“No,” Clay barked. We stared at each other.
“Well, I hope you can talk some sense into him,” the nurse said.
“I’m going to try, ma’am,” Clay said as she headed out to find a janitor with a mop. Or a brick to clobber me over the head with. It was a toss-up probably. Clay threw me a dark, dark look. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m going to call your brother?—”
“No. Fuck no, leave him alone. He’s living his own life without a care for me.”
Well didn’t that sound pitiful. Poor Hoyt, nobody loves me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eat worms. Christ, grow the hell up and stop being such a pussy ass.
And there was Dad. Uninvited but showing up when you least wanted him. Like the clap only with a heaping helping of homophobia.
“Hoyt, if you walk out of here without that surgery you’re never going to ride again. Now that is a fact. Your shoulder is bruised and your collarbone is busted.”
“I’ve had worse,” I mumbled, wishing I could make the room stop pulsing. It was freaking me the fuck out.
“No, buddy, you haven’t. Not since I’ve been on your team. You need to get fixed up, recuperate, and figure out if this is the life you want for yourself.”
I glanced up at him, suddenly weepy, my body slowly folding in on itself like a wet envelope, whatever the shit that meant.
“I don’t know nothing else. This is what I’ve done since I was sixteen and lied on my application to get into the rodeo,” I confessed, praying to whatever gods looked over men who rode bulls and lied about just about everything in their lives to give me the fortitude to not pass out in front of Clayton. “If I don’t do this what the hell do I do? World don’t seem to have big demand for washed-up cowboys who like to read poems about strawberry roan ponies.”
“There’s more out there than rodeo, Hoyt. Don’t you ever get lonely? I know you’re not big on buckle bunnies…”
Not big on them. Nope. Not at all. He’s big on the men who wear the chaps and spurs. Unnatural as a two-headed calf is what he is.
“Nah, I’m not lonesome.” I lied. Flat-out lied a lie as big as the Grand Canyon. I longed for something, someone, somewhere safe where I could just be. Him and me. Happy. But that wasn’t happening anytime soon because I had bulls to ride.
“Well, I am. And I’m handing in my notice at the end of this season.”
I gaped. Then I started to cry. Big, gruesome tears. Unstoppable heaving sobs as if someone had run over my dog. Shit. I wished I had a dog. All I had that was mine was my clothes, a trailer that used to have horses but now had all my belongings—sponsorships drying up had drained my meager bank accounts—and my little collection of poetry books. Sissy books, my father would call them, but I liked them. I liked toread them over and over, sometimes even jot down my own verses on napkins when I had time to kill. So what if they were gay. So was I. Not that anyone knew. Hell no. Queers did not ride steers. Well, bulls, unless they were in a queer rodeo, which was not where a Knox boy wouldeverfind himself.
“Shit, Hoyt.” Clay moved to me then took a step back as I dropped to my side, face wet, chest heaving, room blinking in and out of existence. How fucking sad that my friend was too worried about touching me in a kind way that all he could do was stand there, wringing his hands, as I had a breakdown. God damn rigid rules of masculinity. This was a new thing for me. Never quite experienced something like this. Wasn’t sure I liked it, but after a few minutes I felt cleansed. Vacant of just about every emotion. An empty bottle floating down the river, ending up who the hell knew where. “Hoyt, it’s okay. We’ll get you some dry clothes then maybe the doc here can write up a prescription for some pain meds and?—”
“Nah,” I sniffled, lying on my side, cheeks slick, staring at the air conditioning unit that was blowing mediocre cool air. “I’m…I’m going to have the surgery.” Might as well let them end it now. Why put it off? If I were a dog I’d have been put out of my misery long ago. Might as well cut my losses for good and ride off into the sunset. Oops, sorry, got no horse. Fuck me and my life.
“Oh, good, good. That’s a good call, Hoyt. I’ll go get your nurse. Bet she’ll have to wash you up then shave you. Nothing like a bath from a hot nurse.”
I grunted at the comment.
Off he ran as if Lucifer himself were clawing at his balls. Not that I blamed him. I’d run as fast as I could from a sobbing man who’d just realized he had nothing left and nowhere to go.
Pathetic.
“Yep, Dad, that’s me.”
Man knew me well.
Once,when I was eighteen and still trying to deny how gay my ass was, I made a pass at an older woman. Classy lady, wife of some big beer company executive. When she turned me down I got belligerent—might have had a few too many beers in me—and reached out to touch her hair. I recall it was gold and looked like spun silk. She kicked me in the balls so hard with her pink pointy-toed cowboy boots I’d like to die. Thought I might. I threw up all over myself as I lay on the floor of that two-bit honkytonk gasping for breath. Never felt a pain like that in all my life until I woke up from having my collarbone screwed back together. There was a lot of talk about pain control and how pain relief would come quickly once the bones were in the right position. Bullshit. And I know a thing or two about bull shit as I have landed in it more times than I care to count. That first night in the hospital after surgery was brutal. I slept sitting up, and by sleep I mean dozing when the pain meds kicked in then before coming awake when they wore off.
When breakfast arrived I was miserable. Plain old pissy. Cranky as a wet cat. The eggs were watery, the toast soggy, and the milk warm. And I had yet to make the call to Snow Creek since my pride was suffering a loss of biblical proportions. What kind of man cries when his friend says he’s retiring? What the hell was that anyway? As if that fucking pony show of emotional softness wasn’t enough I then backtracked on allowing Dr. Frankenstein to carve me up then screw me back together with his Black & Decker rechargeable. My health insurance might cover some of the cost if I would have remembered to sign up by the cutoff date. Which I hadn’t but maybe they’d not see that expiration date when the bills came rolling in from the surgeonand hospital. We’d cross the bridge when it fell out from under us. Right now I was sitting on a bed wearing a gown, a sling, and a frown. My cell rested in my hand courtesy of the morning nurse who was much prettier than the night nurse but just as tightfisted with the pain meds. At least he was cute.
I needed to call my brother. I hated the thought of crawling back into his life. The coward who had bagged it in the night after his father had found gay poetry in his backpack. I should have stayed. Not for me but for Jesse. God only knows the shit Abel put that kid through in my absence. The guilt ate at me like one of those flesh-eating microbes. One kid, one hateful broken bigot. No mother, his had died just like mine had, leaving us with a man who turned to drink to hide his pain. Poor kid was just two the night everything had exploded. Sound sleeper that he was he slept through the beating that took place in the front yard. Which was good because he didn’t need to witness that at such a young age.
