My father’s first performance is at 7:00 on the opening night of Rodeo Roundup Days. It costs four tickets to see him, which means Dad is worth more than the petting zoo but less than the Ferris wheel.
I look nervously around the bleachers as we sit down, to see if anyone I know is here. So far I recognize some kids from school, and several of my parents’ friends. Mr. Stinson is rinkside, with a few other Lindville bigwigs.
I look around the non–regulation-size rink, which they didn’t exactly finish closing off the way they were supposed to. There’s a new roof to keep out the sun, and both ends and one side of the building are completed; but one side is only half done, covered with a chain-link fence and chicken wire, with random boards nailed to it. This goes with the decorating theme, because they’ve also nailed wooden boards against the rink’s interior to make it look like a corral. Generators are whirring loudly, trying to keep the ice and the rink area cold.
There’s a concession stand just outside the rink and a hawker yelling, “Get your frozen lemonade right here!” Torvill and Dean keep bugging me, then Mom, then me again, for frozen lemonade. Dorothy is sitting beside me patiently, waiting for the program to begin.
Dad told us not to come tonight; in fact he almost sounded like he was begging us not to. I seriously considered skipping this. For one thing, I don’t want to run into either Mike or Steve at the rodeo. For another, I don’t think Lindville’s going to appreciate my dad’s skating, and I feel a major embarrassment coming on. And for still another, it’s very awkward to be here with my mother, to watch my father, when they’re both still mad at me from Saturday night.
But I can’t not be here. You don’t want to miss any of Dad’s performances. There’s always something really incredible about each one of them—he’ll throw in a difficult jump at the last second, when he’s got the crowd on his side and things are clicking along. He’ll draw them in, have them clapping to the music, and then afterward the ice will be littered with roses and stuffed animals. At least that’s what used to happen, in all the videotapes I’ve seen of him competing. I don’t know about tonight. The ice might be littered with something else, I think as I look at the three lambs and two horses standing on the ice, posed as part of the cowboy scene. Fortunately Dad doesn’t have to skate with the animals—just around them.
My father is wearing a red-checked gingham shirt and pants that look like brown suede, only they’re fake and made out of stretchy material that won’t split when he jumps. The pants actually have real suede fringe running down the side seams. He’s wearing a black ten-gallon hat, and black skates that match it. Mr. Stinson must be so proud, I think.
The temperature outside is still in the eighties. To help the ice stay frozen, they’ve dumped in tons and tons of cubed ice and tried to smooth it over, so my father has to skate on a melting and bumpy surface. It’s impossible to skate well on soft ice. The performance is going to be a disaster—in more ways than one.
Dad has to round up the lambs as he skates around them and leaps over bales of hay, while two rodeo clowns with shoes on slide on the ice and fall down. The rodeo clowns look like some of the people Dad used to skate with in the ice shows. So much makeup, so little time. This is a step down, not just for my dad, but for the rodeo clowns, too. They’re professionals. They keep bulls from killing riders. They don’t goof around on skating rinks. I hope they’re getting paid overtime for this.
I don’t know what the horses are for, but at least they’ll go with the country music the rodeo guys insisted Dad use, after they said first our alternative-rock medley and then Denny’s U2 mix was too rebellious for Rodeo Roundup Days. They ended up handing Dad a tape and saying he had to use the three songs on it. “So much for artistic interpretation,” Dad said when he showed me the tape.
At exactly 7:00 there’s an announcement from the audio booth. “Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the one . . . the only . . . Phil Farrell in ‘Cowboy Bo Peep’!”
Torvill and Dean shriek with excitement and the audience applauds as the music begins: first, just a harmonica playing a sad cowboy ballad, as my father steps onto the ice and circles around. He stops to joke with the rodeo clowns and circles the rink while a horrible voice-over from a grizzled old cowhand goes on about “the life of a lonely cowboy.”
Then the real music starts: It’s a medley that kicks off with a high-energy Garth Brooks song called—appropriately—“Rodeo.” The crowd loves it and Dad plays to them, smiling and clapping as he does tricky footwork and makes his way up and down the ice. Then he grabs a lasso from one of the rodeo clowns and tries to make rope circles as he skates, only he can’t do it, and the clown chases him and shows him how to do it right. People laugh, but then settle into watching Dad as he tosses the lasso away and builds speed, skates forward, does a quick double Axel. He moves so quickly and gracefully, especially considering he has to skate around livestock. Dad jumps over a bale of hay and the crowd gasps, then applauds. He does a double toe loop and then a triple flip, and even the sheep look impressed.
Suddenly, outside the rink, there’s a huge commotion. People are screaming, and there’s the sound of thundering hooves. Everyone in the bleacher seats turns around to look out the open side of the rink. I see a giant black bull go rushing past, on the loose—completely out of control.
“Insane Zane’s escaped!” a woman screams.
“He’s gone crazy from the heat!” a man behind us yells.
The rodeo clowns bolt off the ice and sprint after Insane Zane. Cowboys ride past the rink, in hot pursuit, throwing ropes to try to lasso him. He’s one of the meanest, toughest bulls, and it’s a big challenge every year to see who can stay on him the longest. Apparently no one could stay on him—or with him—tonight.
When the noise subsides and we all turn back around, my father has stopped skating. He stares dejectedly at the horses and the sheep. He looks completely baffled, like he doesn’t know how he ended up doing this or how to make sense of it. My heart really goes out to him—this isn’t how his first performance should go, no matter how inane it is.
“He hates having his program interrupted,” Mom says as Dad steps off the ice.
“I know,” I say.
Mom turns to me. “I wasn’t saying that for your benefit. I was explaining to the little ones.”
“The little ones don’t understand, so what’s the point?” I say.
“Peggy, what is with you? Your attitude is terrible,” Mom says.
How could it not be? I’m stuck at the rodeo with my family.
The crowd gasps and shouts as Insane Zane rushes past the rink again. Dean suddenly jumps out of his seat and scampers down the rows of bleachers.
“Dean, come back!” Mom yells. “Come back here right now!”
But Dean either doesn’t hear her or doesn’t care. He lands on the bottom bleacher and races for the exit.
I go after Dean before Mom can tell me to go after him. That would just really irritate me right now. I catch up with him just outside the door. Insane Zane is racing around the concession stand and knocks down both the frozen lemonade cart and the Boots for Sale booth. Dean darts toward the bull before I can grab his shirt. I run after Dean, even though people are shouting at us to get back. Above our heads, ropes are flying as the cowboys attempt to lasso the bull’s horns.
Insane Zane stops racing and slowly trots toward us. He has a black coat, and seems about as long as a railroad car. He’s taller than I am, wider than I am, and has long, sharp-looking horns and stuff dripping out of his quarter-size nostrils. With those he should definitely be able to smell our fear, and anything else about us.
I decide not to look at him—staring at him might be challenging him in some way. I decide not to breathe. Then maybe he’ll think I’m already dead. I step in front of Dean to shield him, but he jumps out and does a high karate kick, yelling “Hi-ya!”
At the same exact moment, three separate ropes circle Insane Zane’s head, stopping him in his tracks. He stands there, staring at us, looking bewildered but still mad.
“Cool!” Dean says as the cowboys tighten the ropes and rein in the bull. “I got him. Did you see how I got him?”
I just drop to my knees and hug Dean for all he’s worth. I’m shaking all over, and I squeeze Dean’s tiny shoulders until I stop.
“I’m going to be a cowboy,” Dean says. “Peggy, let me go; I’m a cowboy.” I release him and he runs around kicking the air and pretending to lasso things with an imaginary rope.
“Sure you are,” I say. “Of course you are.”
When we go back inside the rink, Mom wants to know what took us so long. Dad is smiling and playing to the crowd as he skates down the ice, doing some fancy footwork, snapping his fingers to the country beat.