NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2014 | Page 14

Cowboys rushed in on horses trying to
side the bull so that the trapped man
could grab a saddle and escape, but it
was impossible because the bull was
turning violently, scaring the horses
away. Some clowns, the unsung heroes
of bull riding, danced and gallivanted
around the bull while others attempted
to reach the strap to free the man, only
to be gored by the animal, which still
had sharp horns. One clown took a
horn in the thigh and was thrown into
the stands. A young girl screamed.
Another clown took a horn to the back
and quickly decided to permanently
commit to a life in the church, jumping
quickly out of the arena and dashing
for his sister’s rusted ltd along the dirt
road. Better to be in church on Sunday,
he thought as he headed back to Acres
Homes while staining the faux velour
seats with his bloody wound and
singing spirituals.
Yet Harold’s father tried desperately
to be freed from the animal until
he was dangling on its side, arm
hyperextended like that of a rag doll.
Cowboys on horses quickened their
pace. Arthur Duncan jumped into
the arena on foot to save his fraternity
brother, but it was no use.

12

The bull tossed Harold’s father into the
air about eight feet, sending the man
crashing onto his back. The crowd,
boisterous only seconds ago, now
hushed. And rather than embrace the
distractions of the sidemen and clowns
who fought for its attention to get
Harold’s father out of harm’s way, the
bull stopped and looked at Harold, who
was basically in a state of shock. For
one, maybe two seconds, the bull and
Harold made eye contact, a knowing
contact. I quickly turned to Harold,
whose eyes were locked on the animal,
and heard him whisper, “Kill him.”

The bull was obedient to a wounded
child’s plea and sent its horns into the
man’s guts at a vengeful speed, opening
him up like a watermelon, entrails and
blood flying to and fro. What horror.
A careful ear could hear the punctures
and churning by the horns. The bull
huffed and snarled like it was blowing
its nose. The crowd gasped. Some cried,
mostly women. Others screamed and
yelled. Get him outta there! Somebody
save him! Call the police! Yet none
of them were willing to step one foot
into that arena besides the cowboys
and clowns.
The catfish woman grabbed Harold and
pushed his face into her supple breast.
He wasn’t crying.
“Lil’ Frenchy, turn yer head,” she
instructed me, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
My eyes were fixated on the brilliant,
fresh red fount from the man’s belly.
It didn’t look real. It looked like cherry
Kool-Aid—the flavor used to make red
cool cups.
Then two cutting rifle reports cracked
the air. The bull stopped abruptly and
fell on its side. All heads turned to
Father, who was sitting on the fence,
chambering another round into a rifle
to kill the vengeful beast.
Now there was silence but for the click
of Father’s bolt action. He jumped
into the arena with the rifle aimed at
the snarling beast, which remained
on its side, breathing heavy, white
froth dangling from its nose, eyes half
opened—big eyes, big brown eyes.
Cowboys and clowns alike moved back
as Father cautiously approached with
the rifle trained on the animal’s head.

“He dead, John,” Arthur Duncan
assured Father as the men rushed to
the dying man’s aid. Arthur Duncan
was correct, both man and beast were
dead. Harold finally started to cry as
someone quickly swept him away so
that he wouldn’t have to witness the
mess. Kill him.
Suddenly my feet started to itch, both
of them, on the soles. I had on clean
socks, Mother had made sure of that.
Then I smelled something burning.
“You smell something burning?” I asked
the catfish woman as I took off my
boots and scratched, but she was too
busy praying to Jesus.
Dr. Poindexter rushed into the arena
and took a knee at the body, yelling
for hot water and clean rags. He felt
for a pulse at the neck and wrist even
though there was a huge, gaping hole
in the man’s stomach that no longer
spouted blood. Harold’s father was
dead and there wasn’t a damn thing
the good doctor could do about it but
cover the body.
You could hear a mouse piss on cotton
as everyone reverently took off their
hats and placed them over their hearts
while the announcer led them in the
Lord’s Prayer.
And while Father argued with other
men about who’d get pieces of the
bull’s butchered parts, I put my boots
back on and joined him in the arena.
I tugged at Father’s shirt and told him,
“I don’t wanna eat none of that bull.”
He laughed and picked me up, then
turned to the testy men with “Well, I
don’t want none of that cursed bull
either. Yawl niggas eat up. But you step
in one of them arenas with that bull in
your belly and you can bet that this here
bull’s kinfolk gonna tear your ass up.”