The Eight Second Time Bell
Six years old and his father takes him to the rodeo for the first time. They sit in the first row of the stands. The smell of livestock and tobacco and dirt fills the air, mingled with beer and human sweat. He holds his canvas hat by the brim in his lap, looking up at his father with a mixture of awe, concern, and religious fear. Three years since last he saw him; three years of wonder and doubt which gave rise to questions and gaping chasms of curiosity.
Even as the first bull comes out of the gate, rider holding tight and bucking atop the furious beast, the boy keeps his eyes on his father. The brim of the old man’s hat casts a shadow down his face that hides his brow, his eyes, showing only his mouth and chin. When he looks down the shadow grows, stretches itself down his face toward his neck. The man is an enigma to the young boy, and he speaks so rarely that his voice seems to come out of nowhere when he talks. The words go unrecognized for so long by those untrained ears.
“And that’s the trick, you see,” the boy realizes his father is speaking. “The thing you gotta realize is that you’re on that bull for eight seconds before you can let go. Just to qualify! Eight seconds. You gotta be able to commit to that much if you’re gonna ride that bull.” The old rodeo man talks with the hushed reverence of a preacher. “All that matters is that eight seconds. A lifetime in those eight seconds…”
His father watches the rider and bull with intensity the boy has never seen. His father’s hands tighten on the metal bars that make up the barrier between them and the arena. The boy can tell that his father is intent on the rodeo, can tell that his father’s mind is nowhere but in the arena with the bull. He turns his eyes from his father’s face and watches as another bull and rider queue up in the gate.
The starting bell sounds and the gate opens. The bull thrashes violently. The rider grasps the reins tightly, allowing the rest of his body to move synchronized with the raging beast. A crowd the boy seems barely conscious of cheers wildly. The clock ticks and the seconds mount on themselves with imperious slowness. The rider’s hat flies off, his body seems to be broken repeatedly by the motions of the animal, but he holds on tight. The boy watches, his breath bated.
It is twenty years later and the boy is a man, sitting next to a women on a park bench. She looks at her hands and laces her fingers together. He is silent but filled with voices, his eyes focus on the placid lake before them. Around them nature continues its clockwork interplay, birds sing as the wind blows ripples over the water. Children behind them laugh and run, enjoying the first sunlight in a week of rain.
“Is there…” she begins before stopping herself. She doesn’t know whether to fight, or whether to leave. Fighting would entrench her further in the humiliation, would give him power. However, the desire for liberation and independence is overruled by the desire for closure. “What did I do, exactly.”
The man sighs and takes off his hat, runs his hand through his hair. He breaks his gaze from the lake. “There’s nothing, really. It’s just something that has to happen.”
“He’s gotta hold on til that eight second bell hits. Once he hears that bell that’s all there is. He’s hit his object and he’s free.” His father taps his index finger in time with the count of the seconds.
The bell hits for eight seconds and the rider holds on only slightly longer before releasing himself, hitting the dirt and scrabbling to his feet to get out of the way of the bull.
The boy’s father lets out a loud yawp, takes off his hat and swings it over his head. The boy sees his father’s joy and assimilates it as his own, swinging his own hat.
The silence persists between them before the woman turns and looks at the man. “Are you joking? We’ve been together four years. We’ve been living together for almost three years. Vacations, holidays… I can’t even remember the last time a friend of mine had a relationship as serious and steady as ours. And now you are telling me that you just… want to leave. No warning, no reason.”
The man stands up and puts his hat back on. He looks down at the woman and slides his hands into his pockets, sighs heavily. “Look, I don’t feel like this is the way either of us wants to remember this relationship. So why don’t we just break amiably. Let’s just… stop and go our separate ways.”
Twenty years before his father placed his hand on his shoulder as he ate ice cream. The second round of bull riding had begun and the two of them, bonded the boy felt for the first time in their lives, watched with rapt attention.
“Bull rider has to know how long he can stay on. Sometimes the bull will throw him, and he can’t help that. But once that eight second time bell rings, he is in control. He’s made it, and he’s the one to decide. All the power is his then.”
The boy listens and eats his ice cream.
“That’s how you gotta live your life, son. You gotta hold on to that bull til you’ve taken its control. Then you gotta make the decision. Can’t hold on forever. You try to make it too long it’ll throw you on its own. No, you gotta know when you want to let go.”
And the boy smiles and nods, wanting to make his father proud through his understanding. He will not see his father again after this day, and though it has not been said, and no evidence exists to make him believe so, he feels it all the same.
The woman stands and folds her arms defensively. “Bullshit.”
“Stop it.”
“No,” she says, the wind tossing her hair over her shoulder. “No, there is something… something sick and…and wrong with you. Who on earth could treat someone so callously? Why are you doing this?”
He shrugs his shoulders, turns on his heels and begins to walk away. Behind him the woman seethes in her anger and lack of understanding. The logic behind the decision is lost on her, but it is lost on him also. The logic behind his reasoning lost to his own comprehension.
He knows the feeling lingers within him at all times. He knows that his life is broken when he is with someone and empty when he is without them. He knows that in the back of his mind he is always alone, his feet never fully on the ground. A clock races in his subconscious. Before long, without fail, he hears the bell.
(Title by Ric, originally published October 11, 2011)