No bull — The Rodeo comes to town

By Ant Perrucci

Standing around at the rodeo – THE ATLANTIC DODGE RAM TOUGH RODEO, as I’d be reminded no less than two dozen times over the course of the night – I feel like I might as well be on Neptune.

This is my first time at a rodeo, and nothing here at the St. Johns County Fairgrounds makes sense at all.

I briefly entertained the idea of trying to con my way into riding a bull. I thought I was going to see women with big hair, or men with belt buckles the size of dinner plates, hell, a few John Deere tractors.

No tractors. No bouffants. At least as far as I could see.

On the other hand, there was meat grilling. There was beer. I can do this.

(Beer, by the way, meant, “We got Bud and Bud Light. Can I see some ID?”)

But then, there were the belt buckles. There were the cowboy hats and the very tight Wrangler jeans and the boots and the steaming piles threatening to swallow my shoes at every step.

Here I am, a city boy at a rodeo in the middle of nowhere.

I have no idea what the hell is going on.

***

Everything here on four legs is penned up or tied to something. Horses tied to trailers. Enormous steers standing, sitting, shuffling around in steel chutes. Puppies in an 8-inch-high pen. Calves standing around, swatting at flies with their tails and ears.

The calves are skittish. I tried to coax them over to the fences, hoping to pet one. They back up, squishing themselves together in a line. Staring at me. One of them gets brave and saunters over. I rub his snout, he walks away.

I tried to soak it all in while waiting for the show to start. Showtime was 8 p.m., but it was delayed for some reason or another.

The live entertainment was a woman singing for those of us that got there early.

“I have to find my music for ‘Momma Got Whupped By a Big Ol’ Stick,’” she says.

I look up from watching a group of teenagers riding their horses around the arena. What did she just say? This is an actual song? With words and music?

I never found out. She began to sing Chubby Checker. Nobody twists.

***

Oh, look. Puppies. Oh, God, puppies.

There are four of them. They belong to John and Sabrina Nettles of Nicholls, Georgia. You can take one home for a hundred dollars. A hundred dollars?

“They’re pure-bred Jack Russell Terriers,” Mrs. Nettles tells me. “Hope not to have to take any of ‘em home. Don’t have enough room.”

She’s a breeder. “It’s a hobby.”

Her son, Cody, is seven. He’s got one arm in a sling and one of the dogs under the other.

How’d that happen?

“He fell out the back of a truck. Wasn’t movin’,” Nettles tells me. There’s a hint of resignation in her tone of voice.

“I slipped on somethin’,” Cody tells me. Seven-year-old boys are remarkably resilient. The next time I see him, he’s got a cowboy hat on and is running around.

The sun’s down. Night’s here. And it’s rodeo time in St. Augustine.

[FOR THE COMPLETE VERSION, PICK UP THE SEPTEMBER ISSUE OF DRIFT]