It’s difficult to let go: whether it’s a doomed romance, a favorite old coat or a bit of prose, it’s not easy to say goodbye. You plead, argue, rationalize. But then you realize it’s for the best. Such was the case when an entire chapter was chopped from my novel, Zoom Out. Ultimately I agreed with the editor that the chapter just slowed down the story arc.
But I still like that chapter, and fortunately it works as a short story. So here it is: the Missing Chapter, reborn. To set the story for you, Amy Spencer is a television reporter in the tiny city of Scottsbluff, Nebraska (“a place where terminally ill people should go, because if you only had six months to live, in Scottsbluff it would seem like an eternity”). She’s dying to get out, and trying to make the best of situation while she’s there. That’s why she finds herself going to:
THE RODEO
Amy rolled out of bed early. She and a reporter from the local country radio station were driving to Hereford, Wyoming
to participate in a rodeo. Hereford was about an hour’s drive from Scottsbluff, a sleepy town placed haphazardly among the
bluffs and wheat fields and cattle ranches.
Amy liked going to Wyoming– there was a chaotic wildness about the state. Although Scottsbluff was only 14 miles from the
border, it retained the Nebraskan Midwest sense of stability and order. But Wyoming was the Wild West. Cowboys. Outlaws.
The state license place depicted a cowpoke getting the ride of his life on a bucking bronco. Today Amy was going to watch the real cowpokes do their thing. In this part of the country, rodeos were at least as popular as baseball, and nearly as popular as sex. Every county seat had a fairground with a ramshackle rodeo arena. Hereford, Wyoming, population 2,332, was no exception.
Amy picked up Carolyn Medaris at 8:30. Carolyn was a big, earthy girl from Denver. She also was the only reporter at her
station, but unlike Amy, faced minimal demands for stories each day. A few updates during the afternoon, and the rest was strictly Willie, Waylon and Hank Junior. Carolyn had graduated from the University of Colorado. Her first job out of school
was at KCOW in Alliance, an hour’s drive from Scottsbluff in an even more remote section of Nebraska. After a few months she’d moved to the relatively more upmarket territory of Scottsbluff. Now, like Amy, she was eager to move on. For
Carolyn, Mecca was Denver; back home with family, friends and the benefits of a big city.
Carolyn was sitting on the front steps of her house when Amy drove up in the Celica. She finished the last sip of coffee and set her mug under the porch swing. Carolyn grinned and offered an exaggerated wave to her friend in the Celica. The two women had grown quite close in recent months. They came from different backgrounds but had a lot in common. Both were assertive, self-confident women. Both were eager to move out of Scottsbluff. And both worked for idiots.
Carolyn trotted across the lawn while Amy shoved tapes, Diet Coke cans and a notebook off the passenger seat. She grabbed a few petrified French fries that had been buried under the mess and tossed them out the window.
Carolyn got in.
“Hiya.”
“Morning. All set?”
“Yep, got my boots, got my bandanna.”
“Where’s your hat?” Amy asked. “All rodeo cowgirls need a hat.”
“Well this one doesn’t. Where’s yours?”
Amy gestured to the back seat. A misshapen straw hat rested upside down on the vinyl seat. Carolyn grimaced.
“That ain’t no hat. That’s a disgrace.”
Amy put the car in drive and glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Don’t insult my hat. It’s perfectly fine.”
She turned onto Avenue D. Carolyn buckled her seat belt and looked at Amy.
“No cowboy’s going to give you a second look wearin’ that thing.”
“I don’t want any cowboys giving me a second look, thank you. You may have noticed – I’m not the
cowboy type.”
“Oh that’s right.” Carolyn began laughing. “You’re the fast food burger type.”
“No, I’m not the fast food burger type, either. Despite what you may think.” Amy
shot a surly glance at her friend.
“Of course. Of course you’re not,” Carolyn chortled. “You’d never be involved with any burger
merchants. You would never do that.”
Amy had pulled up to one of Scottsbluff’s four traffic signals, so she was able to turn on her
tormentor. “Now listen here…”
“So tell me about your date last night.” Carolyn interrupted, unable to contain her mirth.
Amy gripped the steering wheel. “It was not a date. I met Ed for one drink. That’s it.”
“Oh, okay,” Carolyn nodded.
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Absolutely.”
The light turned green.
“And I have no intention of having any relationship with him.”
Amy looked stern as she drove through the intersection. Carolyn tucked her long brown hair behind her
ears, still smiling.
“You know, he’s got a cute butt.”
“Oh, shut up.”
For the next few minutes neither woman spoke. Amy wasn’t really bothered by Carolyn’s words. Both of them knew Amy would never seriously date any man in Scottsbluff unless a nuclear war had eliminated all other options. And in the event of a nuclear strike, Scottsbluff and its environs were likely to be among the first targets.
Buried deep in the earth all around Scottsbluff were Minuteman silos. Each silo held a ballistic missile containing
four warheads. That meant each missile fired from this remote farming land was capable of destroying the four largest
cities in the Soviet Union – killing up to 10 million people. There were dozens of these silos scattered across western Nebraska and eastern Wyoming. Amy had seen many of them. They all looked the same. Along some country road
there would be a gravel driveway leading to a simple fenced enclosure. The chain link fence would stretch about 80 feet on each side. Barbed wire on top. Inside the enclosure was a big concrete slab. Nothing else. Just well-trimmed
grass and a big chunk of cement.
The slab was a blast-cover protecting the silo from Soviet missiles. In the event of a nuclear war, the two
officers sitting 80 feet below the ground would be called upon to launch the Minuteman. The slab would literally be blown to one side by explosive charges. It would fly approximately 100 yards across a farmer’s wheat field, revealing the silo underneath. Then the missile would be fired and millions of Soviet citizens would die approximately 12 minutes later.
Amy turned onto the Mitchell highway heading west out of town. There wasn’t much traffic. A few cars, trucks hauling goods to various destinations and an occasional tractor.
“How are things at the station?” Amy asked.
Carolyn was slouched in her seat, staring out the window.
“Oh, fine. Eldon’s still on vacation, so things are pretty relaxed.”
There was a pause as the scenery rolled by.
Amy brought up the topic that consumed her.
“Any luck on the job front?”
“Maybe.” Carolyn sat up. “I talked to the guy in Colorado Springs I told you about. He’s heard my tape and he seems pretty
interested. They’ve definitely got an opening, so we’ll see how it goes. I’m supposed to call him on Tuesday.”
Amy was interested and envious. She hadn’t had any conversations with news directors; it seemed impossible to get them on
the phone.
“Oh, that sounds promising,” she said.
“Yeah. I don’t want to get my hopes up, though.”
“Well, you’ve got more prospects than I do. I don’t have anything going on.”
“What about that job in Huntsville?”
Amy passed a tractor pulling a big round hay bale.
“I didn’t get it. For a while I really thought I had a good shot. But I called last week, and the guy’s secretary told me the job had already been filled.”
Carolyn looked atbAmy. She knew how desperately her friendbwanted to get out of Scottsbluff. Andbmore importantly, to move to a larger market in order to prove something tobherself, her family and her former boyfriend.
“It’s not easy, isbit?” Carolyn offeredbsympathetically. Amy smiled withoutbhumor.
“No. No it’s not. I’m so desperate, I almost applied to a station in Hong Kong, for God’s sake.”
“Hong Kong? They have TV there?”
“Apparently.”
“English TV?”
“Yeah. There was an ad in Broadcasting this week. I actually considered it for a few minutes.”
“Wow.” Carolyn tried to imagine what TV inHong Kongwould be like.
“Was it for an
international company, or, like CNN, or…”
“Nope. Just a local station. I know it’s an English colony, so it makes sense that they have English TV.”
“I didn’t knowHong Kongwas owned by the English.”
“Yeah. I remember that from school. Anyway, never mind.”
Carolyn thought for a moment, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.
“I guess it could be pretty exciting to live in a foreign country. And it might be good experience, you know. Might be good for your career. I don’t know.”
A smile crept over her face.
“You probably wouldn’t have to do stories like the egg report,” she said, tossing her head back and
roaring with laughter.
The Egg Report. Definitely a low point in Amy’s broadcasting career. The week before Easter there had been no news. Absolutely none. No crimes, no traffic accidents. Not even any school board meetings. Amy was desperately looking for any way possible to fill time. She explained her predicament to Harmon, the young, prematurely balding production manager.
“You gotta help me, Harmon. I’ve got half an hour to fill and no news. I’m going to end up reading
the latest inflation figures fromEcuador.”
Harmon looked thoughtful, as he often did. Amy suspected it was a ploy to give his slow-working mind a chance to shift into
gear.
“Well, you could do a theme program. It is Easter.”
Amy curled her lip. “Naw, I don’t want to be inserting religion into the nightly news.”
Harmon looked even more thoughtful. Amy was about to thank him and walk away when he offered, “Well, how ‘bout nonreligious things related to Easter, like chocolate or eggs?”
Amy brightened. “Could do.” She pondered the idea. “We could look at chocolate sales this week, compare it to last year.
Are people eating more chocolate…”
“Yep. And I’ve got a bunch of stuff on the poultry industry you could use,” Harmon added. “ It was sent to me by some poultry association.”
That’s when Amy’s problems began. She had accepted the poultry literature from Harmon just to be nice. She had no intention of reeling off facts about chickens and eggs. Amy preferred the chocolate angle. But she leafed quickly through the material just to have a look. Then she saw it.
“The fascinating egg is uniquely constructed to support a significant amount of external pressure. As fragile as this
marvel of design may seem, it is actually remarkably sturdy. When equal pressure is applied to the eggshell, it can withstand up to 75 pounds per square inch. This is more pressure than even the strongest person could generate. Put simply, you
cannot crush an egg in your hand.”
There followed an illustration of the correct way to hold an egg when testing its awesome powers.
“No way.”
Amy showed the pamphlet to Louise and Elda. Louise had never heard of the amazing strength of eggs, but Elda
had. Elda also added that she had once lived in a converted chicken coop near Kearney when she was first married.
“It’s true.”
Amy couldn’t wait to test out this new information. She walked down the street, bought a dozen eggs at the Co-op, brought
them back to the station and did her test right there in the parking lot. Fully expecting to ruin her blouse with egg yolk, Amy squeezed, and squeezed harder. Nothing. She couldn’t break the egg.
This is cool. She ran into the station and had Louise try. Same result!
That night on the newscast Amy proudly announced her discovery. As expected, there wasn’t much ‘real’ news, so Amy had plenty of time for the egg demonstration. After reading reports on a local brush fire and a few Nebraska stories, Amy launched into her Easter Egg theme segment. She started by mentioning the Good Friday holiday, then quickly segued into the Easter Bunny’s role in Easter celebrations. That brought her to the historical role of eggs in Christian tradition.
Finally, Amy was ready to spring her coup de grace.
“As fragile as the egg may seem, you may be surprised to learn that you cannot break one in your hand.”
Amy took the egg she had been holding in her lap and placed it on the set. Stewart struggled valiantly to follow the action. Amy had briefed him on what she planned to do, but the endeavor was straining his abilities to the limit.
“It’s true,” Amy continued. “The egg is designed to support the weight of chickens that can weigh up to 25 pounds.”
Stewart attempted to zoom in on the egg. It became a white blur on TV sets across western Nebraska. Just as he got
the egg in focus, Amy picked it up. Stewart zoomed out rapidly enough to cause whiplash.
“Although it’s easy to crack an egg by a sharp blow to one point—as any cook will tell you—the egg can withstand a tremendous amount of pressure if applied evenly.”
Amy was ad-libbing the whole thing and having a great time. She placed the egg in the palm of her hand. She squeezed. The egg remained intact. Stewart zoomed in again to reveal Amy’s knuckles turning white as she attempted to crush the egg.
Triumphantly she declared, “See! You can’t crush an egg in your hand! Try it yourself and see.”
She smiled broadly and laid the egg aside.
“Let’s take a quick look at the weather.”
Amy rattled off the temperatures, plowed through a few sports stories and wrapped up the
newscast.
“That’s all for now. On behalf of the KBLF staff, have a happy Easter!”
Another broad smile, some paper shuffling and she was off the air. Amy unclipped her microphone and stood up. Stewart was coiling the camera cable and lighting a cigarette as she walked by. Amy patted his arm.
“Good job, Stewart.”
He smiled shyly as Amy pushed the studio door open. On the reception desk in the darkened office the lights on all four telephone lines were blinking. She smiled again. Viewers calling! She punched line 1.
“KSBF.”
“What kind of a joke are you trying to play?” a harsh, curt male voice demanded. “I just got egg yolk all over my couch, carpet, everywhere. Do you want to come clean it up?”
Amy was dumbstruck. She didn’t reply.
“That’s outrageous,” the caller continued. “I believed the whole thing. You’re putrid.”
Amy sought words. The man hung up. The other phone lines blinked furiously. Amy stood in the empty office, motionless. A wave of dread and panic swept over her. After 30 seconds she slowly punched another button.
“KSBF.”
“Amy.” It was the voice of Bob Bassett, the general manager.
“I’ve been getting calls from people who say you encouraged them to smash eggs in their living rooms. What did you do?”
“Um…” Amy stammered. “I did a demonstration. You can’t crush an egg if you place it in the palm of your hand. I showed people on the air.”
“Well, apparently eggs in Scottsbluff are very easy to crush. And a lot of irate people have been phoning me at home saying you ought to come over and clean their carpets.”
There was a pause.
“Look, Mr. Bassett, this wasn’t a trick or anything. I read it in a book. If you apply equal pressure…”
“No doubt. But the book probably didn’t mention what happens if the person is wearing a ring, or if the egg has a tiny crack. I’ve known about this silly fact since I was a boy. But I’d never put it on TV. And I’d never encourage viewers to do the same in their family rooms!”
Amy crumpled into a chair in the dark office. She sighed.
“I’m sorry. I thought it was a good way to fill time.”
“It was not. You will apologize on the air tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Bassett hung up. Amy sat motionless. The lights on the phone continued to blink accusingly.
Amy and Carolyn laughed once again about the Egg Report. It was easy to laugh about it now. Nearly five months had passed since that dark day, and Scottsbluff had gotten to know Amy. Viewers liked her, and despite occasional grumblings about
egg stains, the girl on TV was now a local celebrity. Which was why she was coming to Hereford,Wyoming to participate in a rodeo.
There isn’t really a border between Nebraska and Wyoming. A sign indicates when travelers leave one state and enter the other. Everything else is unbroken wheat fields and pasture lands. Just across the state line a large, weathered wooden sign encourages motorists to “Eat Beef”. The Celica rolled past.
“Where are we meeting the rodeo guys?” Carolyn asked.
Amy was lighting a cigarette. She exhaled out the window.
“The VFW. They’ll give us the basic information there, and then we’ll go to the fairgrounds.”
Amy and Carolyn had been invited to participate in a celebrity event. The man from the Hereford Chamber of Commerce had slyly declined to describe exactly what the event would be. He’d just chuckled over the phone and drawled, “Don’t worry,
you won’t get your pants dusty. Just come out and have a little fun.”
Amy figured it couldn’t be too bad. They wouldn’t put her on a bucking bronco or anything. Would they? So she and Carolyn decided to spend a Saturday with the cowboys, flies and hot dogs.
Ten miles into Wyoming, Amy turned onto a two-lane blacktop road leading into Hereford. Three lumpy bluffs loomed on the right. In their shadow a large herd of cattle roamed without direction. A few random houses were tossed amongst the wheat
fields and pastures. Barbed wire fences added an element of symmetry to the uneven land. Up ahead they could see the town’s water tower. In every town in this region, the tallest structure was either a water tower or a grain silo.
Hereford consisted of a main street with a few side roads. Most of the buildings had been constructed
at the turn of the century and remained unpainted since. There were no pedestrians. Only one car coasted along the main drag.
“Hoppin’ place, huh?”
Amy drove slowly through downtownHereford.
“The guy said the VFW was at the end of main street, just past the Dairy Queen on the left.”
They spotted the Dairy Queen easily, and then the large brick building 100 yards beyond it. Amy turned left down a gravel road.
The Veterans of Foreign Wars hall had been built in the early 1950’s by men who had left this tiny rural community to fight in places they’d never heard of. They returned from Tobruk and Tarawa and Bastogne and raised money to build a shrine for their memories and sorrows and achievements. The veterans made their building solid and strong and enduring, out of fine cedar and red brick. And ever since they had gathered there, along with the men who fought in Korea and Vietnam, to drink themselves silly and wear funny hats.
Amy parked out front next to three pickup trucks.
“Well, here we are.”
The two young women climbed out of the Celica and walked to the front door. They could hear the faint sound of country music inside. A rack of weather-beaten antlers hung slightly askew over the entrance. Carolyn hesitantly pushed the door open. Inside was a foyer with a glass cabinet containing various tarnished trophies: bowling, softball and one that could have been for either judo or dancing. A large reception desk next to the cabinet was unattended. The room was empty—of people, at least. It was crammed with more antlers, a moose head, rows of black and white photos, a stuffed armadillo and a collection of folding chairs. The music seemed to be drifting up a stairway on their right. Amy and Carolyn
tentatively walked down a few steps and found themselves in a much larger room. A hall that was empty except for….
“Howdy!”
…a huge bar boasting copious amounts of tufted maroon vinyl and polished wood. Seated on bar stools were at least half a dozen men and one woman. Everyone except the woman wore hats. Most had cowboy hats, a couple of guys wore baseball caps and one man was wearing something that looked like a Boy Scout cap. Everyone at the bar looked at the two visitors.
“Come on in and celebrate!”
Amy and Carolyn smiled and walked toward the eager, cheerful faces.
“Why, sure,” Amy said.
A plaid-shirted man with a big cowboy hat and a huge belly slid awkwardly off his barstool and grinned. In one hand he held a longneck Budweiser. He extended the other hand to Amy.
“We all know who you are! Watch you ever’ night on TV!” he boomed.
Amy smiled politely and shook his hand. The man’s grasp was firm and he was in no hurry to let go.
“I’m Walt Dunbar, treasurer of this post!”
“Amy Spencer. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dunbar.”
“Walt, please!” He continued to hold her hand in a death grip, shouting over his shoulder to the smiling row of bar stool occupants.
“Looks even better in person, don’t she?”
A man in a ball cap with Gro-Rite printed on the front shouted, “Looks great either way!”
His lopsided smile exhibited a textbook example of bad oral hygiene. Amy smiled and turned to Walt.
“This is Carolyn Medaris from KOLT radio.”
Walt slowly released Amy’s hand and shook Carolyn’s briefly. Carolyn nodded at the group. “How ya’ll doin?”
“Couldn’t be better!” shouted the man in the Boy Scout cap.
Walt introduced everyone at the bar. They all seemed to be officeholders in the VFW, except the woman. Her name was Doretta, and she didn’t smile nearly as much as the men. Doretta had what Amy would describe as a tired bouffant. She was smoking Camels and looked as if she hadn’t had an easy life. Doretta’s face bore acne scars and her eyes were
wrinkled, bloodshot and lifeless. They followed Amy without emotion. Doretta looked like she was in her mid-40’s. The man in the Boy Scout cap sat next to her. His name was Roy. Amy knew that without asking, because embroidery on his cap stated: VFW Post 836 Hereford WY Roy ‘Roy’ Kroger.
Roy seemed pretty drunk, even though it was only 10 a.m. He had a dental hygiene situation, too, but he obviously wasn’t self-conscious about it. He smiled at Amy and asked if she’d ever been to Hereford before.
“Just once,” Amy said, “to cover a grass fire.”
This statement lit up Roy’s tired eyes.
“I’m in the volunteer fire department,” he stated.
“Oh, really?” Amy had become pretty good at feigning interest since she’d been working in Scottsbluff. Nothing interesting ever happened, so she was able to practice this skill frequently. As Roy described his role in the fire department, Doretta took a bottle of Jim Beam from the bar and filled a shot glass. This she deftly plopped into a half-full mug of beer. Doretta winked at Amy, raised the glass to her lips and tipped it nearly vertical. Within a few seconds it was empty, the shot glass sliding down the mug and resting on her lips. Doretta slammed the mug onto the bar and
emitted a satisfied, “ahhh”.
Amy was taken aback. Carolyn shook her head and suppressed a smile. Roy put his arm around Doretta, beaming. His bloodshot eyes glowed with pride.
“That’s my wife,” he declared. “She drinks boilermakers.”
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Amy said, scowling.
She was standing underneath rickety wooden grandstands next to cattle pens and cowboys. A man in a clown costume was
spitting on the ground a few feet away. The air smelled of manure, cigarettes and hay. For the past hour cowboys had been riding bulls, roping calves and kicking up the dust. Just a few minutes before, a wild-eyed stallion had gone
berserk in a chute, slamming a hapless cowboy into the rails, thrashing, rearing and snorting. Handlers had rushed to bring the animal under control. The moment they did, a man with a number pinned to his plaid shirt climbed aboard the beast, the gate swung open and the horse bolted out of the chute into the arena. 3.8 seconds later the rider was embedded in the dirt.
“You know, no one’s told us what we’re supposed to do,” Carolyn observed with a frown.
“Well, I’m not getting on any goddamn horse, I’ll tell you that,” Amy replied.
Another horse was led into the chute as the arena’s public address system crackled. “Up next, Jim Arnold of Sterling, Colorado riding Whirlwind,” the announcer said.
Walt Dunbar, big-hatted treasurer of the VFW, suddenly appeared at Amy’s side.
“Good news, gals. I checked with the judge’s stand, and you’ll be up after Barney Ales. He’s number 66.” He smiled broadly. “You girls all ready for your big event?”
“It depends,” Amy said, taking a step back. The man’s breath reeked. “What’s the event?”
“What do you mean, what’s the event?” Dunbar said. His brow furrowed, causing his hat to do
push-ups on his head. “Don’t you know?”
Amy was willing to let her frustration and grumpiness show.
“No. The guy from the chamber of commerce just said to show up. He made it sound easy. But we haven’t seen him all day.”
Dunbar scratched the inside of his ear, a smile returning to his face.
“Why, it is easy. You’ll be doin’ a little goat ropin’. Simple thing. Just chase down the goat (they ain’t that
fast) and tie it’s feet up. Really ain’t nothin’.”
Carolyn glanced over at the chutes while Dunbarwas talking, and noticed that a contestant wearing number 66 was climbing onto a bull. Amy’s powers of diplomacy were evaporating.
“I’ve never roped a goat or anything else. I don’t know how the hell to rope a goat!”
“Amy…” Carolyn murmured.
“I want to talk to someone who can tell me exactly what’s going on,” Amy was saying.
Carolyn watched as the bull exploded from the chute in a searing, wrenching rage. #66 resembled a rag doll as the bull
rampaged across the arena, bucking in great powerful bursts. He bounced repeatedly, violently, out of the saddle—a twisting flash of denim anchored by one hand to the bull. Sudddenly, he flew into the air and landed heavily on his
shoulder. The cowboy’s hat skittered off into the dirt. The bull, freed from its tormenting burden, continued to buck reflexively, making a tight circle in the center of the arena. As the cowboy rose slowly to one knee, the bull noticed him and stopped bucking. The clown standing next to Carolyn clambered heavily up the rail fence, spat on the ground, and then jumped into the arena. He trotted toward the bull, waving his arms. The animal was momentarily distracted by the
combination of bright orange wig, polka dot bowtie and large red nose, giving the fallen rider sufficient time to limp away.
Carolyn had been mesmerized by the violent drama in the arena. Now, released from its spell, she turned back to Walt
Dunbar, who was speaking earnestly to Amy.
“Honest, it ain’t that hard. All ya do is grab the goat—by anything, it’s okay—head, legs, whatever. You’ll have a length
of rope, and when the critter’s on the ground, just wrap the rope around its legs, near the hooves. Three legs’ll do it. Ya don’t have to make it tight. Just wrap it around.”
“Amy,” Carolyn said. “I…”
Her voice was drowned out by the public address system.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer boomed. “The Hereford County Rodeo Association is pleased to announce our next
event, which features two regional celebrities I’m sure you’re all familiar with!”
Amy turned to look at the loudspeaker over their heads, as if to visually confirm what she was hearing. Walt Dunbar
smiled. Carolyn turned toward the chutes. She saw several cowboys perched on the railings, grinning. Faintly she could hear the bleating of a goat.
“For your entertainment, Amy Spencer of KSBF TV and Carolyn Medaris of KOLT radio will display their goat roping skills!”
A cheer erupted. It seemed to Amy to be the loudest of the day. She turned toward the chutes. One of the cowboys was
beckoning. Amy and Carolyn looked at each other. Amy’s mouth was open. Two more grinning cowboys began waving the women over to the chutes. The goat was now visible, bleating, through the railings. It was brown, and looked kind of cute.
Not too big, skinny legs. Big eyes.
“Go on!” Dunbar shouted over the applause.
The loudspeaker boomed again. “So get ready for some excitement, folks!”
“Doesn’t look like we have much choice.” Amy was frowning. “Alright, I’ll try to tie a damn goat’s legs together.”
She strode over to the chute. The goat looked at her. Amy couldn’t assess its emotional state. A handsome cowboy who
could easily have gotten a job as the Marlboro Man reached his arm out.
“Climb up,” he said softly. Amy looked at him. The Marlboro Man smiled. She took his hand and he effortlessly pulled her
up to the top railing. The goat craned its neck to watch.
“Don’t worry,” the Marlboro Man said, “you’ll do fine.”
“Go, Amy!” Carolyn shouted, still standing next to Walt Dunbar. Her voice sounded unnaturally shrill. Amy looked at her
mutely, and then back to the Marlboro Man. He offered her a rope, about three feet in length.
“Now, just jump down there nice and easy. The gate will open, and the goat will run out. You just follow him and catch
him.”
Amy nodded. It sounded simple. The beautiful cowboy helped Amy down to the dirt inside the chute. The goat backed away. Amy was suddenly aware of half a dozen other cowboys staring down at her. They didn’t look like Marlboro men.
“Are we ready?” the loudspeaker cried. The Marlboro Man waved his arm in response, then smiled at Amy.
“Go get ‘em,” he said.
The gate swung open and the cowboys ringing the chute whooped and yelled. The goat bolted into the ring. The animal ran
about 30 feet, then stopped, glancing nervously around. The crowd was yelling. Amy couldn’t have felt more out of place. She started walking toward the animal, then broke into a self-conscious trot. The goat backed up a little, then fled. Amy pursued it, first to the opposite side of the ring, then along the grandstand fence, then back to the middle of the ring. The crowd loved it.
The small brown goat wasn’t much faster than Amy. She could keep up with it. But like a child being chased around a playground, the agile goat dodged and scampered all across the arena. Amy couldn’t even get a hand on it. She was tiring quickly, aware that her failure to catch the animal was a source of great amusement to the audience. Amy was
sweating, out of breath, and eating the goat’s dust.
Finally, near the announcer’s stand, she guessed the creature’s direction, and as the goat cut left, she moved to head
him off. Finally within her grasp, Amy lunged. The goat bolted deftly away, leaving Amy sprawled in the dirt. As she rose, the loudspeaker blared, “Let’s hear it for a fine effort by Miss Amy Spencer!”
A cowboy appeared with a rope. He easily lassoed the goat and dragged it back to a pen under the stands. Amy looked up
at the spectators, clapping and hooting. Her leg hurt. As she began brushing dirt off her pants, Amy realized her right side was covered with cow manure. She had dived directly into a king-size meadow muffin when she leaped for the
goat.
“I’ve got to get out of this place,” she sighed, walking slowly back to the gate.
CHAPTER SIX
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