pants—an old joke, but the kids laughed.
Snuffy tried to crank the engine again. No luck. A duck seemed to drop from a wheel well. A chicken flew out the window. Smoke pumped from the exhaust pipe and engulfed the truck. The tailgate dropped and inside the truck bed appeared a miniature donkey. That one had Renee stumped.
All the clowns took turns trying to remove the stubborn donkey. Finally, when Snuffy got down on his hands and knees and said, “Pretty, pretty, please”, the animal got up and jumped from the back of the truck—which still wouldn’t start. At last, the clowns tied the truck’s front bumper to the little donkey, put the Belly Nelle into low gear, and pushed the vehicle from the ring with all of them forming a long conga line at its rear.
The children cheered and clapped. Gracie said, “That’s my dad,” over and over.
Renee sat comfortably in the stands with her thigh pressed against Clint’s muscular leg. When the huggers were summoned for the stick-horse barrel races, she went without hesitation, took her place, and gave out embraces returned twofold.
Clint stayed long enough to watch Gracie ride a real horse around the barrels in the cloverleaf pattern. The pace wasn’t as swift or the corners as sharp as regular rodeo, but she made good time and held on to the lead throughout the competition. Renee cheered, jumping up and down, only mildly aware of the men who watched her breasts bob. She gave Gracie the biggest hug of all.
Clint went off to gear up for his bullfighting demonstration. Someone had hauled an old red-skinned, white-faced beef breeder of a bull to the event, and Clint’s biggest problem seemed to be getting the animal to do anything at all. He jumped it frontwards and sideways and finally backwards, ending up in the animal’s face, startling the beast enough to make it snort and paw. Clint darted away, waving the red handkerchief, and the arthritic bull lumbered after him, then paused to bunch up and drop a heap of steaming turds on the ground. The children giggled.
Clint shrugged and pretended to turn his back on the pathetic hamburger stud. The animal took the hint and charged. Clint heard him coming, dodged, and escaped easily to the safety of the rails. The crowd roared. He noticed Renee put her hand over her heart, flutter her fingers, and smile down on him.
The awards were given out with Gracie getting her first place in barrel racing. Gradually, the crowd dispersed. Loaded pickup trucks and horse trailers moved out in clouds of dust. When the dust settled, those that remained, mostly the old clowns, started a small blaze in a metal fire pit near The Tin Can and sat around eating leftover barbecued hamburgers and telling tales of their glory days in and out of the ring—their famous acts and the time one of them rode a goat through a department store when he’d had one too many. They passed a brown bottle. The stories grew more outrageous and further from the truth each time it made a round.
Renee listened as the stars came out in the pure black of the night sky. She and Clint sat in two bent aluminum chairs taken from the trailer and set up nearby under the striped awning with a gaping hole in the center that pulled out from the side of The Tin Can. They passed a single beer back and forth. As the group broke up to return to motorhomes or nearby motels, all of them better accommodations than The Tin Can, most of the clowns paused to say a goodnight to Clint.
One clown ogled Renee. “Little lady, if this guy disappoints, you can count on me. I may not satisfy, but I’ll always leave you laughing.”
“Yeah, in my day, we didn’t suit up in all that body armor he’s got. You want a real man, give me a call,” an elderly, bald trouper said, flexing a flabby muscle—or trying to. “Don’t know how you got Snuffy to let you have the Belly Nelle, but you be good to her. She’s a great old gal.” He made his exit into the dark.
“Clint, you said the
Snuffy tried to crank the engine again. No luck. A duck seemed to drop from a wheel well. A chicken flew out the window. Smoke pumped from the exhaust pipe and engulfed the truck. The tailgate dropped and inside the truck bed appeared a miniature donkey. That one had Renee stumped.
All the clowns took turns trying to remove the stubborn donkey. Finally, when Snuffy got down on his hands and knees and said, “Pretty, pretty, please”, the animal got up and jumped from the back of the truck—which still wouldn’t start. At last, the clowns tied the truck’s front bumper to the little donkey, put the Belly Nelle into low gear, and pushed the vehicle from the ring with all of them forming a long conga line at its rear.
The children cheered and clapped. Gracie said, “That’s my dad,” over and over.
Renee sat comfortably in the stands with her thigh pressed against Clint’s muscular leg. When the huggers were summoned for the stick-horse barrel races, she went without hesitation, took her place, and gave out embraces returned twofold.
Clint stayed long enough to watch Gracie ride a real horse around the barrels in the cloverleaf pattern. The pace wasn’t as swift or the corners as sharp as regular rodeo, but she made good time and held on to the lead throughout the competition. Renee cheered, jumping up and down, only mildly aware of the men who watched her breasts bob. She gave Gracie the biggest hug of all.
Clint went off to gear up for his bullfighting demonstration. Someone had hauled an old red-skinned, white-faced beef breeder of a bull to the event, and Clint’s biggest problem seemed to be getting the animal to do anything at all. He jumped it frontwards and sideways and finally backwards, ending up in the animal’s face, startling the beast enough to make it snort and paw. Clint darted away, waving the red handkerchief, and the arthritic bull lumbered after him, then paused to bunch up and drop a heap of steaming turds on the ground. The children giggled.
Clint shrugged and pretended to turn his back on the pathetic hamburger stud. The animal took the hint and charged. Clint heard him coming, dodged, and escaped easily to the safety of the rails. The crowd roared. He noticed Renee put her hand over her heart, flutter her fingers, and smile down on him.
The awards were given out with Gracie getting her first place in barrel racing. Gradually, the crowd dispersed. Loaded pickup trucks and horse trailers moved out in clouds of dust. When the dust settled, those that remained, mostly the old clowns, started a small blaze in a metal fire pit near The Tin Can and sat around eating leftover barbecued hamburgers and telling tales of their glory days in and out of the ring—their famous acts and the time one of them rode a goat through a department store when he’d had one too many. They passed a brown bottle. The stories grew more outrageous and further from the truth each time it made a round.
Renee listened as the stars came out in the pure black of the night sky. She and Clint sat in two bent aluminum chairs taken from the trailer and set up nearby under the striped awning with a gaping hole in the center that pulled out from the side of The Tin Can. They passed a single beer back and forth. As the group broke up to return to motorhomes or nearby motels, all of them better accommodations than The Tin Can, most of the clowns paused to say a goodnight to Clint.
One clown ogled Renee. “Little lady, if this guy disappoints, you can count on me. I may not satisfy, but I’ll always leave you laughing.”
“Yeah, in my day, we didn’t suit up in all that body armor he’s got. You want a real man, give me a call,” an elderly, bald trouper said, flexing a flabby muscle—or trying to. “Don’t know how you got Snuffy to let you have the Belly Nelle, but you be good to her. She’s a great old gal.” He made his exit into the dark.
“Clint, you said the
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