Rodeo Clowns
Incendiary Imbeciles #6
Wildland fire workers stay united even when sometimes safety-challenged on the fireline, or at times ecologically-challenged following orders, and occasionally ethically-challenged after work.
Instantly amazed at my flash of genius, Cat peered hard at me, eyes wide open, jaw dropped. After a few seconds, Cat repeated, “Yeah! We’re Rodeo Clowns!”
As boosters to the Redmond Jump Base, we had demobbed back late from a fire. We learned that we stood at the bottom of a 40 person jump list. Overhead booted us off time and told us to clean up, and be ready to go in the morning. So of course we went to the Honky-Tonk.
Once there, Cat pulled me table to table, enthusiastically caterwauling in his incorrigible Southwestern accent, “Hey you little Cuties, we’re smokejumpers! You wanna dance?” This was usually met with, “You wanna Knuckle Sandwich?” or “Scram Scum!” or “Beat it, Deadbeat!” or “Get lost, Loser!”
After a half dozen of these rejections, when Cat enthused his, “Hey Angel Faces, you wanna dance? We’re . . . “ I broke in, “We’re Rodeo Clowns!” Cat, staring at me with his bewildered, wild open eyes and dropped jaw now turning into an understanding, joyful smile; he repeated, “Yeah! We’re Rodeo Clowns!”
Somehow Cat summoned a lifetime in New Mexico and every repertoire of an honest to good Rodeo Clown. I became Cat’s prop. Pointing my fingers out of my forehead and charging Cat like a mad bull. Next hooping my arms like a barrel for Cat to dive into with arms comically triangled, panache and glee, in the agile, innate, artistic skill of a long time beloved mime. The Cat had an amazing athletic and hilarious skits of Rodeo Clown moves. He also had a phenomenal pantomime of being both the clown and the bull. He bent over, pointed to his rear, then slapped it a dozen times. Seamlessly he leapt back to be the enraged bull, with this fingers pointing out from his temples and his feet angrily pawing Earth. Then he charged his phantom self, next simulating a rear-butt, then flawlessly rising to hop and shuffle away with a mocking bottom rub. The Belles of the Honky-Tonk swooned. Beguiled by our antics, they eagerly danced with us.
So Cat and I spent the rest of the evening dancing with and charming all the women who had, moments before, coldly told us to get lost. I asked one if she knew we weren’t really rodeo clowns. “Oh, yes!” she laughed, “We compete as barrel racers and we knew instantly you weren’t Rodeo Clowns. But you guys were so cute.”
The next day, Cat and I jumped a restful, pathetic, two-manner. During mop up we talked about how wildland firefighters could be analogous to Rodeo Clowns. Low pay, traveling all the time, dangerous work, dodging rolling boulders (very similar to raging bulls), people laughing at our career choices. And, worst, if we really were Rodeo Clowns, we might have to impersonate smokejumpers to get a dance with Honky-Tonk Belles.
