: Eight SecondsbyJohn Carswell ,Americano with an extra shot of espresso.

 

 

Eight seconds. He needed eight seconds, no more, no less, but that night at the rodeo, Duane had other priorities.

‘Look Marcus, it’s ten kilos, only ten. It’s the best stuff, I promise.’

Duane resisted the urge to pound the table, to reveal his desperation. He tried to remain calm, but his heart was still racing from the events earlier in the week, south of the border.

The pair of them were sitting in Marcus’ horse trailer, in the RV style section at the fore of the trailer. It was plush with three bunks, a small kitchenette and a living room bigger than that the one in Duane’s apartment. Marcus travelled a lot for the rodeo and needed something comfortable, and the trailer sent a clear message that he didn’t need to sell marijuana to make ends meet.

At the rodeo, with only minutes to spare before his next bronc ride, Duane needed to offload the drugs and Marcus was his best opportunity.

‘Duane, I’m not sure. That’s a lot of weed; I’m not sure I can move that much.’

‘Sure, you can,’ the cowboy urged him. ‘Hell, I know a ton of guys around here who’d take one off you. Just ask around.’

Marcus chuckled at the suggestion, as if Duane were asking him to sell ice cream.

‘You fucking serious, man? You think these rodeo clowns are gonna’ take a chance on volume like that? They’re casual users. They just want a joint now and then and you want them to take a kilo?’

‘Look, break it up into smaller quantities, you know? Just bag it up in tens and twenties. They’ll buy it and before you know it, you’ll be a rich man!’ Duane again unconsciously surveyed the opulence of the trailer and the value of the horses in the back and flinched at the money on display.

Marcus didn’t ride broncs, but he knew horses. He had six rodeo buckers that he hired out to the Texas Rodeo Cooperative, known as the RoCo. There was a rodeo every week in Calaveras, about sixty miles southwest of San Antonio. It wasn’t a big operation but drew talent from across Texas for the weekly show: bull and bronc riding, barrel racing, team roping, mutton busting and the calf scramble for the kids. It was mostly tourists who came for the rodeo, often their first and only. There was a dance barn on the property and always a good band on Saturday nights. There was plenty for a cowboy to slake his thirst and Duane had made himself the go-to guy for dope. If you knew where to find him, Duane could always hook you up.

‘If you wanna’ get high, I’m you’re guy.’ God who, came up with that nonsense? He sometimes wondered.

It was Duane’s tagline, and he used it more than he was proud of. Still, the sales kept him financially afloat between the bronc riding that was a less predictable flow of income. At least that’s what he told himself. He carried weed, a little coke and sometimes ecstasy when he could get it, all safely stored away in the back of his pickup. He specialised in weed and had devised a method of transporting it from Mexico. His partners, Juan and his twin sister, Juanita used to seal one kilo packages in plastic, then wrap them up inside bales of hay. Duane simply loaded the bales in the back of his truck. Presently, he had ten bales, twice his usual, which doubled his anxiety about getting rid of it.

‘Just stack ‘em up in the back of your trailer, Marcus, no one’ll know. You can feed the hay to your horses and take the weed out when you pull the bales apart, safe as houses,’ Duane said, again resisting the urge to pound the table.

Marcus was not buying it and simply smiled back at Duane’s obvious desperation.

Duane made the trip to Mexico about once a month and was now familiar with crossing the border at Laredo.

‘Hey Tommy,’ he said to the border agent, his truck empty on the way South. ‘It’s been real dry up our way. Just gonna’ pick up a few bales to keep us going. I hear they’ve had some good rain in Salinas. I got a friend raising horses down there.’ Duane always smiled cheerfully through this lie and Tommy, his favourite at the border, just winked back at him. Of course, a new bottle of Mexican Tequila and an envelope of cash on his return journey usually helped grease the wheels. Duane had two envelopes: one for the Lopez twins and one for Tommy. He never carried a gun, naively trusting that Juan and Juanita were ‘safe as houses.’

‘I don’t believe in guns, Juan,’ he told his business partner over a beer one night. ‘I can usually talk my way out of most situations.’

Juan just smiled at him, returning to his beer, nodding, though not with agreement.

‘You better be careful, mi amigo. Those Cartel guys don’t always like talking much, especially to stupid gringos like you.’

Duane smiled back and returned to his own beer, nodding, and yet wondering if there weren’t more to Juan’s veiled comments than he cared to know about. His most recent trip had not gone according to plan and had him recollecting their conversation.

He enjoyed his trips to Mexico and there were moments of clarity and quiet as he drove the narrow, deserted roads to the pickup locations. It gave him time to think, to pine for his family and his bed and one of his grandmother’s biscuits. He didn’t often give himself over to such recollections, but the memories were soothing to him and reassured him that he might have a future that didn’t involve running drugs and getting battered by wild horses. He wasn’t unhappy, just lonesome. His bed was rarely empty, but his heart, and his mind, wandered, searching for something he couldn’t yet name.

He did not expect to find murder.

Now a seasoned dealer, Duane had developed a sense for trouble. He knew when it was best to turn around and walk away, and, when it was too late to do so.

The field was empty. He’d expected to see the Lopez clan, usually just Juan and Juanita, twins who were as deranged as two human beings could be. He never trusted them, but they were a good connection for him, and the product was reliable and clean.

As Duane pulled up, he instinctively turned out the headlights, knowing the Federales often patrolled the area cross country on horses and four-wheelers, chasing headlights on trucks too clean to be local. The twins weren’t there. Instead, there were two mongrels standing over a third guy they had on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. One of the men had lost an eye in what appeared to have been an unfortunate collision with a baseball bat. He was cradling a Kalashnikov in his arms, the distinctive banana clip hanging like an outsized appendage in a picture of grotesque filial affection.

The other fellow, a pistol in one hand and a thatch of the kneeling man’s hair in the other had a look on his face that suggested he might need professional psychiatric care and likely restraints on his wrists and ankles.

The two had seen him and they looked up, waving him over. Duane had a developed proficiency in Spanish and knew what danger sounded like.

‘Hey gringo, get your ass over here. We want to show you something.’

‘Naw, it’s alright you boys just get on with your business. I’m heading back, I think I got the wrong address.’

‘Your friends said you were coming, Juan and Juanita, you know them, right?’

Duane looked over at the pair of them, weighing up his chances. He walked up casually, flashing his grin, which was not returned.

‘This asshole didn’t pay his bill, did you!’

The man with the gun in his hand whipped it across the guy’s noggin, tearing a chunk of hair and skin off with it.

‘You wanna’ see what happens to assholes when they don’t pay their bills?’

Duane did not, but before he could demur, he heard the pop and felt a warm mist in the air. The fellow on his knees now lay in the dirt, face down. He did not get up.

Duane felt his insides go loose and his mouth go dry. When he tried to swallow, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

‘There’s your package over there,’ the man pointed. ‘Juan says to say “hola,” the one-eyed guy said, smiling through his missing front teeth.

Duane looked over at the bundled weed, hefted one to his shoulder, grasping the other by the binding twine and making a move to the truck. He’d forgotten about the cash he had with him.

‘Hey gringo, you going somewhere so soon? Don’t you have something for us?’

The fellow pointed his gun at the guy in the dirt, popped another round in his back. It was a very effective way of communicating. Duane dropped the bales as casually as possible, walked over to his truck and pulled out the paper sack full of cash.

‘Sorry, guys, my bad,’ he said, handing them the bag.

‘No problem, my friend. I know you always pay your bills.’

Duane smiled but refused a proffered handshake, opting to pick of the bales instead. ‘See you next time.’ He tried to sound friendly, as if he hadn’t seen a man die with a bullet through his skull, but charm counts for nothing in front of a loaded gun. Oddly, it was in that moment, tossing the bales into the back of his truck, that he remembered how much he enjoyed high school: chemistry, biology and history, his favourites.

He wondered, not for the first time, if he’d missed something when he opted for rodeo over college. His parents had dreams of him studying for vet school. Not Duane. He wanted buckles and easy cash, both of which he could only get in rodeo. The Buckle Bunnies he liked to dance with after the rodeo usually helped ease whatever pain he’d endured on the back of the horse. There were always good-looking women who hung out at the rodeo, standing out from the tourists with their dresses and bling. You could smell their perfume wafting across the arena and all of them wanted a piece of Duane.

‘Well, hi there, ladies,’ he said, with his million-dollar grin and flashing blue eyes. ‘Y’all ready to cut the rug with old Duane? I hear there’s a good band on tonight.’

After his most recent failure on horseback, the women helped provide a soft landing. In spite of the pain that often came with a fall off a bucking horse, Duane always enjoyed dancing after the rodeo. The women liked him for his largesse as well as his looks and with a bunny on each arm, Duane’s post-rodeo evening plans always came together well.

But in rodeo, it’s not dancing that counts. You need eight seconds to qualify for a ranking. Eight seconds on a bronc, a lifetime, when the thing is thrashing for all its worth. Anything less than eight resulted in a DNF, did not finish, and Duane had more than his share of them. Horse and rider were each scored and the two were added up for a total between one and a hundred. Duane could ride an easy horse all day, and still not score well. Or he could ride a monster for a few seconds and not score at all. He needed a good horse and a good ride, together if he was going to get anywhere in rodeo.

He was lucky tonight or at least thought he was.

‘Duane, you drew Hurricane, again,’ the official told him at registration. ‘You remember Hurricane, dontcha’?

Duane did indeed remember Hurricane, a horse that guaranteed to do his part for a good score, but one he’d ridden, or rather flown from in his last attempt to ride it.

‘How long did you ride him last time, Duane?’ the official asked, knowing the answer.

‘Almost five seconds,’ Duane exaggerated.

The man smiled back at him, ‘Well, I guess 3.8 seconds is almost five. Good luck, son, you’re gonna’ need it. That horse just loves to ruin a man’s chances at the RoCo.’

Duane took the proffered slip of paper before going to see the horse prior to the start time.

‘How’s he looking tonight,’ he asked the prep team.

‘Like he’s snorted a bunch of cayenne pepper. He’s fucking crazy tonight.’

Duane tried to sound more confident than he felt. ‘Well, that’s good, I like a spicy horse!’

The young man just shook his head, ‘Better you than me, dude.’

Hurricane looked at Duane like a tiger might look at a goat. Duane swallowed and turned away, knowing he had other matters to attend before his time on the horse.

Back in the trailer, Marcus just looked at Duane, across the table, ‘Look, let me think about it, Duane. I’m not ready to commit to ten bales. I can feed my horses without looking for bundles of weed wrapped up inside.’

Duane knew he was beaten and would have to look elsewhere to move his booty. He didn’t have time to think about it much because he heard someone thumping the door of the trailer.

‘Duane, get moving, buddy, the broncs are up next and you’re first in the draw. Better get suited up.’

It was Ronny, one of the other cowboys on the circuit who sometimes acted as Duane’s PA, keeping him on schedule and reminding him of the real reason he frequented the rodeo.

Duane looked back at Marcus one last time, as if to plead with him, ‘Think about it, quick,’ before heading to the arena to get suited up to ride Hurricane: boots, jeans, long-sleeved shirt, hat, safety vest, chaps. Mouth guard was optional, but Duane had seen too many men lose teeth on a fall and on rodeo nights he usually carried a mouthguard in his blue jean pocket.

Still shaking from the experience in Mexico, the memory of death and the smell of another man’s blood in his nostrils, Duane went through his usual pre-rodeo routine: some light callisthenics, a few lines of coke and two shots of whisky. The callisthenics to loosen him up, the coke to speed his reflexes and boost his confidence, the whisky to keep a lid on the whole package. It was a proven recipe, or so he was led to believe by the grizzled old timer who coached him early on in his ‘career.’

‘Keep your back square on the horse, roll with it, don’t fight him. He’ll teach you the rest.’

Duane had already learned his lessons from Hurricane and could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he climbed on the back of the monster in the holding pen.

Eight seconds later, with a perfect score sure to come his way, Duane lay beneath the writhing animal. He heard the bone in his left thigh snap like a twig followed by a sharp pain that took his breath away. He spat out his mouthguard and, as he lay there, helpless in the dust, the rodeo clowns racing his way, he looked up at the lights hanging from the roof of the arena and asked himself, how the hell he ended up here, a busted cowboy and a dope dealer. This wasn’t the dream he set out to find. This wasn’t vet school or even college and he was a disappointment to everyone who knew him.

But he couldn’t change things now. This was the story he’d chosen in life’s draw, and he was determined to see it through. If he’d known what was coming, he might have chosen to stay there in the dirt.

Author Bio: John Carswell was raised in Texas but now lives in Scotland. He is a retired minister who has written hundreds of sermons, a PhD thesis and a number of articles for professional journals. This is his first short story and introduces a favourite character in the person of Duane Stevens, aspiring bronc rider and small-time drug dealer.

 

Link to Substack: https://jcarswell.substack.com/

 

 

 

 

 

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To Build A Fir,ebyBy Jim Bates hot black coffee

 

To Build A Fire

By Jim Bates

Hot Black Coffee

The wind howled down the canyon. Above the granite walls, the leaden sky leaked snowflakes that swirled around the two figures huddled on their knees against the cold. They needed to get a fire going. Fast. Before it was too late.

            "Jerry, how are those matches holding up?" Steve asked. He had his gloves off and was blowing on his frozen hands. His fingers were turning white, and he was losing all feeling in them. "Can you get that kindling lit?"

            "Shit, no," Jerry swore, his frosted breath immediately turning to ice, adding to the cake building up on his beard and moustache. "I've got three left, and I can't feel my fingers to hold them. Can't feel a damn thing." He blew on his fingers to emphasize his point.

            Those were not the words Steve wanted to hear. It was twenty degrees below zero. If they didn't get a fire going in the next few minutes, hypothermia would set in, and they'd begin the slow, agonizing process of freezing to death. He blinked to keep his watering eyes from freezing shut. It didn't help, and he rubbed at them to clear his vision.

            Next to the two men, the rushing water of the Yellow Knife River cascaded over ice-covered boulders on its way to Lake Superior ten miles to the east. Steve and Jerry had been on a winter hiking trip along the trail that ran high above the river when the ledge of snow they were on collapsed, and they tumbled thirty feet down the steep slope into the frigid water below. In just seconds, their heavy winter clothing, Jerry's dark blue thermal pants and parka, and Steve's tan Carhartt overalls and insulated jacket were soaked through to their skin. The wet clothing and the numbing cold was a dangerous combination.

            They had scrambled out and found a level spot in the snow and took stock of their predicament. Their day packs were lost, and Steve had sprained his wrist. Jerry had wrapped it as well as he could with a wet scarf, but it didn't help much. One consolation was that the cold helped numb the pain, but that was all. Steve could feel his beard icing up and, with his face getting numb, it was getting hard to speak. He wasn't much help. It was up to Jerry to build the fire.

            They'd built a small teepee of twigs and pine needles but a combination of wet stick matches and a wind swirling down the narrow canyon walls made getting the match lit next to impossible. With two matches to go, their prospects were grim.

            Steve shuffled on his knees closer to Jerry, their heavy clothes forming a barrier from the wind. Then, in a gesture of profound intimacy, he motioned to his friend, "Here, give me your hands."

            When Jerry balked, Steve said, "Don't give me that macho BS." He motioned again and said, softly, "Here, let me help." Steve took his friend's bare hands in his and, ignoring the pain in his wrist, drew them to his lips and blew on them, warming them with his breath.

            The warm air melted the ice on Jerry's hands, and it dripped onto the snow, freezing immediately. Blood flowed into his fingers, bringing them back to life. In a minute, he could wiggle them. "Hey, man, that feels good. They're better." He flexed his hand. "I can feel my fingers, now."

            Steve blew on last long breath, and then Jerry quickly moved his hands away, took the second match, and struck it against the side of the matchbox. Nothing happened. It was too wet. On the second try, it broke apart and fell to the snow, useless.

            The two men looked at each other. "Here," Steve said. "Give me your hands again."

            Steve again cupped his friends' fingers and blew on them, willing warmth into them. Their faces were windblown and red. Their teeth were chattering and their eyes watering so much they kept freezing shut. Their beards were filled with chunks of ice. And they only had one match left.

            The sun was setting behind the pine trees lining the rim of the canyon. With the lack of sunlight, the cold was settling in deep and hard.

            Steve blew on Jerry's fingers one last time. "Ready?"

            "Yeah." Jerry took the last match, resolve set in his eyes. He looked at Steve. "Let's do this."

            "Go for it, man."

            Jerry struck the match. Both men watched, their lives hanging in the balance, as the flame flickered...then faded... then caught.

            In spite of ice-covered beards and frozen faces, they looked at each other and grinned. Then, they quickly set about building a roaring fire.

Decisions, Decisions by Sharon Boothroyd,fizzy lemonade,

 

 

“I'm really sorry, but our books are already full,” the friendly middle- aged woman in the office said. Her name badge said Sue.

I nodded, yet my spirit sank.

I'd kind of expected this. After all, who doesn't want to appear on TV, even if it's just for a  a fleeting second or two?

I'd driven to the city today, especially to register with an agency that dealt in TV extras.

I'd been given the agency address from a close colleague of my husband's, Alan.

Alan's nephew, student Sean, earned a part- time living from being an extra.

As my hubby Chas and I were avid telly watchers, it sounded like a very refreshing change - only now it seemed that my journey had been in vain...

Sue must have noticed my downcast expression.

“Look, if you fill in this form and post it back to us, we'll place you on our waiting list, Mrs Broadbent. We'll need a recent, clear photo of you, too.”

I smiled. “That's great. Thanks. I'll do that and oh, please call me Jill.'”

I tucked the form in my handbag and bid Sue a cheery farewell. 

I left and made my way to the car park. Well, I thought, so much for my dreams of mingling with the stars!

I'd worked as a receptionist at Lloyd's, a busy veterinary practice, for twenty five years. I'd enjoyed it but recently, at work, a young male sales rep had caught me yawning in an off- guard moment. I was nearing the end of a very stressful day.

I'd spent ages on the phone, tracking down medication for a ill ferret that had gone awry. (The medication had gone awry, not the ferret).

“Is the job tiring you out?” The rep had joked.

“No, not at all!” I'd breezed. 

Yet he had a point about the tiredness.

As I was approaching sixty four, I'd wondered about retirement. My husband Chas still worked full- time as an in- demand engineer, so we'd be okay financially if I did decide to leave.

Then a vet came out. “Has my ten thirty arrived, Jill? A poorly ginger hamster called Boo Boo?”

It hadn't. So he went straight to Penelope Pipstop, a sulky yet very intelligent parrot.

At home that evening, I reflected.

“If I retired, I'd still want something to do,” I said to Chas.

He nodded. “Hmm..remember Alan at work? He has a student nephew, Sean, who works as a TV extra. Alan's always banging on about all the popular drama's Sean's appeared in and the famous faces he's met. Sean loves it, as he can fit his studies in around the work.”

“That sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

“From what Alan says, you'll be called as and when you're needed, so you must be flexible, so you could be working weekends and evenings. You'd be asked to drive long distance when required, too, Jill. That's the downside. But the advantage is, you'll have lots of spare time in-between jobs.”

I nodded. The flexibility and driving was fine.

It sounded liked a good arrangement, as I was keen to join the dynamic duo... my two sisters, Kate and Liz were retired teachers. The three of us had always got on well.

With husbands still at work, Kate and Liz liked to team up for various daytime outings.

They snapped up early bird, half- price theatre and cinema tickets.

Ella, Kate's 20 year- old daughter, sometimes joined them when she was in-between jobs.  

It sounded lovely, and I don't mind admitting that a pang of envy pricked.

“We had a terrific time!” Kate reported, after a train journey to a seaside resort.

“Liz and I had fish and chips for lunch, we strolled on the pier and paddled in the sea. You'd have really enjoyed it, Jill.”

I was sure that I would.

Instead, I'd spent the afternoon dealing with an emergency, which involved a tearful three - year old and his panicky mum.

Her son had somehow got his sticky lolly stuck in their pet cat's fur.

Finally, there was a Great Dane, who managed to knock our leaflet stands over and leave little puddles over the floor!

Luckily, the mop and bucket were kept in a nearby cupboard.

So at work, Chas approached Alan. Alan asked Sean for the agency details and he kindly passed these to Chas - and then on to me.

With a thrilling thread of excitement, I checked the agency's website out. It looked brilliant!

 

                                                                 *** 

“I've had some bad news, Aunty Jill,” my niece Ella began over the phone.

“The gift shop I work in is going to be shutting and trading online only. So I won't be needed in the shop.”

“That's a shame,” I sympathised. “Won't they want someone to parcel up the online orders?”

“No. It'll all be run by the existing owner, so I'm back job hunting. Anyway, in a few day's time, I'll be cat and house sitting for a friend in the next street. Their moggies, Misty and Toffee, know me already, as I pop in often.”

“Well, that's something to put on your CV.” I tried to sound encouraging.

She chuckled. “I can't see many employers being impressed by a temporary cat sitting job!”

“I wouldn't be too sure. Don't dismiss it. It shows you can take on responsibility, plus you can care for an animal's welfare and look after someone's home. Both require a strong sense of trust,” I added.

Ella and I chatted more, yet I felt out of sorts when we said goodbye.

Although she'd got good grades at school, Ella had decided against studying at university.  She'd wanted to earn instead.

So far, she'd worked in a variety of casual jobs. However, bar work, factory shifts and stints in retail hadn't lasted long.

She'd loved the jobs that had involved animals best, from mucking out horses in a stables to dog walking.  I wasn't surprised by the cat sitting...suddenly, inspiration struck. 

That evening, over our evening meal, I ran my thoughts past Chas.

“Do you know, I think she'd make an excellent vet nurse,” I said.

He speared a carrot with his fork. “Hmm. I do, too. Why hasn't she thought about that career before?”

I shrugged. “Maybe it just hasn't occurred to her. Plus she wasn't keen on uni, was she? I'm going to gently suggest it.”

“Good. Did you post that application form back to the agency?” he asked.

“I have, and I sent my photo too. But as their books are full, I'm not expecting to hear back,” I replied. “It was a bit of a disappointment, to be honest.”

“Why not get online later, and carry out research? There must be other TV extra agencies out there,” he said.

I nodded, but I'd kind of lost enthusiasm. I wondered if it was really worth the bother. What if the other agency's book were full as well?

 

                                                               ***

 

As it turned out, things didn't exactly go to plan....

At the weekend, Ella popped round for a cuppa. Before I could gently suggest anything, she launched straight in.

“While looking after the cats, I've had time to reflect... I'm going to apply to uni. To become a veterinary nurse!” she declared.

I beamed. “Great minds think alike. I was going to say exactly the same thing.”

“Were you, Aunty Jill? Mum and Dad are pleased.” 

My heart warmed. “I am, too.”

I knew that Kate would be thrilled that her daughter had finally settled on a secure career.

I was so relieved that Ella had decided on a positive course of action.

Maybe I needed to follow her example, I told myself. I'd motivate myself. I'd do what Chas had suggested and go online to research other TV extra agencies.

Yet there was a surprise in store for me...

On my lunch hour on Monday, my mobile rang.

“Hello Jill. It's Sue, from the TV extras agency. You came to see us last week.”

“Oh hello! I wasn't expecting to hear from you.” I was taken aback but pleased to hear her voice.

“Well, things can change quickly in this industry. Now, in your application, you say you're planning to retire from your current paid position. When will that be, exactly?” she asked briskly.

“I'm handing my notice in this Friday.” I gulped.

Was I? The words were out of my mouth before I could even think about it. Well, I'd mulled it over long enough, hadn't I? It was time to take action.

“From our point of view, that's great news.” Her tone was upbeat.

“Just be aware that I'll need to work a month's notice first,” I added hastily.

“Of course. That'll give me time to secure this job coming up. One of my clients has broken her arm and won't be available for a run of 'Murphy and Mason'.”

'Murphy and Mason' was a popular police detective drama. Chas and I loved it!

My heart soared. “That sounds brilliant.”

“You're just the right age and gender, so you've hit it lucky, Jill,” Sue went on.

I smiled. “I'll look forward to working with you.”

The lull in-between TV jobs would provide me with time to join my sisters on their jaunts, I thought happily. Ella had made a big decision too.

The future looked bright for both me and Ella!

About the author

 

 

Sharon is fifty- something and suffers from anxiety. Writing short stories acts as a kind of occupational therapy for her. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author th otrht eehalf goes to expense se.g. Maintaining rhthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.