November 1
These men in Wrangler jeans and black-and-white striped shirts were not cowboys. They were gritty, grinning inmates with nothing to lose and a long chance to win.
Before the first event at Angola Prison Rodeo the crowd was restive. It was a hot and muggy Halloween in the stifling humidity of the Louisiana bayou country. The sun’s rays pounded the rodeo grounds. The show horses with their ornate saddles stirred up the dust and manure of the arena while we in the crowd shifted in our seats and waited for the real rodeo. We had come to see sweat and blood, not starch and glitter. A fly buzzed loudly in my ear and I brushed him away. The man beside me dropped peanut hulls between his boots.
After interminable time the pomp ended and the combat began. Angola Prison Rodeo began as eight chutes loosed eight 2000-lb. bulls with eight inmates on top of them into the hot, still arena. The arena exploded. The bulls whirled, the inmates whooped, the crowd roared. The bulls heaved and snorted. They slammed inmates into the dust, kicked them and trampled them. They ran into each other and rammed each other’s riders. The last inmate on a bull’s back would win. When every prisoner but one had fallen a buzzer sounded but the winner wouldn’t bail. He stayed on his bovine tornado until a final twist dumped him into the dirt. He leapt to his feet pumped his arms into the air. The crowd cheered. Nearby another inmate wasn’t moving. Five men in gray hustled him out in a stretcher, the winner strode out of the arena and the next event began.
The prisoners rode broncos in the next event. After that three-man teams given a wild horse with a halter and a lead rope had to vault a man onto the horse’s back. In another event inmates caught 500-lb. steers barreling out of a chute and wrestled them to the ground. In another an inmate riding bareback had to “rescue” a partner standing atop a 50-gallon drum. The inmates rode more bulls. Three man teams pursued wild cows and tried to draw milk from their udders. In the final event hundreds of inmates spread out across the arena as a wide-horned and pissed-off bull trotted into the dirt oval with a poker chip on his forehead. The inmate who retrieved the chip won.
But the most outrageous event was rodeo poker. Four inmates sat in metal chairs around a flimsy poker table. According to the rules the last inmate sitting won $500. The wardens let out an angry bull.
Not an inmate moved. The monstrous, red-eyed bull approached the table and sniffed the closest inmate. With a sideways swipe of his head he knocked the inmate to the ground. The inmate’s chair lay bent and contorted beside him as the cloud of dust that had risen dissipated. The inmate crawled away. The other three sat motionless. The bull moved to his left and sniffed the next inmate. The man didn’t move. The crowd was silent. The bull breathed on the man. He didn’t move. With a violent toss of his head the bull hooked his horns under the chair and hurled man and metal into the air. The crowd gasped. For a palpable moment the inmate hung fifteen feet above the ground. He fell with a thud and the bull was on him. Horns rooting after the prisoner, hooves pounding the earth around his body. Dust obscured the scene as the prisoner writhed but could not escape.
Eventually the prisoner was borne out of the arena on a stretcher and the splinters of the table were carried away. The wardens brought out another table. Four more prisoners sat down. As a bull prowled the table, not a prisoner flinched. One by one, the bull removed three of them.
* * *
That night I went out in New Orleans’s French Quarter. But what to do for a Halloween costume? Chap and I went as “bird hunters.” With everything but the shotgun – hat, bird vest, whistle, shells – we went barhopping. Chap loved it. People gave him beads and tried to give him beer. I could scarcely move twenty yards on Bourbon St. without having to stop to let somebody pet my dog. Women especially loved him. Quite a few of them were damn good looking. He just looked right up their skirts then went and peed on a lightpost. Some species have all the luck.
Before the first event at Angola Prison Rodeo the crowd was restive. It was a hot and muggy Halloween in the stifling humidity of the Louisiana bayou country. The sun’s rays pounded the rodeo grounds. The show horses with their ornate saddles stirred up the dust and manure of the arena while we in the crowd shifted in our seats and waited for the real rodeo. We had come to see sweat and blood, not starch and glitter. A fly buzzed loudly in my ear and I brushed him away. The man beside me dropped peanut hulls between his boots.
After interminable time the pomp ended and the combat began. Angola Prison Rodeo began as eight chutes loosed eight 2000-lb. bulls with eight inmates on top of them into the hot, still arena. The arena exploded. The bulls whirled, the inmates whooped, the crowd roared. The bulls heaved and snorted. They slammed inmates into the dust, kicked them and trampled them. They ran into each other and rammed each other’s riders. The last inmate on a bull’s back would win. When every prisoner but one had fallen a buzzer sounded but the winner wouldn’t bail. He stayed on his bovine tornado until a final twist dumped him into the dirt. He leapt to his feet pumped his arms into the air. The crowd cheered. Nearby another inmate wasn’t moving. Five men in gray hustled him out in a stretcher, the winner strode out of the arena and the next event began.
The prisoners rode broncos in the next event. After that three-man teams given a wild horse with a halter and a lead rope had to vault a man onto the horse’s back. In another event inmates caught 500-lb. steers barreling out of a chute and wrestled them to the ground. In another an inmate riding bareback had to “rescue” a partner standing atop a 50-gallon drum. The inmates rode more bulls. Three man teams pursued wild cows and tried to draw milk from their udders. In the final event hundreds of inmates spread out across the arena as a wide-horned and pissed-off bull trotted into the dirt oval with a poker chip on his forehead. The inmate who retrieved the chip won.
But the most outrageous event was rodeo poker. Four inmates sat in metal chairs around a flimsy poker table. According to the rules the last inmate sitting won $500. The wardens let out an angry bull.
Not an inmate moved. The monstrous, red-eyed bull approached the table and sniffed the closest inmate. With a sideways swipe of his head he knocked the inmate to the ground. The inmate’s chair lay bent and contorted beside him as the cloud of dust that had risen dissipated. The inmate crawled away. The other three sat motionless. The bull moved to his left and sniffed the next inmate. The man didn’t move. The crowd was silent. The bull breathed on the man. He didn’t move. With a violent toss of his head the bull hooked his horns under the chair and hurled man and metal into the air. The crowd gasped. For a palpable moment the inmate hung fifteen feet above the ground. He fell with a thud and the bull was on him. Horns rooting after the prisoner, hooves pounding the earth around his body. Dust obscured the scene as the prisoner writhed but could not escape.
Eventually the prisoner was borne out of the arena on a stretcher and the splinters of the table were carried away. The wardens brought out another table. Four more prisoners sat down. As a bull prowled the table, not a prisoner flinched. One by one, the bull removed three of them.
* * *
That night I went out in New Orleans’s French Quarter. But what to do for a Halloween costume? Chap and I went as “bird hunters.” With everything but the shotgun – hat, bird vest, whistle, shells – we went barhopping. Chap loved it. People gave him beads and tried to give him beer. I could scarcely move twenty yards on Bourbon St. without having to stop to let somebody pet my dog. Women especially loved him. Quite a few of them were damn good looking. He just looked right up their skirts then went and peed on a lightpost. Some species have all the luck.
posted by Jeb Butler at 10:45 AM
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