Torqued Tougher than a Texas Train

By Nicholas Viglietti

It’s the peculiar aspects, the memories we accumulate on the living-grind, that stick and manufacture our knowledge of the heart-beating existence. Take horse sweat, for example, and how it feels as gross as it looks – especially, against your face. 

Tiny nuggets of lived-data we learn, and that detail I learned the hard way; out on the flatland derangement of Comanche country, up by the panhandle of north Texas, close to the Oklahoma border. There was a brisk chill, but sunny, at the end of November, and I thought, cowboys are a dedicated breed, because my crotch and ass are killing me. 

Roger rode, up in the lead position, and proved his expertise in the saddle – he’d been braggin’ about it. I tried to keep up, but the westerns, like Joe Kidd, deceived my application of my ability. I had done Roger a favor; provided him transportation here, from the gulf coast, and his Texas; down-home disposition, wouldn’t let me leave, unless it was returned.    

Out of the corral, our steeds blasted off, and the ride got gnarly. Roger was a genuine cowboy soul, and his veins pumped with horseback grit – it was a real shame that he was born a hundred years too late. 

My nerves didn’t feel right, gallop speed increased, and Roger whipped around like an owl head rotates on the perch of its stationary body, and yelled, “when we drop! Lean back! Shoot y’ur legs – ‘V’ shaped – in the stirrups!”

It’s a horrendous strain, to sit upright, on the fast churn of shifting horse-tack – I don’t know, Roger used the term to refer to the saddle components – I shouted, “what!?!” because the rush of clopping hooves made his voice inaudible.   

Beneath low, scrape-your-face branches, and bobbled vision; my anticipatory foresight was obscured, and in front of me, Roger abruptly vanished. “Oh shit,” I declared like an eloquent summarization that any person makes before the plunge they don’t want to take but can’t exit the ride. 

We shot like bullets, at full sprint, down the canyon, and my neck hurled backward like I bounced off the ropes in a wrestling match, catching a trachea-trasher of a clothesline. We ran like thunder, and I wailed bellows of fear; until I finally managed to splay my legs, V-shaped, in the stirrups, which alleviated the painful smash of taint on the saddle.

I was stiff as a lamppost, pensively petrified, and things got worse: I could see the sharp incline we were about to shoot up, and Roger showed-off again, “lean forward at the bottom – grab the mane!” he hollered.

I'm about to eat a face full of broken neck dirt, I thought – complete panic.

It’s hard to accurately control the shift of your weight at breakneck speed – WHAM! – my face got flung forward, and slammed into the slimy nape of the horse like the sound of a high speed pitch of a baseball pops in the catcher's mitt – better than a dirt driven, broken neck – I clasped to the animal like a desperate baby chimp to its mother.

My teeth were filled with grimy hair; it muffled my shrieks like duct-taped lips, and I was on the collision end of a CTE diagnosis as my head bounced, like a basketball, off the muscular neck of the horse – gonna need a bottle of whiskey to numb my skull, at the end of this ride!

All I could see was a rock wall of canyon layered earth, and my grip’s cling loosened; I thought this whole existence thing was about to end, when the speed of whiplash, reduced to a mild trot. The calm movement subsided my guts rumble of vomit, and I could sit up straight enough, to catch up to Roger.

“Holy shit, bro! Give me a heads up! Before you toss me in the fire, why don’t cha!?!” I vehemently spat, gassed out.

“Eh, I knew you could handle it, cowpoke – sometimes, we ain’t where we expected to be, and we gotta do the thang we don’t think we can; and in those times, we gotta trust our instincts, get on with it, despite our confidence, and get it done,” Roger said, like a tranquil affirmation; he said, like a Zen-cult-leader-cowboy, “take a gander for a moment – you made it – still alive, and you’re still on life’s ride.”

He had credit in his point. Plus, the charisma to deliver it – he wasn’t wrong, I couldn’t refute his logic, and in a weird way, it was a poignant statement in my mind. I had just finished two years rebuilding homes on the gulf coast in the wake of hurricane Katrina. I was transformed, unsure how to explain it...but it was in that spiritually developed way...that only proves the worth of the labor in the future; usually, under duress, when the mind’s grit can execute the soft compassion humans need, often lack, and it was all cultivated in years we forgot that meant everything when we were there.

I was on the way home, to California, and soulfully modified, so Roger was correct – that kind of elevated perspective attained at the completion of immensely difficult experiences, you never believed you could handle – I was no desperado, but I felt like it.

“Fair enough – it was pretty cool – to gallop like a bandito on the run,” I said, and flashed a proud grin, and conceded the point in the meaning words can’t define.

“Good, cowpoke – means y’ur gettin’ in sync with the animal. That’ll help – because right on, up ahead, the ride’s ‘bout to git hairy,” Roger apprised me, and all that philosophically conscious wisdom flush from me like a toilet.

Fuck – of course, I thought, ain’t nothing easy, or ever ends, on a poignant smile. The trees filtered away, and we stood over a dark blue lake; a scene that God had painted, just for us – marvelous, he’s just fuckin’ with the rookie in the stirrups.

“Sho’ is purty, ain’t it,” Roger said, the view was majestic, enough to make a guy consider relocation.

“Fo sho, bro – I see the allure of the boot-scoot lifestyle. You’re never alone, and after all the drudgery, there’s moments like this; bonded with your steed that affirms all the hassle on the ride,” I said.

“Yup. ‘Bout sums it up, cowpoke. I reckon, y’ur right, and I’ll tip my hat to it. Alright, well, better get a move on – sun’s settin’ soon,” Roger said.

“Cool bro, my groin is killin’ me – do we just head back the way we came?” I asked. 

“Not-a-chance, cowpoke. You’ll get caught in the dark, and lost in the pines, that way,” Roger said, “we gotta go ‘round that big rock, out there, in the water – on the other side, we’ll run right to the barn.”

I hated the plan. “Bro, what the hell are you talking about? It’s like a nine-foot drop down to the shore, and look at that huge rock, jutting out in the water, like, almost thirty feet – can horses even fuckin’ swim!? – we’re gonna get fuckin’ soaked!” I said, distraught.

Roger chuckled – glad shittin’ my pants can make you smile – then said, “horses are great swimmers. Give the ole gal a swift, all-business, heel nudge – you gotta mean it, though, or she won’t go – right there, in her sides, and then, as she submerges in the water, pull your feet outta the stirrups, and sit Indian-legged ‘till we back on land.”

Fuck horses – apprehensions boiled in me – we had to go through to get back – it was pointless to sulk. Roger maneuvered down the rock face easily. “Think less ‘bout it – just do & go with it – hold tight and stay calm. Be confident and trust the horse; she’ll take care of ya. Don’t let doubt creep in or she’ll read that – they can feel your energy, and they don’t like insecure commands.”

“Real easy to say from down there, and with a belt-full of experience,” I said, irritably, and attempted to make the horse perform a leap that neither of us wanted to do. 

She didn’t budge, and I’m sure the ole gal thought, this motherfucker is crazy, and STUPID, to go down this way.  

Roger hollered, “take a moment! Center yourself and get committed to the dive – she knows you ain’t ready!” 

He turned away, probably, so I felt less pressure, or, because he didn’t want to see me take a head spike into the lake. I paused, wrangled my mind, and breathed deeply. My heart raced, but it bolstered me, and it was now or never. 

I ripped a loud, “fuck-it!” and cranked decisive heels into the ole gal’s underbelly, and we were airborne – all I could think, as my ass floated off the saddle, was that the term, “fuck-it,” has probably progressed more of humanity than it gets credit for. 

I was stricken with terror that mutes your ability to scream. I scrolled through a slew of vicious insults to lay on Roger but got harshly cut short because the ole gal’s front hooves landed firm, like Simone Biles sticks a gold medal performance, and the slam of my nuts into the saddle nob resulted in distracted agony – there goes my dreams of fatherhood.

“Ahhh! Hell! Shit! That fuckin’ hurts!!” I wailed, and the horse walked across the shoreline, towards the rock obstruction, aloof to my pain – I shoved my hands in my pants, and made sure my balls were intact.

“Well, look at that – the hard parts over,” Roger said in a cowboy-cool manner with a heavy grin, like, I knew ya had it in ya, “kick them stirrups loose, hold your core tight, and sit like a monk meditates.”

We waded out, the horse sunk into the frigid water; splashes like icicles, and my own nervous sweat, blinded my eyes. I couldn’t wipe it away because I didn’t want to take a spill in the lake. The horses paddled like dogs, which amazed me, since they had clubs for feet.

We emerged, around the rock, dry and trotted fast, back to the barn. I felt rodeo ready – at least, I thought I was, or my ass went so numb that I couldn’t feel the pain of the ride. The sky ignited with an incredible sunset; it roared like a blaze of gloriously pink fire. We unloaded the horse tack, and I was glad I gave the cowboy existence a whirl – it wasn’t for me, though, and I wouldn’t sit right for a week. 

“That was fun. But I’ll leave the ridin’ and ropin’ up to you,” I said, “hot damn! I need a shot, a beer, plenty more, and a fat joint to fire up – I'm beat to hell, and I don’t think my knees will ever retain true alignment – is this why old cowboy’s walk like old whores?”

“Yup, this life’ll pound ya into a shape you don’t recognize –just part of livin’ – for err’body, really – you gotta just keep on...hold your shine and find a reason to survive the madness,” Roger said, “the years will mangle your soul. Part of humanism, I guess – we’re gonna die – which means we’re merely born to lose, and the only way to win in that type of game is to stoke some flame of joy, and pummel on through the time you get to ride.”

“Sure, dude, sounds fuckin’ inspirational, but Ima be real honest, I’m tired of the cowboy-zen shit...it sounds beautiful, and all...but, I gotta believe you need reasons like that when you suffer in the saddle, all fuckin’ day,” I said, “now, let’s get a buzz on – I gotta block out this awful throb in my crotch, you son-of-a-bitch.”

“You got it – I know a cure-all, for everything, kinda spot,” Roger said.

The desolate highway we cruised, under an eternal, prairie stretched sky. It was clear of any clouds, and the twinkle of a zillion stars, like bright diamonds, so tangibly vibrant you thought you could pluck one from the universe. 

“Hang a right on that dirt road, up there,” Roger directed.

I did, and up a gravel road there was a house in the moonlight, and the ambiance was similar to that of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie. I felt skittish like a deer being hunted, as I parked my champagne Cavalier. I looked around, edgy and vigilant. 

“So, uh, are we about to get greeted by leather face? How do you know these people?” I asked.  

“Relax, cowpoke, it’s a friend’s house. I’ve known him for longer than we’ve got time to explain. But if you’re looking for something to smoke, pop, or snort – he's your man,” Roger said.

He knocked on the door, a scuffle ensued, voices murmured – I’ve got a bad zing of trepidation – the door flung open like lights illuminate darkness, and in the aggressive manner that results with guns pointed in your face. 

“Roger! You goatfucker! Good to see ya!” blurted a loud, bald, behemoth of a man – he was Juggalo built, but lacked the face-paint.

They embraced, and we entered the home. On couches frayed at the seams, and days away from disintegration sat three women, clad like professionals in the pole-performance arts, and two dudes, who were twitchy, and dressed like they were familiar with dirt bike mechanics and recipes for methamphetamines. 

Roger told the monster-of-a-man that we came to buy weed – he was an affable beast, but I sensed that he could twist on a heel point and rip a person’s head off – he handed me a Lonestar beer, and I observed the bizarre medley of Texans. 

The home was decoratively bare, like it could be abandoned at the stroke of midnight. Weird chatter resumed and it seemed normal...well...normal enough for the circumstances. I looked towards the kitchen, where I could hear the monster-man shuffle, and I noticed the hospital bed – tubes ran from a bagged solution into the arm of a coffin-less corpse.

Roger approached me, and asked, “You alright, there, cowpoke?”

“Nope. Gettin’ nightmare waves – is that dude dead?” I asked. 

Roger turned his head. “Nah. That’s Hank – ya know, the dealer man,” Roger said.

“Uh, ok, so is he alive?” I asked, “dude, I get why this is the fly-by-region of America – you’ll get stopped and stuck in bizarro world, here,” I said, curiously conflicted. 

“Yeah, cowpoke, guess it’s rather strange – but it’s home. Anyway, ole Hank, over there, has been the dealer-man for years – he used to sample, quite heavily, which led him to the permanently prone lifestyle,” Roger stated.

“You don’t say, huh,” I said – obvious, noted. 

“Yeah, he was fucked up on the train tracks, over yonder, and I don’t know the full details, but let’s just say, he pecked a fight with a locomotive and ended up on the losin’ end of smashed-to-shit,” Roger said. 

“No way...that’s gnarly bro, and he’s still kickin’?” I asked, “like can he talk, make moves, or, like, c’mon bro, how does he run a fuckin’ drug business in that condition?”

“At any rate, nowadays, ole Hank’s just the brains of the operation – ya know, he’s got all the contacts – but neck down, that skeleton don’t dance like it used to. And the burly boy – Steve – ya know, he’s the mover & the shaker of the operation; he’s the hands of their partnership, and takes care of ole Hank,” Roger said.

“So, does everybody here, like, work for Hank?” I asked, “it’s fairly grotesque group.”

“Yup, I come back, and the weird increases, but nope, just friends. Hank likes company; especially, since he’s bed-ridden, and some of the ladies take care of him – ya know, transactionally speaking,” Roger said, and his brows fluttered to emphasize a hint.

“No shit – his dick works?” I asked, baffled. 

“Oh yeah, cowpoke,” Roger said, “ole Hank’s broken, but he ain’t beaten by this thang called life; everybody, even in the worst circumstances, must work to find a pleasant release from their burdens.” 

Ole Hank, was certainly torqued tougher than a Texas train; he persisted in making a point in his gizmo pumped purgatory, and I guess there was some admirable quality in his survival – almost an arrogant artistry of persistence. 

The monster, Steve, blundered over with a hefty ounce of the finest the flatland could produce – 60 bucks for a cheap ounce of mediocre weed. I paid and went outside to smoke under the stars; aligned the cadence of what my mind couldn’t grasp. Then, I climbed in my car, locked the doors, curled up to sleep and preserve my energy to make a run for the horizon line at daybreak.

About the Author

Nicholas Viglietti

Nicholas Viglietti is a writer from Sacramento, CA. He rebuilt houses on the gulf coast, after Katrina, for two years. He's lived like a bear, out on a trail crew in the Rocky Mountains. He rode a bicycle from Sac-Town to S.D. He's partying on his seventh life, and he tries to sling beautiful sentences.