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Hold’em Cowboy: A Joe & Hobby Fiction

Hobby makes great margueritas. California is where you can find the world’s best. Forget most of Mexico, with but few exceptions the native concoctions are usually disappointing. Hobby and I were enjoying these tasty libations as a balmy sunny afternoon breeze cuddled the fantail of his boat. I asked ifhe had an invitation from Pete Dillonmdash;which he did. Pete was about our age, a stunt man and movie grip who was as likeable as a puppy dog. He seemed to get by on what he earned and appeared to be just another leaf on the tree, swinging with the breeze without a care. So it came as a surprise to be invited to the grand opening of Dillon’s Saloon and Poker Emporium. It was in Corona, about 35 miles east of L.A.

I could have sworn Pete stole the building from an MGM lot. It looked just like movie sets used in hundreds of Westerns. A flat-iron front of weathered boards, abbreviated swinging doors, long wooden bar with brass foot rail and occasional spittoons, small stage with red velvet curtains, a scattering of tables bedecked with checkered red and white cloths, and the inevitable stairway to a second floor landing for launching rail-crashing bodies to be splattered onto tables below. We had bellied-up to the bar when Pete cut through the crowd to welcome us. “What do you think?” he asked, just as proud as a new papa.

“It’s marvelous,” Hobby said sincerely as I chorused more platitudes.

“Wait ’til you see the ‘Hoot and Holler’ room next door. This part is for more relaxed drinking, dining, and card playing. Next door we let the cowboysand gals go crazy.”

We heard the hot two-step music before we entered “Hoot & Holler.” It was a huge room with another long bar, dozens of tables, bandstand and large dance floor. To the far end was a section where many patrons were sitting on bales of hay cheering like crazed fans. “What’s going on over there? I asked.

“I’ll show you. It’s El Toro, our mechanical bull.” Sure enough, centered in a pit layered with straw was a contrivance that looked like a saddle attached to the side of a 50-gallon drum. As a rider desperately tried to hang on with one hand, the “beast” quickly twisted, turned, and bucked until machine and passenger parted company to the rousing cheer of the crowd.

“Not a bad ride for an amateur,” said a sinewy character who looked like he might be a genuine cowboy. As Pete introduced us to this real bull riding champion, aptly named “Tex.” I noticed his jewel-studded belt buckle large enough to serve a 2 pound T-bone.

Pete explained, “El Toro’s level of difficulty can be adjusted from 1-10. It was at 4 the last ride.”

“How high can you take it, Tex?” Hobby asked.

“Well, any half decent rodeo competitor could do a 6 or 7. I could probably do an 8 or so.”

“Wow.” Hobby responded in apparent adulation, but I recognized that glint in his eye. He was up to something.

“I’ve never seen one of these things before, except in a movie. I can’t relate to those numbers, to understand how good you are,” Hobby said like a fan directly to Tex.

“Hop on and try it,” Tex urged.

“I will, but I’m trying to figure out how much better you are. Like, could you do 2 or 3 numbers better than me?”

“Oh hell, I can probably do 4 or 5 numbers better,” Tex replied.

“Just like a Texan to brag,” Hobby said. “You surely couldn’t do 5 numbers better.”

“You want to bet, dude?” “Sure,” Hobby quickly answered. “How about $100.”

“I hope you can afford to lose that much. I don’t want to take advantage of an amateur,” Tex said with hardly hidden glee.

“You go first, buckaroo. Do you want me to set it at 1 for 15 seconds?”

“No, let’s try a 2.”

After Hobby mounted the saddle the beast began its gyrations, slowly at first with Hobby easily rolling along. But when the pace accelerated it looked like he was just barely hanging on. Before the time expired he was aside the saddle and nearly on the ground. He held on and the crowd cheered loudly. Hobby staggered towards us saying with bravado, “That wasn’t so bad. Now it’s your turn to do a 7.”

Tex absorbed a lot of rapid thrusts, but held fast to the saddle like the pro he was. “Ready to step it up?” he said to Hobby as he dismounted.

“Sure. Now that I’ve had some experience and watched an expert, I think I’m ready for a 5.”

Tex howled with laughter, “You sure are a game tenderfoot, but you’re about to get you ass busted. Hell man, I’ll bet you another $100 you won’t last 5 seconds.”

“You’re on.” Hobby said without hesitation and mounted. Pete looked at me and rolled his eyes, but I suspected Hobby knew what he was doing. “Go man, go!” Someone shouted. Everyone was on their feet doing their best “hooting and hollering.” El Toro immediately activated a violent upward thrust that launched Hobby’s body straight up, but with the strength of his one tethered arm he re-saddled. He was cracked like a whip, churned like a blender, and rattled like dice in a cup, but he hung on through it all. The cheering was deafening as strangers rushed forward to help him dismount. I’d been watching Tex, his waning assurance and swagger reflected in his face as he added 5 and 5 to make 10. He scowled at Pete and said, “You set me up. You brought in a ringer.”

“No, I swear. Hobby’s just a local guy,” Pete countered.

As Tex latched on, Pete told me, “The manufacturer claims no one can ride a 10. We’ll soon find out.”

And we did as the overmatched Tex was soon sprawled on the straw.

He put on a game face and paid Hobby. “How about giving me a chance to make my money back? Do you guys play poker?” Tex asked.

“Yeah, we do sometimes” Hobby answered.

“Do y’all know Texas Hold ‘Em?”

“I suppose we could learn,” I said.

Hobby was driving us back to L.A. as I counted bills stuffed in my pockets. “I’ll say this about Texans, Hobby. They sure make good teachers.”

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