Urban Rodeo

Anybody could be the mark. Suits always seemed to be the best. Maybe it was just the uptight mien, broken by the camera work that was so enthralling. Here in Midtown, there sure wasn’t a shortage of suits. They trotted back and forth, chomping at the bit of big business, well manicured and expertly groomed. These were the faces of the faceless corporations operating out of the Big Apple.

Tucker was out on the town, ready for some action. He had to get as close to the suit without being seen. That was the whole point. The blinders these people have on in this city. Most people don’t really know what’s going on around them. The next place they have to go is more important to them. The whole world is a distraction, or it doesn’t make an impression. When he looks back at the Rides, he can tell. It’s these connections and ideas that make him different. This is what makes him the leader. Tucker keeps one of those little handheld numbers close to his body as he walks up behind them, faster than they walk so he can overtake them.

When he gets right behind a suit, ideally within an inch or two, he or any of the crew, match speed and point the camera right at the back of their head. He can smell the product in their hair. Most of them can sense you there. That was half the fun, startling the mark, nostrils flaring. Some just walk faster, but most want to turn around. When they do, that’s when the real fun starts. They look over the right shoulder, the rider ducks down and to the left. Then they go right, Tucker goes left. It’s a dance. It’s a fucking rodeo. When they anticipate and flow with them, it’s beautiful.

*

The ‘boys were ready for a day at the Rodeo. All the batteries were charged up and the lenses polished, each messenger bag carefully packed, each member ready for a competitive day out on the range. Before the gallop out the gates, none of them knew what was going to happen, and that was the draw, the impetus to get out there and experience all the city had to offer.
Some of the guys had gone so far as to buy cowboy hats and boots, but Tucker just thought this stupid and obscene. Plus, he just didn’t look good in them. Jealousy and envy always breed a little hate. He made do with a flannel button up and skinny jeans for a uniform. His scuffed Vans and scruffy beard could have belonged to any NYU film student. He did prefer contacts to horned-rims, though. The sentinels of business, cloaked in glass and brick, stood poised and in control. He could feel the day coming, the city out there, waiting.

The moments of the dance were an invigorating few, but comparing notes back at the Stable preserved them forever. The whole crew would gather and go over the best of the day’s rides. Luckily, Tucker was able to finagle a spot in the Mercer Street Residence Hall. One of the RA’s was sweet on him, and she was more than willing to give a key to a forgotten supply room in the basement. His easy swagger and slight drawl had clamed her right down. At first, an old couch, a few posters, and the last cathode ray tube TV in NYC rigged to work with their digital media was what passed for the Stable, their hang out. But as the year went by, a few more posters, couches turned in to stadium seating, even a projector donated from a Cowboy’s old video gaming setup, helped to turn the once rat infested supply room into a respectable hangout. Tucker loved this time, and seldom laughed harder.

*

The group was an Urban Rodeo gang. The name just kind of appeared for them. Some had fought it, since it made ‘em Urban Cowboys. Not that many were against the film, it still held up in most of their views, but they preferred Saturday Night Fever, the original Travolta-swagger movie. But once the other Urban Rodeo guys started going viral, the name had to be fought for. Jumping on peoples’ backs? For fun? Where was the art in that? Not only had Tucker’s group come first, but they tried not to touch the mark, whereas the other guys simply jumped on some unwitting innocent’s back and filmed it. They weren’t going to let the other assholes have it. This probably did as much as anything else to seal the name. That’s when Mason came storming into the Stable, ever the aggressive self-promoter.

Mason was always pushing to upload their videos anyway, but after a quick search on YouTube produced the miscreants, he was even more petulant about it. “How are we supposed to operate in this city if they already have the name?”

“We’ll be fine.” Tucker exclaimed for the umpteenth time. “Who cares if they have the same name? They don’t have any idea what the fuck they’re doing, clearly. We don’t need to do this or anything for anybody else, got it?”

“This is not just your vision anymore, Tuck. We can really do something with–”

A scowl furrowed Tucker’s brow. “What do you mean, do something? We are not going to prostitute ourselves around town looking for the next score. That’s not what this is about.” He trailed off slightly, jaw clenched.
Mason, more determined than usual, stepped up to the quick draw. “When you find yourself alone, poor and forgotten, don’t blame anybody but yourself.”

“You need to listen, and listen good. This outfit is not about money, never has been, never will be.” Tucker saw a flinch in his opponent, just a twinge in the corner of his eye, and exploited the mistake. “That’s why your rides are lacking, Mason. You’re slipping. Now get the hell out of here.” Mason’s retreat was quick, drawing the batwing doors with him as he passed through.

*

One of the newest innovations of the Rodeo was the secondary crew. Another guy or two would set up off the mark and work in tandem with the primary Rider. Most people just wanted to Ride themselves, but it had turned into a rite of passage of sorts, filming someone Ride before a young buck got out there alone. Tucker, as the undisputed champeen of the group, was the most heavily filmed, but certainly not the only one. Wouldn’t be much of a competition otherwise.
Today, Tucker was thinking of the last suit, a real buckin’ bronco. Just kept going left, then right, back and forth. The collar of his overcoat kept whipping up, one side at a time. Tucker could just make out the Dolce and Gabbana symbol on the frame of his glasses before he turned again. This sure was going to be a riot watching this guy again. Finally, the money shot comes. That moment when they turn around and face you, completely, that look on their face of mild fear, of anger, of surprise. Those nostrils flaring, eyes bulging ever so slightly, maybe even dancing in their sockets. Tucker knows that a nod to his video camera while taking a few steps back is usually enough to assuage the fear and anger of the situation.

*

Tucker is excited for the day. He’s spotted a few marks as he surveys the range, a field of well-cut suits moving briskly through the crowds. He moves with ease, a saunter that is a little out of place in these uptight parts. The wind has whipped up his mop of black hair that frames his face, a smile beginning to curl at the corners. This is the moment, the approach. Match stride, only longer. Italian patent leather clicks down the concrete. Tucker can smell the expensive aftershave. The fabric of the suit makes a slight swishing sound, a creaking underneath, like hay being tossed in to a loft. He is only inches away, the camera right at his ear. He turns. Left, right, and back again. The bucking begins.
It doesn’t take long, only a few seconds at most. The suit turns completely to face his pursuer.

“Fuck you, Cowboy.”

“Who you calling Cowboy, Suit?”

“Oh, now you’re the tough the guy? Look, you aren’t behind your camera, ‘dancing’. So, yeah, fuck you and the whole city rodeo. Get a life.” And he turned back to continue his trek down the concrete trail. Tucker didn’t know what to do. He reached to grab the man’s elbow.

“Wait, you know who we are?” One quick movement got the man’s arm out of Tucker’s hand. He slowed enough to look Tucker in the eye, a mixture of haughty indignation and supreme condescension spread thickly over his face. Immediately, Tucker regretted the semi-desperate tint his reaction had intoned.

“One of my more worthless assistants loves you guys. Thinks you have really ‘tapped into the realness of the human cityscape.’ I had the misfortune of catching him on your website. Really, I can’t imagine what it is they see in it.” And with that he was on his way, as if Tucker should be astonished at the amount of time he had already given him.
We don’t have a website…

“Shit, we’ve gone viral.” He says to himself. “Mason.” Even through the fury of the name in his brain, a nugget of change had crept into his psyche.

*

The secondary crew sat on the other side of the street, dumbfounded. None of them had ever seen such a smile crack across his face. It was only there briefly, so quick that later they wouldn’t have believed in its existence, had there not been video evidence. A scowl immediately shaded the nacreous shine of his smile. He was about as stoic a character as John Wayne in his prime, Rio Bravo stoic, when the bad guys are around and Dean Martin is at his lowest. He looked shaken, and unbelievably, took off at a dead sprint. Tucker wasn’t one to run. None of the Cowboy Flunkies, as they lovingly referred to themselves, could remember anything but a quick saunter, a fast mosey, out of their A/C cool leader. They looked at each other, thunderstruck.

*

He had to figure out who put up the website. Had to get the site under some kind of control. Had to rein in the project. Where the hell am I? There was the GE building and Radio City Music Hall. Jesus, I just blanked for what, three, four blocks? Gotta get under control. Still over 30 blocks away. Nearest subway: Rockefeller Center. Tucker may not have been a native New Yorker, but like anybody who’s spent more than 50 bucks on a taxi and lived there for a time, he had learned the subway system.

*

He ran up the stairs of the Washington Square station like a thunderstorm racing up a high desert mountain. Most of the dealers in the park knew to stay away today. The junkies wafted across his path like so many tumbleweeds. The Residence Hall and the Stable were just on the other side of the campus. As long as he could get there… A familiar figure was casually walking on up ahead. The figurehead of all this rage and confusion. He slowed down to match pace, closing in.
Tucker could smell the product in Mason’s hair. He raised his left hand and grabbed his shoulder, the exaggerated collar of his pea coat quickly flattening back down from its oh-so-cool perch as he was spun around. “What the¬–” Tucker cut him off with a quick right to the jaw. Mason was sent sprawling as Tucker took a step with the follow through. His eyes were full moons upturned at the Cowboy leader.

“What did you do?!”

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I…Tuck…Jesus, man, what the fuck are you doing?!” He wiped with his hand, a little red left behind.

“The website, Mason, I know.” Again, that slight flinch in the corner of his eye. “You posted our work. How many videos are up? All of them? Or are you saving some for a Holiday sale? Jesus, I should have known.” Mason got up to his feet, knowing that if he were to be frank with Tucker, he better be at eye level and on the defensive.

“I don’t know how you found out, but it was bound to happen. Yeah, the videos are out. Hadn’t thought about a Holiday sale, but sounds like a good idea, Tuck. Maybe you were born to market.” He smiled at the idea, slightly red-toothed. Mason pressed on, smug as all get up. “They’re all out there, uploaded and for all to see, every last one of ‘em. The question is: what are you going to do now, Tuck? Can you keep fighting this, or are you going to wise up and run with it? This is it, buddy boy, this is the final shot of your little project. Can you handle it?”

*

“And with us tonight, the creator of the so-called Urban Rodeo, Tucker Reynolds!”