How Did I Step In This?

The Aggies Wouldn't Have Me
In the early part of the winter of 1993 my bubble was burst. I desperately wanted to be an Aggie, but a rejection letter from the TAMU office of admissions ended that dream. A good friend of mine, Chris Doremus, who was a year ahead of me and enrolled at Texas Tech suggested that I go to Tech for a semester or two and then I could transfer to A&M. After a hasty application and acceptance I graduated high school in San Antonio in May 1993 and quickly made the arduous journey north to Lubbock and enrolled myself at Texas Tech University.

The word "quickly" mentioned above really should have some kind of emphasis on it; I was in Lubbock about six days after graduation. Eager to exercise my new found freedom, I thought that summer school would be a great way to get out from under my mother's roof and rule. Summer school at Tech is divided into two sessions: "Summer One" and "Summer Two." I selected, or rather the academic advisor selected two courses for me: Food Technology and Algebra. The road that I am currently travelling fatefully begins in Food Technology.

Everything Happens for a Reason
I walk into the sterile, laboratory classroom and sit next to Brent Gibbs. Brent was an upperclassman from Robert Lee, Texas busting his hump to get his undergraduate degree knocked out in three years so that he could move on to graduate school. For whatever reason, he initially befriended me as a sort of informal advisor...and I needed the help. In the beginning it was mainly advice on how to survive and succeed in the college experience-after all he had been doing it firsthand.

Brent was a smart guy who probably didn't have to try as hard as most to succeed academically. However, the "chink in his armor" was the fact that he was a bull rider (veiled attempt at humor). One fateful Friday Brent says to me, "there is a bull riding in Odessa this weekend, you wanna' go?" Seriously, I remember that conversation like it was yesterday. Until that point my weekends were filled with studying, loneliness, and avoiding any and all activities considered fun. I accepted the offer without even giving it a second thought.

The Stuff that Dreams are Made of....the Permian Basin
Brent had a single cab pickup truck with a sleeper on the back. At that point in my life, I was pretty convinced that was the coolest vehicle a guy could have. However when you are the one riding in the sleeper on a road trip, the luster falls away pretty quickly. Brent, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's friend, and myself were glory bound to the bull riding mecca that is Dos Amigos.

In the 1980s and early 1990s Dos Amigos, located at 47th and Golder in Odessa, Texas, was a who's who of bull riding. On a Sunday afternoon you could meet Ty Murray, Tuff Hedeman, Jim Sharp, and the Carillo brothers hanging out drinking beer on the patio. "Dos" as it is affectionately called is a bar, restaurant, bull riding arena and general site of mass debauchery. I was a fresh faced college kid in the den of iniquity...and I liked it from the moment I arrived.

Dos is built like a Central American drug lord's stronghold. It is probably 10 or 12 lots that are surrounded by a 20' foot cinder block wall. There is a small yet nasty kitchen that prepares cheap and easy fare, a bar, a patio and what has to be the smallest and deadliest bull riding set up on the planet. When I think of it I am reminded of the bar in Tarantino's "From Dusk 'Till Dawn"...everyone knew that bad things happened there, but we were all dying to get in.

We were there for a two-day bull riding over a Saturday and Sunday. I can't remember if Brent rode any of his bulls, but then again that is not really germaine to my story. The important part was my fascination with the behind the scenes/chutes action.

The Skinny Old Man
Much like the Wizard of Oz, there was a man behind the curtain. Charlie Thompson, whom I was soon to come to know, was the puppet master. Hustling 2000 lb. beasts between the necessary pens in order to usher them into the chutes where they would await "liftoff." After sorting a few of these bovine behemoths, he would jump up to the bucking chutes make the last minute preparations, urge the young cowboys to get their bullropes on the bull, and get their ass ready to ride. It was a well choreographed dance, and for reasons that I still cannot explain-I wanted to learn the steps.

Day one came to and end and I was hooked, but I was a little hesitant to approach Charlie. The word on the street was that Charlie was a little difficult to deal with, so I decided to keep to myself.

Some Deity (I couldn't leave this part out)
After some good old fashioned under-aged drinking it was time to retire for the evening. We needed lodging and didn't want to shell out too much coin...it would cut into the beer budget. Dos is located in a part of Odessa that the Convention and Visitors Bureau leaves off of their tour of notable places. The name of the motel escapes me, but I am sure that it was accustomed to hourly customers. Somehow Brent convinced the ladies that this would be acceptable...I can only envision myself making these arguments to my wife.

When we walked into the office/lobby/shrine area I was struck first by the aroma of curry and other eastern spices. But I was quickly taken aback by a velvet painting hanging behind the front desk. By the location and prominence I am guessing it was the image of some deity, it was a medium-dark skinned man with a Lew Alcindor afro, a jewel glued into the center of his forehead (on the velvety canvas), and the biggest shit-eating grin I had ever seen in my life. As long as I live I will never forget this image, if I had any artistic skill I am wholly confident that I could reproduce the image on paper today.

Day Dos at Dos
Making this long story short, on day two I quickly developed the gumption to approach Charlie. (Looking back I think that this fear was kind of funny...Charlie is about 8" shorter than me and about 150 lbs. lighter, conversely, I am sure that to this day he is confident that he could still kick my ass). I took a deep breath and made the "perp" walk toward the chutes where the dusty old fellow was plying his trade, stuck out my hand, introduced myself, asked if I could help. You have to know Charlie to truly appreciate this...the beginning of his response will be forever burned into my grey matter..."well, I am not going to pay you anything."

And the rest my friends...is history. I'll catch you up with more of this story in the future.