The Angola Prison Rodeo

The Warden announces our names over the PA before the first event, tagging our sentences onto each one. Twenty-five years, fifty years. Most names end with "life" and it sounds like we're brothers.

The starting horn blares. Six chutes burst open, a bull and rider rocketing out of each one. Finally we hear the crowd. It had grumbled through the presentation of colors and the Warden's welcome speech, a few people waving over popcorn vendors during the Chaplain's prayer. Now it's charged; families packed cheek-to-jowl in the grandstands waiting to see us kiss dirt. We stare at them from the inmate stands, watch them watching us. We'll feed on their voices when we're in the ring. Cheers or curses, it doesn't matter. Fact is, today they're here for us.

The riders are holding on with every ounce of strength. They search for handles in folds of skin and protruding bones, but the bulls are berserk. Their scrotums are cinched with a flank strap and fastened to a rope ripping at their bellies. They jerk and kick and whirl, trying to shake loose their balls and their riders in one motion. Deter's the first man hurled off, bouncing into a ball of dust. Next goes Martin, all five-foot nothing of him buckling up and taking a header into the dirt. Omer bobs around like a ragdoll until the bull double-kicks and tosses him. He's slow to get up, and we don't know if it's pain or pride that's weighing him down. The clowns swoop in, all orange face paint and purple streamers, and distract the bull from stomping Omer's bones to powder. He gets up, bleeding from his chin and favoring his right leg.

Most eyes are on Cody, a frog-faced carjacker we call Tadpole because he's all baby-like. The Correction Officers bet him as the favorite after watching us practice—something about his stub legs and girly hands that made the bulls go easy on him. It's looking good, too; just him and Wilson left riding, until the bull shoots up its hindquarters and slingshots Cody across the ring. The crowd's leaning over the rails, watching Cody stagger out of the ring as the clowns get between him and the bull. The COs are fuming, biting their lips like they're chewing down curses; Cody would've paid three-to-one, and now most of them are shit out of luck.

Wilson holds on just a few seconds longer. He wraps his legs butterfly style around the bull's fat neck. He locks his ankles together and closes his eyes, thinking about how he'll call his old lady tonight to tell her that no one in Angola rides a bull like her man. The end horn sounds. Wilson loosens his legs and tumbles off. He's hollering and fist-pumping the second he gets up. He searches the stands, just in case, but he doesn't see his woman.

The crowd's on its feet. Fathers and mothers cheer. Children unbury their faces from beehives of cotton candy. Lott, a scrawny youngblood not a year into his sentence, sprints from the arena to give death row a recap. The Warden announces Wilson as the winner, letting everyone know that he just earned $50 into his commissary, but the crowd's already sitting, thirsty for the next event.

Cody makes his way back to the inmate stands, wiping his bloody hand on a leg of his jumpsuit. Cardinal razzes him from the get. "The bull didn't want to make nice this go-around, huh?"

Cody stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the crowd.

"Maybe he just don't like frogs."

A few people laugh. Cardinal doesn't let up, jeering Cody till the boy's red-faced.

Next to Cody, Crenshaw's gulping down deep breaths. He's jittery— has been for weeks, and the last thing he wants to hear is Cardinal's fat mouth. He waits for Cody to speak up, but Cody...