by Joshua John Smithe
I was sitting around with my friends on Sunday, because that’s what we do when there’s nothing else happening: sit around.
Last Sunday was one of those Sundays. We were spread out on the couches in my friend Franco’s lounge room—we alternate whose lounge room we do nothing in, for fairness—and it got to that time in the afternoon when everyone was scrolling mindlessly on their phone, occasionally showing the others something funny, which is not a terrible way to pass the time when you’re bored and/or lonely. But the activity itself gets a bit boring and/or lonely after a while, so eventually someone suggested we watch a movie.
Now, usually what happens is we lazily discuss what movie to watch, until the idea of watching a movie becomes exhausting, and we end up doing nothing. But this time, Franco—the self proclaimed ‘leader’ of our group—came right out of the gates with a firm, enthusiastic recommendation.
“Alright fellas,” he said, leaning forward on the couch, “I’ve got a proper movie for you: The Sixth Sense.” He sounded a bit like an entrepreneur in a pitch meeting, opening with the name of their business idea to a room full of investors who are not at all interested in the name and just want to know what’s in it for them. Which, in a way, we were.
Of course, I was well aware of The Sixth Sense. It’s one of my favourite movies. In fact, I’m pretty sure I suggested it a few weeks ago and everyone groaned or mumbled something that resembled ‘no’. And I remember the reason I wanted to watch it so badly was because none of the others had seen it before, and The Sixth Sense is one of those movies that’s great to watch with people who are seeing it for the first time. I won’t spoil it, but it has a great twist.
I thought about reminding them that watching The Sixth Sense was originally my idea, but I didn’t want to let that get in the way of us watching the movie. I decided I’d sit back and let Franco do the hard work of convincing them.
“Is it good?” asked Benji, who I considered to be the loser of the group.
“Yeah, it’s got Bruce Willis in it,” said Franco.
Apparently that’s all it took, and we watched the movie.
Afterwards, everyone agreed on what a great suggestion it was. Someone said it was the perfect movie, which to be honest, I thought was a bit of an exaggeration: there are no perfect movies. But I’d never seen everyone so stoked with a movie suggestion.
“Please, fellas, I know my movies,” assured Franco. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Everyone chuckled, so I laughed too.
But really, I was jealous.
Not only was I not getting credit for the movie suggestion, but I’d always wanted to be the kind of guy that uses funny phrases like ‘this isn’t my first rodeo’. I’ve just never really been cool enough. Cooler than Benji, but still not cool enough. Having said that, a lot of people who I wouldn’t necessarily consider cool often said ‘this isn’t my first rodeo’ , so maybe I could, too.
But I couldn’t just jump on the bandwagon. Maybe I could bring back a different phrase like ‘Is the Pope catholic?’, or ‘It takes two to tango.’ They might still be funny, in the right context.
But then I noticed the laughter in the room was still going. It wasn’t that funny, was it?
Unless… I wondered, what if the reason everyone says ‘this isn’t my first rodeo’ isn’t just because it’s a cool thing to say – what if it’s because everyone has been to a rodeo except me, and the whole thing is an inside joke?
Were my friends going to rodeos without me? If so, why was it a secret? Who organises these secret rodeos? When had everyone gone to these secret rodeos? Was it on that one Sunday I didn’t hang out with them because of my cousin’s engagement party?
The rodeo joke had passed, and Benji had started up a new conversation about his experimentation with an all-dairy diet. But I decided to just come out with it.
“I’ve actually never been to a rodeo,” I said.
The room went quiet.
My friends looked at each other, as if trying to figure out who should talk.
Finally, Franco said, “Yeah, um, we just didn’t really think rodeos were your kind of thing. You know?”
I was right. Those scoundrels had left me out.
Why would they assume I wasn’t a rodeo guy? I could like rodeos. And even if I didn’t, so what? Would it kill them to take me once?
You only need to go to one rodeo for it to never be your first rodeo again.
Then Benji said, “But you can totally come to the next rodeo, the next time we go to one, if you want.”
I did my best to overlook the fact that even Benji had been invited to a rodeo and not me, though I considered that this was probably because he was the only one of us who had a car.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d like that.”
The next Sunday, since I had insisted, we went to a rodeo.
It was at a small arena on the outskirts of the city. We parked in this big gravel area, got our tickets, and went in. It was a full house, which made sense, given that most people seemed to have already been to at least one rodeo. There were people of all ages too, which surprised me. I always thought rodeos had a pretty niche target audience.
We got some beer and rodeo food and went to our seats, which were a little far back (but who was I to complain at my first rodeo?). Pretty soon I started to notice the smell of the manure, and I asked if it was going to be this bad the whole time. My friends looked at each other like they’d just seen a baby take its first steps, and joked that they knew I wasn’t a rodeo guy.
Thankfully, Franco had my back. “Guys, go easy, ok? It’s his first rodeo.” Maybe Franco really was the leader he claimed to be.
Music rose up through the stands, and the announcer, who introduced himself as the head of the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association (or PRCA), walked out into the middle of the arena. Small fireworks lit up a path in his wake.
The head of the PRCA introduced the event like a wrestling match, and the whole crowd got really amped up. It was quite an atmosphere.
The rodeo kicked off. There was a whole range of events on show. Barrel racing, steer wrestling, team roping. You just didn’t know what was coming next. I think that’s what made it great. But then it started to drag after a while, and I zoned out. It was all pretty much the same, really. Lots of running around, music, lights, yada yada. I wondered if what we’d eaten here was ‘dinner’, or if we were going somewhere else for food afterwards.
But I didn’t want to ask and give the impression I wanted to leave. Besides, soon it would soon be over and it wouldn’t be my first rodeo anymore—and I could tell people exactly that.
The announcer called out that the last event for the night would be bull-riding. The crowd went nuts. The event organisers knew to leave the crowd favourite to the end. It clearly wasn’t their first rodeo.
I can understand why bull-riding was so popular—the cowboys were great entertainers. Even after getting dangerously slung from a raging bull, they would run a victory lap around the arena in their full cowboy gear. Though, some of the cowboys had the sense to know when a bull was really mad and opted to dash to safety instead. They got cheers from the crowd just the same.
After that, it was over. I’d experienced my first rodeo.
As we all walked out of the arena together towards the car park, talking about whether rodeos were on their way out given the whole animal cruelty thing, we spotted an old man walking with a cane lose his footing on the gravel and fall to the ground. We ran over to him.
“Sir, are you alright?!” we said, helping him up and dusting him off. He was a fragile old thing. He looked as if his bones could dissolve at any moment.
“Oh, I’m alright,” he said. “I’m alright, I’m alright. You’re very kind for helping me up. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Benji said as he handed the old man his fallen cane and hat, “this isn’t our first rodeo.”
“You know,” the old man said, standing more firmly now with the cane by his side, “I turned 94 the other day. I’ve been to countless rodeos over the years. So many I can’t remember my life without them. I’m just an old bag of bones now, and every time I come to a rodeo like this, I wonder if it’ll be my last.”
We all nodded politely and did that smile you do to old people, but Franco actually seemed to be genuinely listening. Maybe that was what made him such a good leader? I decided to listen genuinely, too.
“Now, let me tell you boys something,” the old man went on. “I used to brag all the time about it not being my first rodeo. It was a hoot. A real hoot. Oh, the women used to swoon when I used that line on them. But you know what I’ve come to realise? I actually wish it was my first rodeo. Because there is no rodeo quite like your first. There’s something magical about that first time, that you just … you just never forget it. The lights, the fireworks, the music. The excitement.”
The old man sighed.
“I’ve got some great memories of rodeos over the years,” he continued. “But the first rodeo is the one you remember best. I think that’s true for a lot of things in life. You can never get back the magic of that first time. And after a while, you know, you grow older and you start running out of firsts.
“You eat the same food, you watch the same movies, you spend time with the same people—it’s mostly all the same. It gets harder and harder to experience new things.
“Then, sometimes, you see something that reminds you of how special it is to do something for the first time. It might be the eyes of a child eating ice cream for the first time, or the face of a woman when her partner gets down on one knee. You feel a little spark of their joy, but it’s never quite the same.
“Maybe you think I’m just an old geezer, carrying on like a pork chop, but if there’s one thing I wish I’d realised earlier, it’s to keep looking for new experiences. It really is how you stay alive.”
We all nodded and mumbled something that sounded like ‘wow’ or ‘yeah’.
The old man tipped his hat to us and walked off into the gravelled expanse.
We watched him go for a minute, just to be safe. Then we went out for dinner.
It’s the weirdest thing, ever since that night, my friends have stopped saying ‘this isn’t my first rodeo.’
I’ve been wondering if it’s because of what the old man said, or because they’ve moved onto another thing that they don’t invite me to. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with these things.
Joshua John Smithe is a Melbourne-based writer, filmmaker and poet. He also rides bikes, runs long, and eats croissants. That’s six things—some would say too many. His writing has appeared in Voiceworks, Minimum Wage Mag and the literary humour publication Points in Case. Then it disappeared for a while. But now it’s back.
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