by Marie Davis and Margaret Hultz.
Princess was a rugged, tobacco chewing, nail biting rodeo princess. Her faded dungarees and worn boots stirred up eddies of dust with each step. Constantly stalked by a stealthy murder — the crows — forty in all — tiptoed in the wake of her bowlegged steps — twenty black bobbing heads in straight lines behind each leg.
A thick swarm of dragonflies circumnavigated her cowboy hat — their constant buzzing, was in perfect harmony with her tobacco chewing, spitting, along with the crowing and puffing of dust that was Princess’ personal and not so private symphony.
On the tippy tippy end of Princess’ nose was a freckle in the shape of Nebraska. “I’m headed to Nebrathka!” Princess purported, pointing to her nose, grinning at her seatmate on flight 67886.
Being a rodeo Princess — with a swarm of dragonflies and forty stealthy crows — flying commercial was naturally difficult. Certainly, her seat was crowded, dusty, spitty and buzzy — more than most.
“The middle theat thucks, don’t it,” Princess’ smile spread across her face from Nebraska all the way to both Texas-sized ears.
“Yeah,” the seatmate nodded, trying her best to ignore Princess. But, how could she ignore the Grand Canyon wedged between the woman’s front teeth. As the strange woman spoke her tongue rippled between the gap. It was nearly impossible to dodge all the sprays of spit splashing out of her mouth — akin to the mighty rapids of the Colorado River.
“I’m Printhess,” holding out her rough, grizzly bear-sized hand. The handshake? Surprisingly delicate as a pastoral breeze.
“And I’m Jamaica,” the woman replied. Returning a far less magnanimous smile, she caught a glimpse into Princess’ squinty eyes. Ghost towns full of heydays’ memories circled her pupils, while wagon trains chalked full of hopes and fears picked their way across the unfathomable furrows on her forehead.
“Nice to meet ya lady, wares ye headed?” Princess poked her head up above the seats and took a quick look around.
Jamaica replied, “Well, I’m on my way home to see my parents.”
“I see. Me, I’m headed to Nebrathka.”
“Oh… Nebraska?”
“Nebrathka? Naw, not really, I’m on my way home to see the old folks too. Nebrathka’s just a joke I’ve been telling now for awhile — you do see Nebrathka don’t ye?” Princess pointed to her nose.
“Err… Well… the old folks? Your parents?”
“Mom’s a rocky mountain and dad, well, he’s a prairie dog.”
“Prairie dog?”
“Fourteenth in the litter.”
“Fourteenth?”
“Too much teat and too much ass licking — that’s what I reckon is what went wrong with him.” Princess undid her seatbelt, and standing, took a real good gander up and down the aisle.
Just then, the howls of a lone wolf moaned from deep inside her ear, while a herd of bison raced rings around her thick neck.
Jamaica laughed, “I know what you mean, my dad can be a real dope too.”
“Dope? Nope, dope’s not his problem — too much teat and too much ass licking — I’m purty shore of it. But, he’s a feisty ol’ fellow always making a home in one den or another.” Princess winked and a teeny elk fell from her eyelashes into her coat pocket. Without flinching she continued, “How he got with that mountain of a woman, my mother, well now, thar’s a real puzzler.”
Jamaica thought, Only a six-hour flight girl, you can do it. When the flights over I’ll never have to see this crazy woman again.
Within seconds, the seat belt sign dinged and the captain announced, “Good afternoon folks, we are headed into some heavy turbulence, so everyone stay seated and buckled up.” The plane began to repeatedly drop, climb and pitch. Princess effortlessly rode the bucking air currents just like everybody would expect of a rodeo princess with years of bucking broncos under her belt.
Jamaica pried her hand loose from the arm of the seat to brush a tiny rattlesnake off her pants. Silently it slithered back up her neighbor’s pants. Trying to distract herself, Jamaica asked, “Umm… Wh… what about your mom?”
“Mom’s frozen, and stone cold hard as a rock above her tree line.”
“Her tree line?”
“I don’t remember rightly — I was only there once when I came a squalling and a squirting out. But I hears she got real warm and welcoming down there — ‘cept for the occasional carnivorous catamount.”
As the bucking airplane steeled to a dull forward roar, a frenzied woman came rushing up the aisle frantically making her way toward the bathroom.
“Mornin’ Miss. You look a bit green, you gonna chuck? Gotta take a leak?” Princess tipped her hat, exposing her head’s wide plain of wild grasses, teeming with roaming, grazing buffalo and gazelle. A campfire somewhere on the distant plain sent up smoke signals.
Turning back Princess confessed, “I lives in fear of springing a leak myself.” She finished tucking in her shirttail loaded with trout lines and clear streams ringed by blue spruces. “Well would you look at that — the dagblamit chow wagon is a coming! Yehaa!”
The fight attendant picked her way politely down the narrow passage. Turning to Princess she asked, “Would you like chicken or spaghetti for dinner?”
“Hmm? How ‘bout some opossum? Got any of that?”
Mistaking “opossum” for a joke the flight attendant laughed, “No, sorry — fresh out.”
“Fresh! I don’t give no mind if it’s fresh — why I’ve roasted up days and days old — flame’ll kill most of the germs.”
With the sudden realization that Princess was not joking, the attendant dropped her polite smile and robotically said, “I guess chicken then…” She set a small covered cardboard plate down on the tray stand. Princess naively stripped the thin plastic cover still expecting a not-so-fresh opossum caught a couple of days ago, tied to the back end of a saddle and carted along rough trails. Until one starry night finding itself gutted, turning on a spit, burning off its patchy fur. Princess’ expectations sank when she saw the contents — a pressed, baked, pale chicken patty — sitting embarrassingly on a bed of white rice with a few green specks.
“Ohhh, I heard about this kinda sthuff,” Princes leaned over grimacing to her seatmate.
Jamaica laughed, “Is this your first in-flight meal?”
“First in-flight meal… first time flying.”
“Really? You’re a virgin?”
“Oh, hell no! Why disappoint the willing — that’s my motto — mostly anyways… When time allows — mostly.”
Shaking her head Jamaica said, “I mean, you are a flying virgin.”
“Well shore, I spent my life in the rodeo — as a Rodeo Printhess.”
Jamaica asked, “A Rodeo Princess — a real Rodeo Princess? How’d you become a Rodeo Princess? What’s it like being a Rodeo Princess?”
“Bumpy!” The women laughed together.
Princess cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with the back of her shirt sleeve, “Seriously, I suppose that rodeo thoughts been growing in my mind since before I can remember — even before I knews there was a rodeo — I wanted to ride things that didn’t want to be ridden.”
“Yeah, that’s lucky to know who you are and what you want at such a young age.”
“Lucky? Hmm? Never looked at it that way? I suppose that’s easy to say if you hadn’t had a mother mountain stand by stoically watchin’ you freeze your ass in the winter and damn near starve year ’round. Oh, and a prairie dog father that was more interested in darting from one burrow to another than to ever realize what is going on with his “Printhess.’” She used air quotes.
“Well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
“Ba-loney! The strong survive and the weak get et. That’s just it — I’ve seen enough nature to know that. Shit is shit and getting through shit is even shittier — that’s why so many just flat-out don’t. Daughters of mountains just can’t give up though. And if you’re destined to the rodeo — you don’t get that kinda choice. I mean, on the good side cow dung and horse manure don’t bother me a lick — I’m familiar with all kinds of shit, fer sure.”
Once again, the seatbelt bell chimed and the pilot warned for everyone to stay in their seat. A severe thunderstorm was imminent and severe turbulence certain.
“Yehaa!” Princess sarcastically muttered while a pale pallor descended, worry swapped with the wagon trains in her eyes.
A collective scream rang out across cabin as the plane unexpectedly dropped too many feet to count. Even the flight attendants looked apprehensive and quickly buckled themselves into spare seats.
Through the up and down bumps — ten, fifteen and sometimes a nail biting, screaming forty-foot drop — passengers shrieked, wailed, and prayed too loudly. Jamaica and Princess held hands tightly, each of them internally begging to live.
“This is lots worser than riding a bronco about to be castrated. So, how ‘bout your folks Jamaica?”
Words stuttered out of Jamaica’s mouth. “They are from the Caribbean, but nowadays live in Jersey — New Jersey — East Orange. Dad drives a semi. He’s a long-haul trucker and mom’s a dental hygienist.”
“Did ye say the Caribbean?”
“Sorta, my parents are from Jamaica, but now they live in Jersey — I was born in New Jersey. Which is kinda funny because my name is Jamaica.”
“Jamaica — I reckon you got plenty of the Caribbean in ye.”
“Not really — I hate the heat, can’t swim and saltwater make my eyes sting.”
The landing gear dropped with an unusually loud cathunk. Within minutes the plane bounced a jarring thirteen times as it screeched to a halt at the end of the runway. After a collective cheer the whole cabin broke out in applause.
Jamaica climbed over Princess, scrambled to get her things, and hustled to impatiently wait in line to get off the confounded plane. When the long line started to move, Jamaica said a hurried, awkward goodbye.
“Don’t forget,” Princess replied with her giant smile, “You’ve got plenty of the Caribbean in you Jamaica. You just gotta find yer inner island.”
As the line stared moving quickly, Jamaica hollered back over her shoulder, “Nah, I’m adopted.”
Princess watched mesmerized as her seatmate disappeared into the crowd. Dang, that Jamaica girl sure was purty, Princess thought, And lookie there… Trailing behind Jamaica were forty flamingoes — twenty behind each leg.
The plane slowly emptied. Princess scratched Nebraska and in a cloud of dust made her way out into the terminal. Loudly yipping in a epiphanal fit, like only a rodeo princess can do, she declared, “Nebraska? Fiddlesticks! Why, I’m heading fer Jamaica! Jamaica, in East Orange, New Jersey.”