Rodeo Rentboy and the Poundstore Cowboy

I first met Rodeo and Poundstore when I was in Nashville, Tennessee.  I was playing The Neversink Boat Club and we became friends backstage.  They were friends with everyone.  They were Englishmen abroad, loud and exuberant, and if they were in the same town as you, it was impossible not to come across them.

‘Oh, right,’ I said when they finally finished telling me their tale.  

I’m English too; well, Welsh.  I saved for a year and bought a ticket to America.  Now I’m moving from town to town, trying to get gigs, trying to make it as a musician.  I’ve always wanted to do it, got a strong romantic streak, y‘see.  And I’ve done alright, an accent goes a long way in a place like this.  These people live simple, unchanging lives, some of them never get to see anything out of the ordinary, so when they hear you speak they’re stunned, which gives you about two seconds to charm them before they beat the living sunshine out of you.  I’ve got lots of charm.  

Rodeo and Poundstore weren’t like me, they didn’t have a plan - they didn’t need one, they had round the world airline tickets.  Ten destinations, anywhere you like, only go forward, never go back.  They were having the time of their lives, you could tell, you couldn’t shut them up.  You couldn’t say anything without triggering the memory of some crazy situation they’d just experienced.  They were scenesters, blaggers, loudmouths; enthusiastic dandiprats to be found at any door, desperately trying to talk their way in.  Tweedle dumb and tweedle dumber.  But harmless and reasonably entertaining.  They were never sober, and they were rarely alone.  

‘Oh!  Those guys are just adorable,’ I heard one of the girls say.  

One night, the bouncer at The Neversink told me their story.  Apparently, back in England, Rodeo and Poundstore both lost their girlfriends the same weekend.  By Monday they’d decided to go travelling together.  Heartache’s a terrible thing.  A month later they’d quit their jobs and sold their mopeds, collected the deposits on the flat they rented, headed out.  They landed in New York City - which they referred to as NYC - and took the bus down the Eastern seaboard, saving their plane tickets for later.  For them, travelling wasn’t an attempt to expand their perception of reality, it wasn’t about the acquisition of worldly knowledge, it wasn’t even about seeing the things The Sunday Times said they HAD to see.  It was about getting loaded, and with as many different people on as many different drugs as possible.  And then it was about making sure everyone knew about it.  By the time they got to Nashville, which they’d heard was worth seeing, they were locked in the grip of a crazy bender, only waking to get drunk and only sleeping because they couldn’t drink anymore.  I once asked Rodeo what he hoped to achieve from this extended period of budget travel,

‘We’re here for a good time, man, not a long time.’  

He had the smile of a simpleton.      

In Nashville, when you asked about Rodeo and Poundstore, or when their names came up in conversation, it was always the same story that was told.  It was how most people came to know them, even if they’d never met them, it was the one thing they were famous for.  I reckon one day someone’ll write a country song about it.  It was their defining moment.  It was how they got their nicknames...  

They’d been out on the tiles for days, only thinking of the next drink, never worrying about how it was all going to end.  On the third sunset, in one of the seedier parts of town, they befriended an overweight cowboy wannabe.  This was a couple of weeks before I met them.  The fat man, as his weight suggested, never missed an opportunity; he bought the boys a couple of shots of bourbon before buying the whole bottle and setting it down on the table.  The chancers were too far gone and too skint to resist, they fell on it like castaways on a deserted beach.  What a find!  What luck!  Now we can have a riot and raise hell, they said.  And they knew they would.  But that was all they knew.  At some point in the proceedings, the friends became separated - and it’s only the chubby ranch-hand that knows how... or why.  They don’t see him anymore.  

* * *

The hot Tennessee sun burnt down on the empty car park of a retail village.  It was the brightness that disturbed our friend.  He was alone.  And he had no idea how he came to be lying on a grassy knoll wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and socks.  A quick look around told him he didn’t know where he was.  One of the suburbs?  No idea.  Rubbing his eyes and realising his predicament, and thankful he hadn’t been picked up by the police, he set out in search of a clothing store.  Nothing looked open, was it Sunday?  Possibly.  Then he heard someone emerge from a door to his left, he spun round and squinted, an old lady shuffled from a thrift store.  He charged towards it and burst through the entrance - Help me! he cried.  He was in luck, it was very cheap in there.  What little profit they made went to some Episcopal church he’d never heard of: The Seven Sons of the Fourteenth Day Awakening of Our Lord and Saviour, or something.  Funny how American churches are always Our Lord, whereas Mexican ones are always Our Lady, you could write a thesis about that.  Anyway, regardless of the deity, something of a miracle was occurring... the day before, whilst enduring a fit of frantic paranoia, our friend stuffed a few dollar bills into his sock, just in case like.  So now he was able to shop, though a chequered shirt and a pair of heeled boots were the only things that fitted... and some beige slacks, straight leg.  When he stepped out of the door he looked every bit the cowboy.  The Poundstore Cowboy.

The fate of Poundstore’s companion is also worth a mention.  When he opened his eyes he saw a room he didn’t recognise, and he smelt unfamiliar sheets against his face.  The masculine sound of snoring filled his ears.  He was butt naked, and when he turned his head he saw the fat cowboy sleeping soundly beside him - deep in a grotesque dream world where a pink elephant fought a giant phallus in sunglasses; there was a yellow bird on the elephant’s head, and a monkey in a palm tree.  He slipped out of bed and crouched on the floor, silent, aware of his own breathing.  He felt sick, nearly was.  He couldn’t find his clothes, he looked under this thing and behind that.  They were nowhere to be seen.  But when he lifted his head he caught sight of the massive wardrobe.  Lightbulb!  The first thing he came across was a vintage buckaroo suit.  Paydirt!  He found some boots too, but the fat man had tiny feet, there was no way they’d fit.  No matter, he thought, footwear’s superfluous.  He dressed rapidly and hot-footed it out of the house, holding up the trousers as he leapt breathlessly down the steps.  He crashed onto the street... which is where he ran into Poundstore.  

Relief over-rode surprise, so neither mentioned the other’s attire, though later Poundstore admitted he would’ve swapped his boots for Rodeo’s shirt.  After a lot of grinning and some frowning, they headed for their hostel and agreed never to let slip what had happened that night.

But they had no control.  Within twelve hours they were in The Dewdrop Inn, feeling fruity and looking for trouble.  Then Rodeo hit a rough patch, and snuck off to throw up.  As soon as he was gone, Poundstore started telling the landlord what happened.  The landlord had gotten to know them in the last few months, he’d gotten the measure of them.

‘A-ha-ha-ha!’ he roared.  ‘You English bums!  Rodeo Rentboy and The Poundstore Cowboy!  You boys made it in the new West now!’

He served up a bourbon, on the house.  By closing time half the city knew the tale.  No-one saw them for a fortnight after that.  The next time they ventured out was the first time I met them.  

But that was Nashville and this is London.  It turns out I’ve moved in round the corner from where they now live.  I see them from time to time in the cafe on my road, sitting at the wall table, sipping instant coffee from thick mugs, bean-juice floating on their otherwise empty plates.  And when I do I’m polite, but I always get my bacon banjo to go.

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