Rodeo. It was the kind of place that had
curling irons and hair spray in the
women’s bathroom, Bud Light on
permanent special for two bucks a can,
and a solid oak dance floor the size of a
cornfield.
We were all from the East Coast and
were way too cool for country music, so
at first we’d go just to snootily make fun
of it all, taking great pride in being the
first to spot a particularly gigantic belt
buckle or a cowboy sporting one of them
handlebar mustaches big enough to cover
five upper lips. But our favorite part
was the line dancing. We’d stare
mesmerized by the giant, choreographed
mass of Garth Brooks fans, stomping