by Red Phoenix
After class, I pull out the photo of Durov again. It is so painful to look at, I find myself quickly returning it to my pocket. I feel badly for taking it in the first place without his permission, and even worse now, knowing another person had seen it.
Making the decision to give the photo to the Russian, I head straight to his dorm.
I find him in the commons, sitting with a bunch of other guys around a large TV, watching reruns of Saturday Night Live. He is laughing louder than all those around him, which I find amusing, since he doesn’t understand a word of it.
“Durov!” I call out to him.
He turns and breaks out in a grin when he sees me, waving me over to join him.
I shake my head and make a gesture toward the door. He shrugs, slapping the hands of several guys as he heads over to me.
I hate having to confess that I invaded his privacy by taking the picture. While I could destroy the evidence, Professor Brooks is right about the photo having power. I feel strongly that he should be the one to decide what becomes of it, even though I’m afraid of how the Russian will react.
Knowing how I would feel if the situation were reversed, I steel myself to face the consequences—whatever they may be.
I pull the photo out of my pocket and hand it to him. Durov glances at it and frowns.
He stares at me, waiting for an explanation.
I show him my camera and take out the stack of photos I took the same day, including the building I was photographing when I took the picture of him. I explain in simple terms that I was doing an assignment, then apologize for taking this one of him.
He stares at the photo again, but I cannot read the expression on his face.
I feel it is my duty to tell him my professor saw it. With extreme difficulty, I explain in Russian that Professor Brooks saw the photo and wanted to use it as a class example, but I am giving it to him instead.
He nods, smiling down at his photo. With a thick Russian accent, he says with pride, “So, she thought I’m exceptional.”
My jaw drops. “Wait…you speak English?”
Durov raises an eyebrow. “Possibly.”
“Well, you motherfucker!”
He shrugs, holding up the photo. “Hey, I’m not the one taking stalker photos of a man in mourning.”
“Why in the hell have you been pretending you can’t speak English?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “It lets me know who my friends are.”
While I can see the brilliance behind his scheme, after all the hours I’ve spent studying Russian, I want to fucking strangle the man.
Durov laughs when he sees the murderous look in my eyes. “So, tell me, Davis. Why did you take this photo?” he asks, waving it in front of my face.
I hesitate for a moment before choosing to be honest with him. “I saw something in you I recognized in myself.”
He looks at the photo again. The smirk leaves his face and is replaced with pain. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he says in a solemn voice, “I’m sorry to hear that, comrade.”
“What happened to you?” I ask, looking down at the picture.
He shakes his head, growling hoarsely. “I can’t speak of it…not yet. You?”
I stare up at him, debating if I should reveal the truth. Choosing to follow my gut, I tell him, “I lost someone close through suicide.”
I hear his sharp intake of breath before he abruptly turns away from me.
He shakes his head several times violently. The photo falls to the ground as he walks away in silence.
Durov’s reaction confirms my suspicions, leaving me to wonder who he has lost.
Breaking My Defense
Picking up the photo from the ground, I return it to my pocket for safekeeping. Finding myself alone, after finally voicing it aloud, leaves me suffocating with a grief I can’t escape.
Even though it’s been two years, it feels like yesterday since I lost him.
I quickly head to my dorm, needing to isolate myself while the images threaten to overtake me—all the blood, that haunting last breath, and the extinguishing of the light in his eyes…
Ignoring the people I pass, I rush to my room and slam the door shut as if it can save me from my own thoughts. Hitting my temples with my fists, I command the images to stop, unwilling to relive that moment again.
“Papà…”
It feels as if my heart’s being physically ripped open, and I fall to the floor, rocking back and forth as my father stares at me, unable to speak.
I can’t reconcile his death—there’s no way to wrap my head around it.
So, I do as I have always done, and force myself to stand up. I walk over to my desk, and take out my math book, picking out an equation from the back of the book.
By the time Anderson arrives, I am deep into a mathematic rabbit hole of my own making.
“Whoa…” he says as soon as he enters the room. “What’s wrong, Davis?”
I barely look his way, mumbling, “Nothing.”
“Bullshit! This entire room feels different—and it’s coming from you.”
“Leave it alone,” I growl in warning, having just regained control over my emotions.
Anderson strides over and sits on my bed beside me, something he’s never done. “Look, I’ve been on the ranch all of my life. I can tell when an animal is suffering.”
I give him a sideways glare. “You calling me an animal?”
He shakes his head. “All I’m saying is that I can tell you’re suffering and it’s eating you alive.”
When he puts his hand on my shoulder, I flinch.
“What happened today?”
“Nothing happened. It’s just a bad memory I’m trying to forget.”
“Does it have to do with your family?”
I close my eyes, the scene of my father’s death playing out in my mind again. I can’t stop it, and a sob escapes my lips.
Anderson places his broad hand on my shoulder. “I’m here for you, buddy.”
I’ve talked to therapists until I was blue in the face, but I’ve never found solace or comfort in voicing what happened out loud—I’ve actually found the opposite to be true.
I purposely turn from him, an angry ball of sorrow, refusing to talk.
Anderson says nothing, but the pressure of his hand remains on my back. For some reason, I find his physical presence oddly soothing. Despite having such a muscular stature, Anderson has a gentleness in his steadfastness that comforts rather than challenges me.
I eventually glance at the clock and realize an hour has passed. The bastard is still with me, not saying a word, but not leaving, either. It is his perseverance that ultimately wins over my confidence, and I finally open up to him. “I don’t have a family, Anderson.”
That cold fact hangs in the air, choking me with its weight.
“I have extended family, certainly, but the people who raised me no longer exist.”
“I can’t imagine…”
I mull it over before I share with him, “I’m convinced if my father had died in an accident, or even from a heart attack, I would have been able to get past this. But that’s not what happened.”
I look into Anderson’s eyes, drawing from his strength as I build up the courage to expose my deepest pain.
“My father died in my arms when I was fifteen…after shooting himself in the head.”
“Holy fuck,” Anderson responds, the look of shock on his face letting me know he still has no idea who my father is…was.
“I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that he’s gone. I expect him to show up at any minute, apologizing for his absence. I know it’s stupid—but I still hope to see him walking through that door.”
Anderson shakes his head. “Not stupid at all.”
I laugh sarcastically. “I know better. There’s no need to sugarcoat it.”
“Are you kidding? If my dad died, you can fucking bet I’d be on my knees daily, begging God to bring him back.”
Trying to explain what it feels like, I tell him, “The pain of his death remains with me like a fifty-pound anchor crushing my chest every second of every day. It never lets up, and the weight only serves to remind me of how much I’ve lost.”
My words spur Anderson to ask the one question I dread to hear.
“What about your mother?”
I have to swallow down the burning rage I feel, and answer him in a detached voice, “I have no mother. She died years before my father killed himself.”
Anderson’s jaw drops. “I’ve never understood how life could be so cruel to some people.”
I give him a half-smile to hide the fact it feels as if I have ice in my veins. “There are times I’ve wondered if I am cursed.”
“You can’t let yourself think that way. Never allow it to enter your thoughts, Davis. The biggest obstacles we face are the limitations we place on ourselves.”
His seemingly unshakeable confidence challenges me, and I ask, “How can you be sure?”
“I’ve learned it the hard way—on the back of a bull.”
“A bull…” I can’t fathom what would cause a person to ride a one-and-a-half-ton mass of angry muscle.
“Spent time in the hospital because of it, too,” Anderson continues. “But in the end, it was my fault. I decided I was too young to take Crusher on. That thought alone spelled my doom. If I hadn’t allowed that single thought to take over just before they opened the gate—that vital moment when my thighs were clenched around Crusher’s churning mass of power—I would have won the national high school rodeo that year. I’m convinced of it.”
“You know I agree that we make our own destiny. It’s the only reason I came to college. Still, I harbor one doubt.”
“What’s that?”
“No matter how determined you are, it’s still possible for fate to conspire against you.”
Anderson nods. “But you can’t give up. The instant you do, you’ll lose.”
“So, what happens when you have no more fight left?” I ask in a tired voice.
He flashes a smile, smacking me on the back. “You let your friends jump in the ring to take your place.”
I frown, thinking to myself, If only it were that easy.
“Look, I have no idea what it’s like to lose both parents—I don’t even want to imagine it. But I do know what it’s like to have a family who has my back. I may not be related to you, but I’d stand up and fight in your stead.”
Looking at the sincerity in his eyes, I believe he would.
I instantly think of Durov, alone and in pain. There’s no question I’d fight for him the same way.
I’m struck by a new thought. For years, I’ve been mourning what I’ve lost and will never get back. While it’s a sad reality, I realize now that I have the power to create something different and more permanent.
Looking at Anderson, a deep sense of gratitude hits me in the chest. I’m not an easy person to like. I stopped trusting everyone after my father’s suicide, and I’ve refused to let people get close to me since his death.
Somehow, this bullwhip-wielding cowboy from Greeley has the determination and pure stubbornness to chip away at my defenses.
“I don’t know exactly how you did it, but you managed to take me away from the precipice I was teetering on. A feat even my therapists could not achieve.” I tell him with sincerity, “Thank you…my friend.”
Anderson’s face lights up. “Now, I just need to get you away from the textbooks so you can start living life again.”
I snort with amusement. “No, it’s the other way around. You need to start sticking your nose in books so the time you spend here isn’t wasted.”
Anderson clicks his tongue. “You are a stubborn fuck.”
“I can say the same about you.”
He tips an imaginary hat at me. “I take that as a compliment, buddy.”
Whip It
A few days later, Anderson manages to tear me away from my studies with an offer to show me how to crack his whip.
Naturally, I refuse, but he’s prepared and sweetens the pot by stating that he’s struggling in one of his classes and could use some help. I believe he’s telling the truth, since I rarely see the guy studying at his desk. Knowing he could easily waste this entire year, I agree to the lesson on one condition:
“As soon as we’re done, we head back here to work on your class assignment. That’s the only way this is happening.”
He agrees without argument. “Fine. I suggest you wear a loose t-shirt. It’ll help with your range of motion.”
I take his advice and change while he adds to his casual ensemble by donning cowboy boots and a black hat.
“Are you going out like that?”
“Absolutely,” he answers with a cheeky grin. “I’m still on the hunt.”
Having promised to help him on that front, I’m obligated to let it slide, but that doesn’t stop me from rolling my eyes as he tips his hat to every girl he passes.
Along with his miniature bullwhip, he’s asked me to bring several apples. I happen to be hungry and enjoy the tart bite of a ripe green apple, so I bring three. My stomach growls in anticipation as I carry them with me.
Anderson finds an open space in the grassy area of the outdoor commons lined with trees, but it’s far enough away from other students to assure me that no one will walk into the path of the whip when he swings it.
“Stand back.” Anderson starts swinging his whip, but not in an aggressive manner. “I’ve got to get my muscles warmed up for this,” he explains.
I nod, but my attention is focused more on the fruit than his actions because my stomach has started growling more loudly.
“Okay, give them to me,” Anderson says, holding out his hand.
I do so reluctantly, but now he has my full attention as he tosses an apple into the air and swings his whip. It travels so fast, I don’t even see it as it contacts with the fruit. A loud, explosive crack of this whip echoes across the campus as I watch the apple fall to the ground in two equal pieces. In rapid successions, the whip splits each apple cleanly in two, filling the air with its commanding sound.
Anderson turns toward me with a proud smirk. “What do you think of them apples?”
I look down at my snack in dismay, but I can’t deny I’m impressed. “You’ve got real skill there.”
The sound of his whip has drawn the attention of everyone around us, and they start to gather to see what is going on, chatting excitedly amongst themselves.
“Here,” Anderson says, handing me the whip.
The girls start “oohing” and “ahhing” as he slowly strips off his shirt and hands it to one of them.
I just shake my head.
He takes the whip back from me. “It’s important to introduce yourself to the whip. Feel her out, get to know her first before you begin manhandling her,” he tells me solemnly as he winks at the girls.
I can hear them sighing softly in response.
Damn, this guy knows how to ham it up.
I watch Anderson flick the bullwhip several times before he cocks his arm back and lets it fly. Everyone jumps when the crack explodes in the air, and giggles erupt from the girls.
Anderson looks at me with an “I told you so” expression.
I roll my eyes again, but my admiration for his whipping skills has definitely increased. He explains the basics of the whip and then hands it over to me, explaining how to hold it. “Don’t grab it in the middle of the handle. That won’t give you any leverage.” He presses the end of it into my hand. “Wrap your fingers around it. That will give you control over the entire handle.”
I am fully aware of everyone’s eyes on me, and I have to trust that Anderson won’t allow me to make a fool of myself.
He takes my arm and raises it over my shoulder. “You want to do it in a smooth, relaxed, up-and-down motion.”
Anderson lets go of my arm and nods.
I take a deep breath, forgetting everyone around me. Ta
king his advice, I don’t try to crack the whip immediately. Instead, I bring it up and down in a fluid motion several times to warm up.
I’m surprised that the whip feels as if it has a life of its own, and I look at Anderson in surprise.
He grins. “I see Myrtle likes you.”
I don’t know why his reassurance makes a difference, but it does. Ready to test her out, I stare straight ahead and take another deep breath.
I cock my hand back at a forty-five-degree angle and swing forward quickly, but no crack sounds.
“Excellent form,” he compliments me, “but if you want her to sing, you’ll need to let the whip fully extend on the way up and let her fall behind you until the cracker is at its lowest point. That’s when you bring your arm down, nice and straight. You don’t want to go hitting yourself with the end of that whip. Trust me, even though she may look small, she can still rip an ear off.”
I look down at the frayed-looking end of the whip, respectful of its power. There is an odd thrill, knowing I could hurt myself by simply swinging the whip. I ready myself again and cock my arm back, swinging it forward after the cracker falls behind me.
The satisfying crack caused by the whip makes me smile as people jump around me. I understand why Anderson enjoys Myrtle so much…
After several more cracks of the whip, I relinquish its power, handing the bullwhip back to him.
He takes it with a glint in his eye. “Wanna see what she can do?”
“Please.”
Anderson tips his hat toward a group of women. “Ladies, you’ll want to stand back for this.”
He builds up the anticipation, slowly swinging the whip back and forth and side to side. When he is ready, Anderson nods to me with a grin.
I stare in wonder as his whip begins to dance, making music as it cuts through the air, the sequence of cracks creating its own exhilarating beat. I am seriously in awe as I watch him crack it at least eight different ways—over his head, behind him, and in rapid succession.
By the time he’s done, the crowd is giving him an enthusiastic and well-deserved applause, including myself.
He coils Myrtle up and walks over to me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s head back to the dorm like I promised.”
