Overwhelming

It was a grey morning, and Mum asked if rain was due. I assured her it wasn't, and pointed at Exhibit A, a patch of blue sky, as Supporting Evidence. I'd been hoping to take the parents to Tart, a nice little restaurant tucked beside the Farmer's Daughter hotel, but casual mention of the Saddle Ranch brunch turned into something more serious. We sat by the mechanical bull, with the yet-to-warm outside air blowing through the open doors, carrying a few sparrow scavengers in tow.

Our server told us of the bottomless mimosa & bloody mary drink specials, but we opted for tea. It was, after all, just past nine. Portions were done by the Texan standard of measurement - my waffles, for example, filled a plate - nay, tray - about eighteen inches long & ten wide. Dad's poached eggs, of which there were four, sat upon a generous portion of ham & biscuit, and the other third of his plate was piled with home fries. Mum, meanwhile, had an omelette, also served with home fries. None of us finished - I think Dad was the closest. My plate was still half full when it was taken away.

Dad mentioned business trips he used to take with Pembroke to Dallas, during which his clients would bring him to dinners where he'd be about full after the appetizers, and then he'd be staring down a two-and-a-half pound steak. Another coworker was smaller than he, and didn't finish either, but their host did. It's interested how people with larger frames can carry more weight and not seem fat, Dad said.

I told them about the bull operations - how the amount of time someone lasted before falling varied according to certain factors. The survival time for girls was always longer than for guys, usually starting off in slow, back-and-forth gyrations, before shifting to something wilder, until they were thrown abruptly off the side, and depended largely on either the attractiveness of the girl, or how little clothing she was wearing. For men, the hangtime was inversely proportional to how arrogant the guys were, and directly proportional to the amount of money tipped to the operator. My neighbour JD had spent a summer as the bull operator, and said he'd often get tipped exorbitant amounts to make people look good. Invariably, though, no matter how much time they'd stay on the bull, the bull would always throw them.

We talked about plans for the summer. I said I'd have to wait until the decisions came in before I made any of my own, but we did discuss logistics for a spell. And then we were off.