As ready as I am, I’m also pretty terrified, too.
That evening, with my childhood bedroom door shut, I sit on my bed cross-legged and open my notebook and laptop in tandem, reading about Sable Sky’s history online. A few pages into SableSkyHistory.com which is a glorified GeoCities page with ads for cowboy boots and trailer hitches littering the site, I see the name of the man I’m making the film about.
Landry Vaughn.
According to this town’s website, Vaughn isn’t the only star to compete in the Sable Sky upcoming rodeo, but he’s theonly one who won five times, back-to-back, with his last win six years ago being his highest score of his entire career. A career that seemed to abruptly end.
He vanished from the sport.
The article doesn’t mention much else, other than the fact that after years away, Landry Vaughn signed up a month ago to compete this July.
“The Comeback Rider,” I say aloud, testing the documentary title. It sounds good.
“Okay, okay, Mom, I got it from here,” I shout toward the direction on my phone which is currently sliding around on the passenger seat next to me. Another huge pothole sends my little car careening, my front right tire temporarily eaten by the crater in the road before reappearing, sending my cell phone into the air across the cab, knocking me smack-dab in the forehead. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I crow, reaching between my thighs to snatch it off the floorboard. Dust clouds my windshield as I soldier on down the long road, a large farmhouse barely visible in the near distance. But visible, thank goodness.
“Don’t curse, Quinn!” my mom chides through the speakerphone, which is now partially muffled by my thighs, where my phone is pinched.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I am. But I see it,” I relay, lifting my boot off the gas a hair. The engine tempers, and the dust settles enough to see the horizon. “Oh my god,” I breathe, taking in the property closer. I am fairly certain that whoever lives here probably has someone else’s face sewn to theirs and is wearing a bloody apron. Throwing the car into park right there in the middle of the road, I ask, “Can yousee me on Find My Friends? Am I seriously at the right place?”
“You just told me you are!” Mom shouts, the sound of her acrylic nails skittering on her phone screen as she undoubtedly pulls up our tracking app.
“I said I see the place, but maybe this isn’t the right place?” I ask, my hope petering out as I squint up at the large farmhouse ahead. Stones. Lots of stones with moss peeking out, and a large wraparound wood porch with rocking chairs, under the orange glow of the aging day. At the moment my mom starts talking, my eyes land on a small, worn sign, barely hanging onto an aged piece of wood. My lips move as I read, SABLE SKY INN.
“You’re in the right place. 118924 Turnbull Road.” She pauses. “Why did you go quiet?”
Rustic maroon metal awnings protect each window, and around the perimeter are lots of green plants and even a few tall trees blooming over the top of the old tin roof. There are no other vehicles around, not that I can see, but smoke plumes from the chimney in short bursts, so years of watchingMatlockon the couch while being fake sick tell me someone’s in there.
Dahmer, maybe.
No, Dahmer’s dead.
Not wanting my mom to worry because if there is one thing Diane Farley can do, it’s get anxiety so badIcan feel it from states away. I clear my throat and put on a smile that she can’t see, but one she’ll definitely be able to hear. “Oh, it’s quaint. It’s charming. Really… adorable,” I say, smiling like a complete weirdo alone in my car, luggage and camera junk stacked to the roof.
Shifting back into drive, I slowly approach the edge of the property as my mom lets out a sigh of relief. At least when Iget my organs harvested in this place, she won’t be worrying about it. She’ll be watchingLove Is Blindwith Lane while knitting her hundredth pot holder that doesn’t even work because she buys the wrong yarn. Seriously.
“Oh good, good. I’m so relieved. And I’m glad you got there. You made great time,” she says, then ends the call with, “go get comfortable. Call me before bed.”
Ending the call, I shift into park just as a gigantic chicken appears from behind the house, pecking its way toward me. “Damn, that thing is big,” I comment, my throat tightening as it screams an awful angry-sounding cluck at me. Popping open my car door, I step out, the pungent scent ofmanurehitting my nose immediately. I bring my finger beneath my nostrils and inhale the scent of my body lotion—cashmere and strawberries. Ahh, it’s heaven in a bottle, I swear.
With the heel of my new adorable pink cowboy boots, I nudge the car door closed and bend down to greet my new friend who is rapidly approaching.
He’s going to stop and I’m going to pet him.
Right?
“Whoa, whoa there, Mr. Welcome Wagon,” I greet warily, my voice shaking like a scared city girl with a mean chicken about to peck her lights out is running full speed at her.
Just like that.
Reaching out, preparing to stroke it or choke it—I was a poet before I was a filmmaker—I step back. I take another few steps back, but the chicken keeps coming.
The chicken is now charging me.
I wasn’treallygoing to choke the chicken. I can’t hurt an animal, even if it has evil beaming from its beady little eyes and its claws are coming at me like homicidal lava.
I am not getting attacked by some fucking Hulk-sized chicken. No way. “Hey! Hey! You little monster!!” I scream,running in circles around the car as this devil chicken pecks at the heels of my new pink boots. “Quit! Quit or I’ll turn you into nuggets, asshole!”
This chicken apparently consumed pre-workout this morning. I jump onto the hood of my 1997 shitmobile and pull my knees to my chest, trying to catch my breath.
