The Very True Life and Times of Robert M. Horsestall: A Gentleman & Scholar

My name is Eric D. Smith, and this is a story (or perhaps the word ‘essay' would be better) about my friend Robert McClelland Horsestall, III. It is about a man with very, very dark black hair, about the things he and I would do when we were younger, about the women we dated (and didn't date), about the food we ate, about the fact that Robb was the only man in human history to spell Rob with two B's. This story is most certainly about cooking dead animals on a balcony, and in fact, whether you'd believe it or not, it's the story of a very fast, very dangerous red sports car. It is the story of sorority girls and farm girls and Hooters girls. Okay, there is nothing in this story about Hooters girls. But if there was, I think that would probably be great.

Now, before I go any further, I must insist that you get in your automobile. Turn the ignition and put a Van Halen CD in the stereo. Now, this part is important: turn up your radio very, very loud. Is it loud? You can tell if it is adequately loud quickly and easily: listen to the music for, say, three minutes, then turn the radio off. Do you hear anything? If the answer is no, it means you've caused permanent hearing loss, and your music is set to a proper volume. We may now continue.

I am sure you're asking yourself, now, what does irreversible damage to my auditory system have to do with Robb Horsestall (man-child)? Everything. Should you ever meet anyone who cannot claim to be legally deaf in most states or cannot sing the words to every Van Halen song ever written, well, you can be certain that person is not Robert's friend, and you may legally (again in most states) punch that person should they claim otherwise. I have never met anyone in my entire life as hung up on Van Halen as Robb, and I remember perhaps seven-thousand, four-hundred, thirty-four occasions in which I listened to Van Halen in his company, give or take a few. Robb would wake up to Van Halen, dancing into the shower (a considerable distance from his room, I might add, necessitating a volume of such astounding levels that no one else in our dormitory could possibly have slept, well, that is if we hadn't been college-aged males and capable of sleeping through a small war), driving to and from class (always a short distance on a campus as small as the one we attended, but nonetheless an excuse to listen to loud music and attempt to impress lovely young women who wore short shorts with his sports car's dashing appearance), and yes, at every party he ever held or attended (you could always be assured that Robb would appear at any social gathering with a small black case of web and nylon canvas, filled to the brim with the musical productions of the renowned Van Halen brothers). Van Halen was and remains a religion to Mr. Horsestall, a philosophy, an ideology, and dare I say, a way of life. And perhaps I am a fool, perhaps I am a madman, perhaps I am just plain wrong, but I say that if you were to listen, really listen to the screaming of those guitars, the wailing refrains of those modern American bards, if you really let the beat and the back-beat edge their way up your spine, you just might hear Robert Horsestall's soul.

Now that the setting has been established, I would ask that you put your automobile into drive and make your way down the road, even as you continue to read this essay. I admit this is a dangerous notion, but by God man, I swear to you, its necessary if you want to know the man, the myth, and yes, to use the cliche, the legend of Robb Horsestall. So now you are driving, probably safely, observing all the major laws and regulations which have become instilled into your subconscious as an ordinary law-abiding citizen of these United States of America. Now roll down the windows (hold on to this essay, we don't want you losing it to a gust of wind, do we?) and hang your left arm out the window. Do you feel the warm sunshine mingling with the cool sting of the wind? I hope so. If you have a convertible, please, feel free to put the top down. Comfortable? I thought so. Now push that little pedal called "the accelerator," that tiny, insignificant piece of plastic and rubber, push it a little further down, a little closer to the floor. Do you notice how your speed has increased? Now, watching the speedometer, continue to push down that little pedal, that tiny, insignificant little pedal, until the little finger on the speedometer has reached, say, fifty miles an hour over the speed limit. AH! Do you notice the way you can't steer as well, the way you have to depend more on instincts and less on thinking, the way you feel very much alive? It thought you would! And by now, you should have noticed the increase in adrenalin, a physiological reaction to the loud, thunderous rhythm of the music and your incredibly unsafe driving technique. That is what it feels like to be Robb. All the time. I think the word is alive.

Now, stop your car at the nearest gun shop, go in, and buy a pellet gun. Oh, I know, you're thinking, now, Eric, you are insane. "You want me to listen to loud music," you're thinking, "and that's okay. Then you want me to drive in a manner that could result in several felony charges and a possible stint as the ‘bitch' of a large hairy man named ‘Wolfman'. Not a delightful vision, to be certain, but an acceptable risk." But then you're thinking, "but a gun? Dammit man! Unacceptable!" And you know what, that is your prerogative. But you'll never understand Robb. So get the hell out of you car, go into that gun shop and buy a pellet gun and some ammo. I'll be waiting in the next paragraph.

Ah, I see you've returned and are now the proud owner of a pellet gun. Okay, before we go on, load it. There, that was easy, wasn't it? Now start the car and crank up the stereo, and of course, keep reading.

Drive until you see a cow, preferably a large, black and white cow, but should you be unable to find such a creature, any cow will do (if you're in Wisconsin this task should take no more than three minutes of driving in any direction). Now, lean back into your car seat, raise you weapon up to the window, take careful aim, breath out and pull the trigger. You just shot a cow. Now, that cow, she's not hurt, just has a bit of a sting in his hide. But cows aren't used to being shot with anything, pellet guns included, and you'll notice that beast is making quite a ruckus. She should be running around in circles, maybe stirring the other cattle to move their grazing elsewhere. And oh goodness, she should be making this crazy sound, something like this:

MOOOOROOOOROOROORAOOROROROOAOROOROROOAROROA

This is not the sort of sound that cows normally make. It should inspire you with a strange blend of awe (at your own ability to make something apparently sedentary move so quickly), pleasure (sadistic in nature, of course), and guilt (after all, the poor thing was just standing there, eating grass or chewing its own semi-digested vomit, also known as ‘cud', and you shot the thing, no provocation whatsoever, you animal!). Now hit that accelerator, that tiny, insignificant piece of plastic and rubber, and drive, drive like you've never driven before. Exciting, isn't it?

Now you know how Robb feels. Thank-you for your attention to this essay. I am sorry, I seem to have left out all the parts about girls (Hooters girls included), and I apparently have skimmed completely past any mention of dating (though neither Robb nor my own experiences in that field really warrant documentation, so I wouldn't feel robbed, if I were you). And I didn't talk in the least about the food we ate, did I? Well, content yourself by knowing that approximately ninety percent of our daily caloric intake was provided by carcinogenic hot dogs, courtesy of a Chevron station two miles from our College. And to be honest, there is no explanation whatsoever for Rob spelling his name with two B's. . . but I thought that if I teased you by saying I would explain why he does this, well, you'd actually read this essay. My deepest and humblest apologies. Oh, and nothing about cooking dead animals. Dammit. I meant to put that part in. Oh well. And, well, I guess this wasn't even a story, more of a how-to document, the kind of thing the government might publish six million copies of, only to have them stowed away in the dusty reserve shelves of ancient libraries, never to be read again.

But you read this one, didn't you?