For anyone wondering, yes, there is a mechanical bull in New York City.
While attempting to navigate the downtown A train after a night of drinking in the West Village, and nearly falling on his face from the subway’s acceleration, my friend Tommy loudly shouts, “Dude, we have to find a mechanical bull sometime.” I didn’t respond, thinking that the concept of a mechanical bull in New York City sounded ridiculous, although riding one would be fun.
New York City is often regarded as a melting pot of different cultures and lifestyles; country, however, is not one of them. I thought it was highly unlikely that there would be any country-themed places in New York City. Growing up in New Jersey, I was long familiar with the country cosplayers that hide out in the state’s suburbs — those who worship that genre of music in their lifted pickup trucks while living just outside the largest metropolitan area in the country — but there’s no chance that seeped into city limits, or so I thought.
Fast forward three years, and the mechanical bull pops into my mind again, with my girlfriend claiming that her friends actually found one in the city. I did not believe her. There is zero chance there is a bull within the five boroughs. I was quickly humbled, however, when she showed me Desert 5 Spot, a country bar in Brooklyn, of all places.
The exterior of Desert 5 nearly blends in with the repurposed warehouses of Williamsburg; just a small neon sign with the bar’s name reveals its location. The bar is a caricature of itself with old saloon double doors and creaky wooden floorboards. Americana immediately takes over in the back room. Cow skulls and vintage pictures line the walls. Every patron decked out in bootcut jeans and cowboy boots, with some even sporting ten-gallon hats. A pair of metal boots serves as a disco ball at the center of the dance floor.
This has to be a joke – these people are playing dress up, and the entire concept of this bar is one big piece of irony. Then the country music came on, and people got up and started line dancing in rows of ten. Everyone somehow instantly developed a Southern accent. I knew I was out of my element, so naturally, I went and grabbed a drink.
The actual bar is tucked in the back corner, leaving my girlfriend and me shoving through a sea of cowboys dancing to Luke Bryan. We hopped onto the wooden barstools and finally caught a glimpse of the mechanical bull. It was smaller than I expected, leaving me disappointed. To be fair, I did not have much to base my imagination on.
Luckily, the bull was nestled away from the main dance floor, saving me from embarrassment in front of everyone. Thick white ropes bordered the bull, making the interior resemble a boxing ring. A thin layer of bouncy-house-style padding lies over the floorboards to cushion the rider’s inevitable fall. For some reason, there was no line. The only barrier between me and the bull was the operator and a series of waivers I had to sign, making sure I would not sue the place if I got hurt.
The Bullmaster was far from someone you would picture in a Western film. A tall, clean-shaven, lanky man, who could not have been older than 20, was working the controls. He barely spoke and knew little about what he was operating. Great. So the machine that was about to spin me around and send me flying had someone manning the controls who could not tell me any information. Perhaps he was just confused that someone was interrogating him. Why would someone ask a series of questions before going on a fun attraction?
After hopping over the ropes, I met the bull face-to-face. I climbed up and signaled to the Bullmaster that I was ready. He hesitated, maybe sensing that I was not as ready as I thought. The bull started spinning slowly, and I got my bearings. As soon as I gained some type of confidence, the bull jerked sharply, sending me flying across the ring. Just like that, it was over; I lasted just five seconds. There was no way I was going out like that. I had to do it again.
The Bullmaster shot me a look of confusion as I darted back to the line. I guess people typically only try it once. This time, there were two middle-aged women in front of me who perhaps had too much to drink to handle the bull. They fell off quickly, but somehow not as fast as I did–I felt shown up.
I leaped onto the bull once it was my turn. I was prepared this time. Using your legs is the key to staying on and stable. Before I knew it, I was still on after 30 seconds. At that moment, I felt one with the bull. Maybe I actually bested the machine?
Fatigue started to kick in, however, with my grip slowly slipping with each revolution. My body was telling me it was time to give up, so my hands let go of the handle, leaving me slipping off the bull’s side. Somehow, this fall hurt more than the first one, as the bull struck me in the stomach on my way down.
I was dizzy getting back up, but proud that I did not make a fool of myself the second time. At this point, the country music was getting a little too much for us, so we saw ourselves out, swinging the saloon doors upon exiting.