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ahead, ask me…” Matador said, never taking his eyes from the blurred highway.
    “Ask you what?”
    Turning to me, he said, “Ask me the question that’s been on your mind. Ask me why they call me Matador.”
    “Well , now that you mention it.”
    “I grew up in Texas, well Texas half the time and New York the other half. My mother’s family was from west Texas—that’s rodeo country. They had a big ranch outside Odessa. Her family was in the business of supplying the entire Texas rodeo circuit with riding bulls. The bulls were kept penned up on our ranch and loaned out when the rodeos came a-calling. Every now and again, they’d get a real mean sumbitch that had to be isolated from the rest of the bulls.
    “There were usually about fifteen to twenty bulls on hand at any time. We also kept cows, roping calves, and show horses too. Anyways, they get this real mean motherfucker called Zeus; most riders wouldn’t even attempt to give him a go, let alone stay on him for eight seconds. Story out of Amarillo goes he killed a rider out there and gored his last owner, so we got him dirt cheap.
    “Well , one day when I was about two years old, I turn up missing. My parents looked high and low. After searching for about an hour, Mom was nearly hysterical. Pops, running outta places to look, goes out to the bull pens, hoping I ain’t there. Well, legend has it, there I was, sleeping on ole Zeus, who was about to doze off himself, just as placid as a moonlit lake. Pops called for Mom, which was a bad idea ‘cause she fainted on the spot. He got the rest of the hands to distract Zeus while they went and extracted me from the delicate situation.
    “Once Zeus noticed I was safely away , he went ape-shit, kicking, leaping, and goring everything in sight. Tore up his whole pen, then he started on the barn. He was on a rampage like them elephants that go crazy—you know, the one’s you hear about destroying entire African villages? Pops had no choice but to get his shotgun and put him down. They say it took four shotgun blasts to take down the mad beast. Pops was a city boy, not a very good shot.
    “Well , long story short, word spread about the boy who tamed the meanest bull who ever lived, so they started calling me Matador. Even my parents. Hell, I thought it was my name until I was about eight. It didn’t hurt that my name was Mattheus; most people preferred calling me Matador over the commie name my old man gave me anyhow. So, there you go, now you know.”
    “Wow , that’s a hell of a story,” I said, trying to unstick my back from the leather seats.
    “So , you ready to meet Preston?” he asked, with a sly grin.
    “Sure, I guess.”
    “Just remember—Preston has a hell of an imagination. He loves to run on at the mouth, so take what he says with a grain of salt,” he said, adjusting his seat.
    A minute or two later , to break the silence, he asked, “Hey, how about some music?”
    “Sounds good,” I answered, ready for a break in the conversation.
    Sweet Home Alabama came on the classic rock station Matador settled on. Almost perfect Where’s “Mississippi Queen” when you need it ? I thought.
    We finally exited the highway onto University Avenue and everything changed.
    “There she is. There’s Ole Miss,” Matador said in a reverent tone.
    The slow drive through the college area displayed leafy walkways and neatly manicured rolling greens with students studying under majestically columned brick and marble buildings. Next was fraternity row, where the equally impressive and columned homes with indecipherable Greek letters adorned the facades along the tree-shaded streets.
    The college gave way to downtown Oxford, which had a small-town feel with mom -and-pop stores lining each side of the street under covered walkways with flowers and vines. All roads led to a town square centered by a massive Romanesque courthouse. At the foot of the marble steps was a large minaret with a confederate soldier on