Sweet Victory

It wasn't funny anymore. All their snide remarks about my limp had worn thin and I couldn't find an ounce of humor in what my coworkers considered harmless fun. Granted, I said nothing when the subtle digs began during their first week on the job, but now, three months later, the gag was still going strong. Perhaps my quiet demeanor signaled I was a willing target, or my smile a consenting nod for their acrid jokes. Enough was enough and I should have blasted my tormentors the first time the word gimp was flung in my face.

Grooms Zack and Tully leaned against the railing of the open-air barn, pointing and laughing as they smoked their cigarettes. I plodded through the deep sand of the walking ring, which emphasized my ailment even more, and I felt as though I was parading naked before them. At times I thought I spotted the makings of a good horsemen in these novices, but my attempts to instruct them were met with shrugging shoulders and a “Who cares?” attitude. So I stopped offering years of knowledge to this indifferent audience and reasoned it was better to keep silent. The slow meticulous process by which I had learned my craft did not apply to these fools; their philosophy was to do the work without much effort, get paid, then bolt out the door to bet the Daily Double. The boss' much too liberal nature made it easy for them to oil their way into his confidences, which made the rest of us on the shed wonder how he ever got to train forty plus head of horses in the first place. Damn, if only he hadn't told me to cool out Victory for Rome after a late morning gallop, my work would have been finished and I'd be back in the solitude of my dormitory room finishing that paperback I picked up at the bodega.

No one had made me so conscious of my awkward gait before. In this line of work, furious kicks received from startled thoroughbreds eventually take their toll on a body, not to mention a seven-day work-week with the occasional Sunday off. This leg of mine had endured much, but then I knew what I was getting into back in ’73 when I announced to astonished family and friends that I had chosen the racetrack over college. I hung around the stable gate hoping trainers driving onto the grounds would stop and say they had work for me. All through the summer and autumn, disinterested eyes either stared straight ahead or gazed with vulgar intent. I countered the offers that had nothing to do with equine care with a polite "Not me" and resumed my vigil on the steps outside the Pinkertons’ office. If no job surfaced by the end of the year, I promised myself I would hop any van heading south and check out the Ocala horse farms. Thankfully, someone spared me an uncomfortable ride down I-95.

"Hey!" A male voice shattered that quiet Christmas dawn. "Know how to handle a pitchfork?"

I sprinted through the piles of snow, though slipped on an ice patch which landed me at the feet of a small, rather scraggly individual with bits of hay and straw dust clinging to his coat. The man peered at me through grimy spectacles as I rose to my feet unassisted.

"I worked at a riding academy during high school.” My reply came off sounding like a shameless boast.

"Well, I'm running a racing stable, not a riding academy,” he snapped. “Or at least I’m trying to. Say, you aren’t one of them women libbers? Because if you are, I can’t use you.”

His manner, as well as his appearance, put me off and I turned to leave.

"Look, I’m sorry,” he said, removing his cap which revealed a mass of matted, gray curls. “I hoped to spend Christmas with the family, but I got a shed full of horses and no help. You got a job, if you want.”

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Come on, we've got a lot of mucking out to do."

He walked into the barn and I followed without any further questions or qualms, all those arduous, precious years ago.

“Hey, mama!” Tully shouted as I stopped to catch my breath. “Need some crutches?”

“That won't help,” Zack added. “More likely she could use one of those electric wheelchairs to buzz around in. Just tie the horse to it and she’s got it made.”

I ignored the remarks and quickened my pace, hoping somehow that would miraculously make my limp invisible. This brilliant maneuver only increased the agony in my knee and forced me to halt again, but Victory for Rome grew impatient with the inactivity and rubbed his head hard against my jacket. He pranced a few steps ahead of me on the shank, then eyed me as if to say, “Well, are you coming?” I whispered a tired “All right, Vic” and continued our walk.

Zack hobbled about, imitating my malady as his friend hooted and cackled with inane glee. God help me, I still had ten minutes left before I could return the horse to his stall and hightail it away from this place. I fought the impulse to launch a verbal assault, since screaming like a fishwife would be unwise alongside such a fractious and expensive two-year old. So I made mental notes of the choice expletives I would hurl at them later, away from the workplace, and imagined their pea brains unable to handle my merciless offense. But these were fanciful images never meant for reality, for I knew too well, the coward in me had grown deep, comfortable roots.

A warm breeze stirred the leaves of the palms towering over the barn as an aphotic hue enveloped the sky. At first, soft droplets fell, but while hurrying the colt toward the stable, the drizzle had become a downpour. The fronds of the palmetto trees crackled harshly from the pummeling rain, making Victory for Rome buck and neigh as we darted into the stable. I tried to calm his agitation with reassuring pats on his shoulder, but my own uneasiness heightened upon seeing my antagonists waiting ahead with toothy grins. Our boss had apparently slipped away to the backstretch kitchen before the cloudburst and was undoubtedly enjoying a cup of coffee while the Florida heavens battered the area. I would prefer a soaking in the deluge than being stuck indoors with Tully and Zack, but the storm had already turned the walking ring into a mud pool.

The heavy rain failed to alleviate the humidity. With one hand free and the other on the shank, I struggled to remove my jacket, but the wet material clung to my skin. I cursed myself for the difficulty I was having with what should have been a simple task. Impatient Victory for Rome pounded the dirt with his hoof.

Zack approached. “Let me help, old girl” he said and tugged at the obstinate sleeve.

I numbly complied despite the warning bells clamoring in my head. He threw the jacket aside and clamped his hand on my shoulder.

“What’s your hurry?” Tully chimed in. “Hell, lame or old, doesn’t make any difference to us.”

“I . . . I have to finish,” I replied, my words barely audible.

Zack's fingers dug into my skin. “Time ain’t been very good to you, gimp," he laughed. "Maybe you could use some action. A little bit on the side . . . who’s to know?”

I snapped out of my daze and shook free of his grip. The colt lurched forward, dragging me with him. Despite the jolt to my leg, I was grateful for the almost intuitive move my companion had made. His massive strides lengthened and quickened to a frantic clip as we made our way toward the corner of the barn. My efforts to slow him went unheeded. He snorted and danced about sideways, delighting in the fact that he was in complete control now. Blackness had descended across the backstretch as gusts of wind tore through the shed, along with a churning invasion of broken branches and trash. My trembling pleas to stop became lost amidst the tumult. Dust and debris clouded my vision. Even in his frenzied state, I had to rely on Victory for Rome to guide my steps. My hands ached from hanging onto the lead, my legs buckled from exhaustion, yet we had made it to the other side of the barn. The horse abruptly stopped when two figures emerged from the shadows. I fell against his pulsating body and struggled for breath.

I gasped, “When the boss finds out—“

“Nothing,” Tully interrupted. “He won't find out nothing."

He reached for the shank, but I let it drop to the ground. As Zack went to retrieve it, the horse reared and came down on his arm, the sharp hooves ripping a deep gash in his skin.

“Damn!” he cried, trying to stop the bleeding with his bandanna. “I’ll kill that no-count piece of shit!”

Victory for Rome's nostrils flared, savoring the scent of the damage he had inflicted. My body shook uncontrollably as I steered the horse past the men. By now, Tully’s whining had taken on histrionic proportions. His associate propped him against the wall, then rushed toward me.

"It's not finished!" Zack shouted, striking me in the back with his fist.

Victory for Rome released a piercing squeal and with teeth bared, lunged at my assailant who toppled back into a row of stacked hay. The colt circled about as I clung to the end of the shank. He was a wild, primitive thing, bucking and rearing, clearly relishing every moment of this unrestrained behavior. In spite of my feeble efforts to settle him, I admired his spirit, applauded his dance of freedom---he was magnificent.

Zack struggled to regain his footing. With pinpoint accuracy, the colt let loose one swift kick which connected with the groom's leg. I heard the sharp crack, heard the guttural moans from the crumpled body on the ground and felt no remorse. Perhaps I would be calling him gimp now. As far as I was concerned, those two lowlifes were victims of their own misconduct.

The horse ceased his tirade. Once again docile, he nudged me to move on. The rain and winds slowly subsided. I led my comrade to his stall, made sure he had settled in, then phoned security from the boss' office. I bolted the door and waited. Something I had been reading the previous night popped into my head.

'All sorts of things occur to help one that never otherwise would have occurred.'

Not sure if it was Goethe. When I’d get back to my room, I’d have to find that page again.