Incident On A Rainy Night

Dear Sam:

            I don’t know if you’ll ever see this letter, let alone be able to read it.

            You see, I’m writing from the Daisy Hill Funny Farm, a quaint little place that the Fayette County sheriff decided to take me to after I told him about the talking horses.

            Not that I really meant to tell him about them in the first place, it’s just that, well, I had to tell somebody before I went…well, crazy.

            But I guess I’m getting ahead of my story.

            The reason you might not see this letter is because they sorta censor the outgoing mail.  At least that’s what the guy in the padded cell next to me told me, and I guess he knows about such things since, from what I can gather, he’s been here around thirteen years.

            I’m not sure why he’s in here either, although I gather it has something to do with talking to rats.  And I get the idea they consider that the same as talking to horses.  He’s probably an okay guy, though every once in awhile I hear him mumbling something about somebody named Linda, and then I hear this funny noise, almost like something scurrying across the floor.

            Anyway, if you do get this letter, I apologize if it’s a little hard to read, all they give you to write with are crayons, and they aren’t very long in the first place.  I suppose I’ll have to ask for a couple of more before I finish this letter, and hope they’ll give them to me.

            Sam, I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I didn’t know who else to write to.  Ever since Evelyn left me I’ve been pretty much of a loner, you know that, and if you can figure out a way to get me out of this place I swear the first thing I’ll do is pay you back that C-note I borrowed from you the last time we were at River Downs and my horse fell down turning for home.

            I mean, what could I do about it, I didn’t push him or anything.  Everybody makes a mistake, right?

            But I guess I should start at the beginning before I use up this crayon.  And I’m sorry about the color, Sam, but I’m afraid pink fuchsia is all they have here.

            Anyway, it started when I was on my way to Keeneland the night before opening day.  Charlie had given me a couple of hot tips and my bankroll needed some help, so I thought I’d roll in the night before, find a cheap place to get some sack time, and hit the track fresh the next day to pick up some easy cash which, of course, would include the C-note I owe you.  Swear to God, Sam, that was the first thing I was going to do.

            Well, it was raining pretty hard that night, and there was this detour, and the next thing I knew I was getting pretty lost, plus I was pretty exhausted.

            That was when I spotted the bar on the side of the road with a big neon sign that said ‘Sir Archys Place’.

            Now you know me, Sam, I like a little sip of the grape as well as the next guy, so I figured I’d stop in, maybe have a drink or two, and ask about the motels in the area.

            Besides, I kind of liked the name.  Sir Archys Place.  Heck, it sounded to me like some place a guy named Archie Bunker might run.  Maybe a guy who might buy me a drink while we kidded around and shot a little pool on on a slow night, right?

            So anyway I pull the Chevy into the parking lot and walk into this Sir Archys Place.

            Now it was a little dim when I first walked in, the only thing I could make out right away was the bar.  So I groped for a stool, managed to sit down without bumping into anyone who might have already been there, and waited for the bartender to take my order.

            Now with the light being what it was I couldn’t see the bartender too well in the first place, plus I’d left my glasses in the car.  And you know me, Sam, I’m blind as a bat without my glasses.  But even though the bartender was maybe thirty feet away when I sat down, I could tell something was, well, different.

            So when the bartender walked up to where I was sitting, I was expecting something maybe unusual, but I sure wasn’t prepared for what I got.

            This guy, I swear he must have been eight feet tall, walks up and asks me what I want.  And just as I was ordering a bourbon and water, I get a real close look at him and realize he’s a horse!

            That’s right, Sam, a real, live, honest to God horse!

            Well, right away I figure I’ve gone bonkers, right?  I mean, have you ever gone into a bar and thought that your bartender was a horse?  I mean, that’s one too many trips, right?

            But I’ll tell you, Sam, I really tried to be cool about it, I didn’t panic.  Soon as this bartender…er, horse, put the drink in front of me, and once I got up the nerve to ask him for a double bourbon chaser, I came right out and asked him.

            “Aren’t you,” I asked after downing the chaser first, “a horse?”

            “Yeah, that’s right,” he neighed, drying off a couple of glasses.

            “Well,” I laughed, relieved to learn I hadn’t lost my mind, “isn’t it a bit unusual for a horse to be running a bar?  I mean, shouldn’t you be at a racetrack or something like that?  Or at least on a farm making lots of little horses?”

            “Never could do much at the track,” he said dryly, putting away a couple of wine glasses.  “And the farm was out of the question, my owner saw to that when I was three.”

            “Oh,” I commiserated nervously, “I’m sorry to hear that.  Still,” I went on, trying to enliven the conversation, “it’s not every day that a human walks into a bar and finds a horse making drinks.  I mean, I’ve heard all the jokes about how a horse walks into a bar but isn’t this just a bit, well, strange?”

            “Not really,” he yawned.  “Most of the horses come in here anyway, it seemed logical that a horse should run the place.  As a matter of fact,” he added more suspiciously, “we don’t get that many humans in here anymore, most of ‘em go to the Campbell House.  You lost or something?”

            “Well, sort of,” I said almost apologetically.  “I was on my way to Lexington and that detour kind of messed me up.”

            “Yeah,” he snorted, “that’s because of the new bypass they’re building.  There’ll even be an industrial park right about where you probably turned off.  Too bad,” he added, shaking his mane with a touch of sadness.

            “Too bad?”

            “Yeah, used to be a really nice farm there, not too big, but some of the best grass in the area.  I’d kinda hoped I might get to retire there, until…but I don’t suppose there’s any way of stopping you people and your idea of progress.  So that’s when I decided to buy this bar instead, gives me a chance to kill some time, and I still get to see a lot of my old friends who are regulars.”

            “Business is pretty good, huh?”

            “Not too bad, though it’ll slow down when the track opens tomorrow, a lot of my customers will have to go back to work.  Still, I can’t complain.  Course I’ll never have the success like Round Table did when he started that pizza chain but, then, I was never a Horse of the Year, either.”

            Just then two fillies walked in the door and sat down at the far end of the bar.  The bartender walked down to greet them.

            “Hi, Wetryharder,” he whinnied to one of them.  “How’s it going Justonemoretime?” he nodded to the other.  “The usuals?”

            “Yeah,” neighed the one named Wetryharder.  “A vodka grape for me with a dash of bute, and a glass of beer for her with a Lasix chaser.  Say,” she added. Nodding in my direction, “who’s the human?”

            “He’s okay,” the bartender allowed, “got lost taking that detour where Shady Oaks used to be.”

            “Yeah,” sighed Justonemoretime, “I’ll sure miss that place, my trainer used to rest me there every Fall.”

            “You girls working tomorrow?” the bartender asked them.

            “I’ve got a sprint on Thursday,” Wetryharder said, “but my heart won’t be in it.  I’d much rather go for that mile allowance race on Saturday.”

            “Yeah,” interjected Justonemoretime, “you always were better at a distance.  Too bad that trainer of yours thinks the condition book is something to write down exercise girls phone numbers in.  Personally,” she added, staring into her beer glass, “I can’t wait to get to the breeding shed.”

            The front door opened and a nattily haltered young Secretariat colt trotted in, sat down next to the two fillies, and ordered a double V.S.O.P. on the rocks.  “Put it on my tab, willya?” he said to the bartender.

            The bartender snorted something unintelligible, but poured a double cognac and set it in front of the colt.

            “Hi, girls,” the Secretariat colt whinnied to his seatmates.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

            Wetryharder eyed him suspiciously.  “It’s your tab,” she said aloofly, “as long as you don’t get cute.”

            “Who, me?” he whinnied innocently.

            “Yeah, you,” she snorted back.  “You don’t know me, but I heard about what happened when you were in here last week and invited my half-sister over to your stall to watch Seattle Slew videotapes.”

            “Oh, that,” he said meekly, sipping his cognac.  “Well,” he added more defensively, “how was I supposed to know she was only two?”

            “You might have taken the time to ask,” sniffed Justonemoretime.

            The Secretariat colt downed his drink nervously and got up to leave.  “Your problem,” he said to Justonemoretime, “is that you didn’t get here first.”

            Justonemoretime looked over her shoulder as he walked out the door.  “Go trip over a dogleg,” she yelled at him.

            “Damn younger generation,” she muttered after he was gone.  “Think their pedigrees can get them anything they want.”

            “Yeah,” snorted Wetryharder, “especially that one.  And he’s still a maiden…at least on the racetrack.”

            “He’ll be okay,” interjected the bartender.  “Just feeling his oats, that’s all.  Don’t you girls remember when we were three?”

            “Sure,” Wetryharder said.  “I had to go to the post seventeen times just to pay the feed bill.  But if that one doesn’t get a check pretty soon they’ll probably send him to the farm and you’ll be stuck with his tab.”

            Just then a distinguished old gelding walked in and ordered a double scotch on the rocks.  He nodded toward the fillies and took a long sip of his drink.

            “Was that the Secretariat colt I saw leaving?”

            “Yeah,” Justonemoretime said sarcastically, “but he couldn’t stay.  Had to go pick up his Eclipse Award, or something like that.”

            The old gelding nodded with a look of understanding.  “Yeah,” he sighed, shoving his empty glass towards the bartender with a shabby hoof.  “Things aren’t the way they were when I was a colt.  Make that a double this time, willya?”

            “Comin’ up,” the bartender said.  “And you’re right about that,” he continued as he poured a double scotch, “only last night that four year old Wajima was in here telling me that his stable goat had asked for his own stall, and if he didn’t get it he was going to move to another barn.  Can you believe that?”

            The old gelding sighed and looked at his fresh drink.  “When I was a claimer, my goat felt lucky to share some day old hay with me.  Now I hear the stable pets are talking about forming a union and going on strike.  In all my years, I only know of one rooster who even tried anything like that.  And,” he added with a mischievous twinkle, “he kinda disappeared after that.  Somewhere near the Turf Club kitchen, as I recall,” he grinned, downing his drink.

            “Well, these younger horses are just as bad,” piped in Justonemoretime.  “If you think that Secretariat colt is spoiled, you should see my baby sister.  They’d just brought her in from the farm, clipped her and got her looking real spiffy for a yearling sale, but when the groom came to the stall to get her, you never heard such a commotion, she didn’t want to go out because she didn’t have her ‘face on’.  Acted just like a human, for heaven’s sake!

            “Talk about a spoiled generation,” Justonemoretime went on, contemplating a now empty glass.  “It took me three years just to get somebody to braid my mane, and she can’t go out without her Hoofflex.”

            “Well,” the old gelding nodded sagely, “I suppose every new generation is a little more spoiled than the one before.  They see all those black type races and get to thinking it’s easy.  But,” he sighed, “I guess the times do change.”  He stared quietly for a moment at his glass, possibly recalling his own humble beginnings so many years before.

            “But enough of this,” he brightened, finishing his drink.  “You girls want to go out and get some hayburgers?  I promised Riva I’d stop by his new place tonight.”

            “Fine with us,” Justonemoretime neighed.

            The old gelding looked almost paternally towards Wetryharder.  “I hear you’re going in that sprint on Thursday.”

            “Yeah,” she nodded, “what a bummer.”

            “You can do it, you know,” he smiled thoughtfully.

            “That’s easy enough for you to say,” she snorted.  “You were a router, like I am.  Sprintings a little different, you know.”

            “I know,” the old gelding said softly.  “I was there…once.”

            “Oh,” Wetryharder stammered in sudden embarrassment, “I…I forgot.”

            “That’s alright,” he said.  “After all, it was a long time ago.  Anyway, you can win Thursday.”

            “You really think so?” she brightened.

            “Absolutely,” he smiled.  “After all, you still have class.  And doesn’t the heart count more than the distance?”

            Sam, I swear to God I’ve never seen a horse blush before, I didn’t think they could, but I’ll swear to my dying day that the filly actually blushed.  Honest.

            And I remember that old gelding looking at the bartender.  “Okay if I leave my halter here?” he asked.

            “Sure, John,” the bartender said respectfully.  “It’ll be here when you get back.”

            Well, Sam, after that things got a little hazy, I guess maybe the booze got to me, especially since I was so tired.

            Next thing I really remember was the sheriff talking to me, and I was trying to tell him about the horses, and he was saying he’d never heard of Sir Archys Place and, well, the next thing I know I’m in this place.

            They claim I was sitting by the side of the road holding, now get this, an old halter with John Henry’s name on it.  Now isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you ever heard of?  I mean, where in hell would I get any halter in the middle of the night, let alone John Henry’s.  And they think I’m crazy?

            Well, that’s about it, Sam, this crayons about shot, plus it’s almost time for them to turn out the lights.

            Like I said, I sure hope you can do something to get me out of here, and I swear to God I’ll get your C-note for you.

            Finally, if there’s any way you can swing it, I’d like to get out in time for Thursday’s races.  I know it may sound crazy, Sam, but I have the strangest feeling about a sprint for fillies and mares that day.

            Funny thing is, I don’t have the foggiest notion of who’s in the race or who I want to bet on, just a feeling that when I get there I’ll know who the winner will be!

            And I swear to God you’ll get your C-note.

Your Friend,

Joe