By Charles Bukowski

Warming up Blue Mongoose on the backstretch before the last race, Larry Peterson noticed that the horse was really rank, almost spooked. Larry had been riding for 15 years and he knew his horses. This one really had a bug up its ass.

Larry tried to let the horse ease out of it, but at post time things weren’t any better. He rode up to the gate ahead of the other horses and found McKelvey. He told McKelvey, “This fucking beast is unfit. I want him scratched.”

“He looks all right to me,” McKelvey answered. Larry knew that McKelvey was one of those stewards who worried that the money the track lost on a scratch was a serious matter. The money loss was negligible, though, because the fools got their money back and bet it on something else.

Larry dismounted and gave the reins to McKelvey: “Get a feel of this skitterish motherfucker! See if you can hold him on the ground!”

McKelvey was a big fat guy, he grabbed the reins. Blue Mongoose bucked, rolled his head. The horse was in a lather.

“You son of a bitch, calm down!” McKelvey yelled at the horse. He yanked at the reins and swung the horse in a circle, then in another and then another.

“McKelvey, you’re only making him worse!”

McKelvey pulled the horse straight and glared at Peterson: “Nothing wrong with him, Larry! Either you mount up or I’m recommending they ground you five racing days for refusing to ride a fit mount!”

“You’re taking the food out of my mouth, McKelvey!”

“Ride or starve, boy!”

“Shit!”

Larry mounted. The crowd, not knowing anything, applauded. Blue Mongoose was the 8 horse. They had the first seven in. Mongoose wouldn’t enter his stall. Several of the gate men pushed at the horse’s rump until they got him in. The beast was quivering and snorting. When they placed the 9 horse into the stall next to him, that did it—Mongoose spooked, he reared high in the gate and dumped Larry loose and backwards, hard into the dirt. It was some bang but he was still conscious. He moved slowly, getting up. Then he walked around, limping, his right leg throbbing. He was dizzy and he had bitten his tongue.

Larry spit out some blood and there was the fat boy standing there looking at him. Larry said, “McKelvey, you son of a bitch, I hate every part of you!”

McKelvey gave the order and then the announcer came on over the public address system: “Ladies and Gentlemen, by order of the stewards, Blue Mongoose is scratched from this race. Your tickets will be refunded…”

Larry walked off the track and down through the tunnel.

A bad day, one third-place finish and four out of the money and one of them had been a 6 to 5 shot. Larry liked to run on or near the pace. Seemed like his agent never got him any early foot horses anymore.

He got to the the locker room, took off his tack. His valet was gone, the fucker had a hot date with a McDonald’s counter girl…

It was nice under the shower. Lance Griffith was a stall or two down—he’d finished second in the feature race with a 16 to 1 shot and was feeling pretty good.

“Hey, Larry!”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go and get fucked tonight!”

“I’m a married man, Lance—”

“What the hell’s that got to do with it?

I am too!”

“I don’t play it that way—”

“Don’t be a fool, Larry, while we’re riding those horses, our old ladies are riding something else.”

“I don’t look at it that way—”

“You think they sleep with us because we scale in at a hundred fourteen? You’ve got some learning coming your way, man.”

“Listen, I just got thrown by my last mount. I don’t want to listen to a lot of shit.”

“Okay, Larry, okay.”

The right leg had stiffened, and driving in was painful.

Goddamn McKelvey, worried about the track take. That track would be there long after all of them were gone.

He pulled into the drive, got it into the garage, went up the steps to the door, opened it and Karina was on the telephone, all lovely six feet of her. Larry was like most of the other jocks: he liked tall women. Long hair. Class. College education.

“Reena, baby,” he said.

Karina glanced at Larry, waved an arm, mostly to motion him off. She was heavy into the phone.

“Yeah, mom, well, listen…you should take better care of yourself… You need more friends… Oh, I can tell when you’re down… I know your voice intonations… Listen, when are you coming to visit us? Everything’s lovely here… The trees are bearing fruit: tangerines, oranges, lemons… Larry and I love your company!… What? Oh, don’t be foolish! I mean it! Look, here’s Larry!”

Karina glanced at him, forcefully, said in a quiet voice: “Say hello to mama!”

Larry took the phone. “Hello, Stella… How you doing?… That’s good… Oh, I just got in… What? Oh, I’ve been riding… No, no winners today… Tomorrow maybe… Yes, oh, yes, it’s warm out here… Well, look, you be good now… Here’s Karina…”

He handed the phone to his wife. Then he walked across the room and up the stairway. He went into the bathroom and let the hot water run into the tub. The leg was really getting stiff.

Larry walked to the bedroom, took off his shoes and stockings. Then, sitting on the bed, he tried to get out of his pants. The right leg had stiffened. The pain was immense. He could hardly get his pants off. Struggling with it all, he laughed. It was so ridiculous. Then he had the pants off.

The undershirt and shorts were easier. He managed to get up. He took a few steps. The leg held up. He moved toward the bathroom. He got in there, bent over the tub, ran in some cold water and mixed it into the hot with his hand. As he was bent over the tub like that, Karina walked in.

“I think you were a little offhand with mom—”

“Reena, I didn’t mean to be. I just couldn’t think of anything to say—”

“You couldn’t? Well, you could try a little harder. Mother has feelings just like anybody else! That woman has been through a lot, she’s a brave and a wonderful woman.”

Larry stood up, looked at the bathroom wall behind the tub.

“Kid, I’m sure she is—”

“You really don’t mean that, you’re just saying that—”

“Well, hell, I don’t really know your mother.”

Larry managed to climb into the tub. The water seemed about right. He eased himself into the water. That hot water was so good on the leg…

“Well, you should make an effort to know her.”

Karina stood over him, so tall there, staring down at him. All that body. Those graceful legs. Some filly. And she knew how to dress. Style, class. Grooming.

That long hair. Red mixed with gold. And natural. Those green deep eyes. Those eyes that could laugh. And those perfect teeth. Nice nose, nice chin. Neck a bit long. But a good mind. And she knew how to dress. She had on his favorite, the dark blue dress that fit just right.

“I said, ‘You should make an effort to know her’!”

“Reena, I’m really beat—”

“Thinking of yourself. Always thinking of yourself, your goddamned self!”

“Goddamned self?”

“Don’t you think there’s anybody else around? Just you, the great jockey? And lately, the not-so-great jockey!”

“Reena, are you about to have your period?”

“No, are you? Are you about to have your period?”

Karina leaned over the tub, her hands resting on the edge, her gold red hair swirling down.

“Listen, babe, I’m sorry if—”

“Don’t babe me!”

Larry decided to give it up. There was nothing to say. Words would just lead to more ugliness.

Just peeking a bit he saw her smile and he thought, ah, it’s going to get better, the whole thing was some kind of joke.

But it wasn’t that kind of smile.

And then it left. And then he heard her again.

“So, now you’re withdrawing! You don’t want to talk to me!”

Larry splashed some water up under his chin, feeling quite foolish as he did so.

“Look, Reena, let’s forget everything and start all over. Let’s have a drink and ease off. Things aren’t that bad—”

Karina leaned closer. “A drink? A drink, a drink, a drink, a drink. A little drink…That solves everything, doesn’t it?”

“It helps-“

“Can’t you face anything without a drink?”

He knew what she wanted to hear and so he said it: “No.”

Karina reached angrily into the water and splashed a handful into his face: “You asshole! You idiot asshole!”

Her tears were coming. He felt ill in his stomach. He wanted to be anywhere but there. He wanted to be in jail, he wanted to be on skid row, he wanted to be lost in a desert, he wanted to be sucked away by quicksand.

“Just leave me alone,” he said.

Karina leaned closer. She no longer seemed as beautiful. “Leave you alone? Leave you alone? What for? So you can diddle with yourself? So you can play with yourself?”

“Yeah,” said Larry, “that. Let me have that—”

“Oh, oh…my God, that I’d have to end up with this!”

Larry looked at her: “I beg you, just get out of here and leave me alone!”

“Why did I have to marry a miniature man,” she began, “I could have—” and then a flash of roaring red fell upon him, and then darkness, and he grabbed her by the hair and then by the neck and pulled her into the tub with him.

There was the crash and splash of legs, elbows, dress, and she was in there. He was big enough to handle her, and he worked over on top of her as she kicked and flailed—he was used to handling 2,000 pounds of wild meat or whatever the hell those fuckers weighed. He felt his fingers digging into her mouth, her nostrils, against her forehead, and he pushed down hard, hard, and the head went under and he held it there, he held it down there, thinking, she’s silent now, but he couldn’t do it, he let her up, he got out of the tub, ashamed. He grabbed a towel, and put it about himself as Karina just sat there in the tub in her dark blue dress and put both of her hands up to her face and just sat there like that.

Larry felt horrible, demented, more than evil.

He walked into the bedroom, got into a robe. He sat in a chair by the bedroom window. Evening had gone into night. To the east he could see the lights of the city, they looked very peaceful.

Then he heard Karina getting out of the tub. It made a splashing sound. She coughed.

Then he heard her walking. He heard the water dripping as she walked. He felt her walking up behind him. He waited and looked at the lights of the city.

This article was originally published in the July 1983 issue of High Times Magazine.

The post The Jockey, A Short Story by Charles Bukowski first appeared on High Times.

The post The Jockey, A Short Story by Charles Bukowski appeared first on Paradise Found.

Harry walked down the steps and into the garden. Many of the patients were out there. He had been told that his wife, Gloria, was out there. He saw her sitting alone at a table. He approached her obliquely, from the side and a bit from the rear. He circled the table and sat down across from her. Gloria sat very straight, she was very pale. She looked at him but didn’t see him. Then she saw him.

“Are you the conductor?” she asked.

“The conductor of what?”

“The conductor of verisimilitude?”

“No, I’m not.”

She was pale, her eyes were pale, pale brown.

“How do you feel, Gloria?”

It was an iron table, painted white, a table that would last for centuries. There was a small bowl of flowers in the center, wilted dead flowers hanging from sad, dangling stems.

“You are a whore-fucker, Harry. You fuck whores.”

“That’s not true, Gloria.”

“Do they suck you too? Do they suck your dick?”

“I was going to bring your mother, Gloria, but she was down with the flu.”

“That old bat is always down with something. Are you the conductor?”

The other patients sat down at the tables or up against the trees or they stretched out on the lawn. They were motionless and silent.

“How’s the food here, Gloria? Do you have any friends?”

“Bad. And no. Whore-fucker.”

“Do you want anything to read? What can I bring you to read?”

Gloria didn’t answer. Then she brought her right hand up, looked at it, curled it into a fist and punched herself in the nose, hard. Harry reached across and held both of her hands. “Gloria, please—”

She began to cry, “Why didn’t you bring me any chocolates?”

“Gloria, you told me you hated chocolates.”

Her tears rolled down profusely. “I don’t hate chocolates! I love chocolates!”

“Don’t cry, Gloria, please. I’ll bring you chocolates, anything you want. Listen, I’ve rented a motel room just a couple of blocks away, just to be near you—”

Her pale eyes widened. “A motel room? You’re in there with some fucking whore! You watch X-rated movies together, there’s a full-length mirror on the ceiling!”

“I’ll be right near you for a couple of days, Gloria, so I want to bring you everything you need—”

“Bring me your love, then,” she screamed. “Why the hell don’t you bring me your love?”

A few of the patients turned and looked.

“Gloria, I’m sure that there is nobody who cares for you more than I do.”

“You want to bring chocolates! Well, jam those chocolates up your ass!”

Harry took a card out of his wallet. It was from the motel. He handed it to her.

“I just want to give you this before I forget. Are you allowed to phone out? Just phone me if you need anything at all.”

Gloria didn’t answer. She took the card and folded it into a small square. Then she bent down, took off one of her shoes, put the card in the shoe and put the shoe back on.

Then Harry saw Dr. Jensen approaching from across the lawn. Dr. Jensen walked up smiling and saying, “Well, well, well…”

“Hello, Dr. Jensen,” Gloria spoke.

“May I sit down?” the doctor asked.

“Surely,” said Gloria.

The doctor was a heavy man, he reeked of weight and authority. His eyebrows looked thick and heavy, they were thick and heavy. They wanted to fall into his wet circular mouth and vanish but life wouldn’t let them.

The doctor looked at Gloria. The doctor looked at Harry. “Well, well, well,” he said, “I’m really pleased with the progress we’ve made—”

“Yes, Dr. Jensen, I was just telling Harry how much more stable I felt, how much the consultations and the group sessions have helped. I’ve lost so much of my unreasonable anger, useless frustrations and much of my destructive self-pity—”

The doctor smiled at Harry. “Gloria has made a remarkable recovery!”

“Yes,” Harry said, “I’ve just noticed.”

“I think it will only be a matter of a little more time, and then Gloria will be home with you again, Harry—”

“Doctor?” Gloria asked. “May I have a cigarette?”

“Why, of course,” the doctor said, pulling out a pack of exotic cigarettes and tapping one out. Gloria took it and the doctor extended his gold-plated lighter, flicked it to flame. Gloria got her light, inhaled, exhaled…

“You have beautiful hands, Dr. Jensen,” she said.

“Why, thank you, my dear—”

“And a mind that saves, a mind that cures—”

“Well, we do the best we can around the old place… Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have to check out a few other patients.”

He got his bulk up from the chair and made toward a table where a woman was visiting a man.

Gloria stared at Harry. “That fat fuck eats nurses’ shit for lunch.”

“Gloria, it’s been good seeing you, but it was a long drive and I need some rest. And I think the doctor’s correct, I’ve noticed some progress.”

She laughed. But it wasn’t a joyful laugh, it was a stage laugh, like a part memorized. “I haven’t made any progress at all. In fact, I’ve retrograded… immensely.”

“That’s not true, Gloria—”

“I’m the patient, Fishhead. I can make a better diagnosis than anybody.”

“What’s this ‘Fishhead’?”

“Hasn’t anybody ever told you that you have a head like a fish?”

“No.”

“Next time you shave, take a look. And be careful not to cut your gills off.”

“I’m going to leave now, but I’ll visit you again, quite soon.”

“Next time bring the conductor.”

“You sure I can’t bring you something?”

“You’re just going to that motel room to fuck some whore.”

“Suppose I bring you a copy of New York? You used to like that magazine—”

“Jam New York up your ass, Fishhead! And follow it with Time!”

Harry reached across and squeezed the hand she had hit herself in the nose with. “Keep it together, you’re going to be well soon.”

Gloria gave no response. Harry got up, turned and walked toward the stairway. When he got halfway up the stairs he turned and gave Gloria a little wave. She sat, motionless.

_________________

They were in the dark, going good, when the phone rang.

Harry kept going but the phone kept going. It was very disturbing. Soon, his cock went down.

“Shit,” he said and rolled off. He switched on the lamp and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

It was Gloria. “You were fucking some whore!”

“Gloria, do they let you phone this late? Don’t they give you a sleeping pill?”

“What took you so long in answering the phone?”

“Don’t you ever take a crap? I was in the middle of a good one, you got me in the middle of a good one.”

“I’ll bet I did. You going to finish after you get me off the phone?”

”Gloria, it’s your goddamned extreme paranoia that has gotten you where you are.”

“Fishhead, my paranoia is often the forerunner of an approaching truth—”

“Listen, get yourself some sleep. I’ll come see you tomorrow—”

“Okay, Fishhead, finish your fuck!”

Gloria hung up.

Nan was in her dressing gown, sitting on the edge of the bed with a whiskey and water on the night table. She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs.

“Well,” she asked, “how’s the little wifey?”

Harry poured a drink and sat down beside her.

“I’m sorry, Nan—”

“Sorry for what, for who? For her or me or what?”

Harry drained his shot of whiskey. “Let’s not make a goddamned soap opera out of this thing.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, what do you want to make out of it? A roll in the hay? You want to try to finish? Or would you rather go into the bathroom and beat it off?”

Harry looked at Nan. “Goddamn it, don’t get smart-ass! You knew my situation as well as I did. You were the one who wanted to come along!”

“That’s because I thought if you didn’t take me you’d bring some whore!”

“Oh, shit,” said Harry, “there’s that word again.”

”What word? What word?” Nan drained her glass, threw it against the wall.

Harry walked over, picked up her glass, filled it, handed it to Nan, then filled his own.

Nan looked down into her glass, took a hit, put it down on the nightstand. “I’m going to phone her, I’m going to tell her everything!”

“Like hell you will! That’s a sick woman!”

“And you’re a sick son of a bitch!”

Just then the phone rang again. It was in the center of the room where Harry had left it. They both leaped from the bed and charged toward the phone. On the third ring they both landed, each holding a piece of the receiver. They rolled, breathing heavily, all legs and arms and bodies in desperate juxtaposition, being reflected in the full-length overhead mirror. 

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