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.