A Buck and a Mucker
Nicholas Diodato
The pink floral tiles were always covered in a thick layer of dirt, and my left leg twitched. I clocked in. My bike was just out back, getting sand blown into the gears. I walked out with my shabby rake to where the stables stood as little homes for large dogs. A cat named Marsha rubbed against my leg, and I started work.
Talk over the radio made me paranoid. I never felt like I was doing a good job, but God, the quiet was a saving grace. Parents were happy I was out of the house, getting more than 2.50 an hour, and wearing overalls and dirty boots. Out of the way and out of sight.
The urine always got to me. Tears fell out my eyes, and my nostrils burned. At one point I was stuck in this dark stable and had to rake up this red piss puddle from a small dingy corner by the horse’s food supply. My boss started to yell at me over the radio and I felt dead.
The best part of the job was lunch. Eight-hour shifts, interrupted by salamander sandwiches, sour kraut, lean beef, cheap candy, and soda pop cans. Wind blew, horses flew through fields, and my boss would hide in his office. A discounted slice of heaven, and it only came for thirty minutes. One time, though, my lunch was ruined.
This blonde chick rented a stable for this rich big black horse. She had shabby skin and was in her early twenties, but her hair was as soft as pillow feathers. All the outfits she wore were hot. Whenever she came to the stables, she would never shut up, she had a fear of silence.
She didn’t deserve that horse.
It was a hurling, subdue beast. It never looked anyone in the eye. He would munch on food and water in seconds, yet its ribcage was always so visible. Marsha the cat was never allowed around stables, but she always popped by his.
Lunch.
Blondie was out by the horse track, dragging the horse to her motorcoach. He kept pulling away, but she threw him to follow. She slashed his neck with a crop, but he didn’t move.
That large trailer attached to her new black truck was god-awful to look at. Shit smeared and dead leaves, everywhere.
“What are you lookin’ at?”
I didn’t respond, went back to my sandwich. Gulped down my spinach.
Her crop clapped against the horse’s body. She swore up and down and spat on him.
“YOU NEVA FUCKIN’ LISTEN TO ME!”
From the corner of my eye, she turned to me.
“WHY DON’T YOU HELP?”
I’m gonna die.
She walked to me with a whip in hand.
She handed it over.
“Beat his ass, I don’t care.”
My legs got weak. My lips dry. Wind blew and my sandwich fell to the ground. Standing up, I nearly tripped. Blondie looked at me with a fire burning inside. Back-to-back, we stared at each other for a bit.
“Are you gun’ do anythin’?”
My feet slapped the sand around. I held the whip up; the horse stared back at me. He exhaled and followed me right into the motorcoach. Never needed to hit the guy or anything.
That blondie stared right at me, and a straight exhale escaped her nose. She got in her car and drove off, and her horse tripped over.
Clocking out.
I went to my boss’s office and asked him about the blonde lady. He ignored me, hiding behind his desk and counting dollar bills.
The dust swirled off my bike. The clouds were low, a ceiling over a broken home. Wind blew and I pressed against the pedals.
Nicholas Diodato is a Rutgers New Brunswick Honors College student, pursuing a Filmmaking BFA at Mason Gross School of the Arts. He is a part of the class of 2027, and is from Shamong, New Jersey. He is also a passionate filmmaker.