I spend Friday night celebrating the big promotion in my future. It’s not every night I pop open a fresh bottle of lederbalsam and recondition my favorite Hermes saddle. Margaret Fletcher, Director of Operations. Has a nice ring to it, right?
So one can imagine my surprise when Dr. No Imagination calls me Monday morning to tell me to NEVER SET FOOT IN HIS OFFICE AGAIN!
I guess Sam feels bad about his role in this debacle (none of which would have happened if he hadn’t insisted on prattling on about his old glory days galloping) and he drops by my apartment to return my wool coolers. He smells the lederbalsam fumes, takes one good look around and says, “Kid, you sure got a lot of plastic horses crammed into this tiny apartment. And what’s that smell? Saddle soap and boot polish?”
I open a window and gently fan the fumes while Sam runs off at the mouth. “I don’t know how you cleared ten metal filing cabinets filled with twenty five years of paperwork out of that office in three days. That was a dumb move. But it took a lot of strength and determination. I may have underestimated you.”
The blast of fresh air pouring in from the window slaps me across the face like a cold, hard dose of reality. I’m broke, unemployed and I live in a tiny apartment filled with at least five hundred Breyer Horses. Twenty-two years of poise flies out the window and I turn into a blubbering puddle of pathetic. For the first time since this whole mess with Daddy’s money started, Margaret Fletcher has a good cry.
Sam is not exactly the “touchy-feely” type. But he sits down beside me, swings his arm around my shoulder and gives me exactly the kind of advice a girl in my situation needs to hear. “I can see just by looking around this apartment that you have a passion for horses. So, if you want to be happy, you’re going to have to find a way to be around them.”
Ya think? Of course being around horses makes me happy. But I remind Sam that horses cost money and Margaret Fletcher doesn’t have any.
“No, they don’t cost money. Not if you’re willing to put your life in their hands at forty miles an hour,” Sam says with a twinkle in his eye. He tells me his boss is always looking for gutsy kids to gallop the young racehorses on the farm. Gallop Girls. The job doesn’t pay much. But as Sam says, “Beggars can’t be choosers. Take the opportunity and quit your whining.”
Galloping racehorses is not something that I ever imagined would be a part of my equestrian story. But in the arms of a cranky old man and lost in a puddle of tears, the idea doesn’t sound crazy. It actually sounds perfect. Who cares what the job pays? I would be on a horse again, with the wind on my cheeks and a hairnet wrapped around my head. I thank Sam profusely and promise I won’t let him down.
Margaret Fletcher is going to gallop racehorses and show the world that there’s a lot more to this dethroned Hunter Princess than meets the eye!
THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE UP, HUNG OVER FROM THE POLISH FUMES, the details of last night still fuzzy in my head. Did I really agree to gallop racehorses?
Suddenly, it all comes flooding back: losing my job, crying on the couch to Sam, agreeing to have lunch with my mother!
In the old days, having lunch with mother meant shrimp salad at the club. If I was lucky, Daddy would be playing golf with clients and I might get a glimpse of him for dessert. Nowadays? Mom makes gluten-free cucumber sandwiches in the kitchenette of my parent’s two-bedroom condo, while Dad practices yoga in the living room.
Today, Daddy is nowhere to be seen. He’s out with a client. I’m momentarily excited by the prospect of him returning to work and making us rich again. But Mother explains that Daddy’s “client” is an elderly woman at the local nursing home who lacks the presence of mind to turn down a free yoga lesson performed by a has-been investment banker with no business encouraging anyone’s body into any unnatural shapes. Come to think of it, Gallop Girl sounds like a much saner gig than pro bono yoga instructor. Mother may just take this news better than I am anticipating.
But before I can finish, she starts screaming, “Gallop racehorses! No, Margaret! No! No! No!” Unfazed by the over-the-top outburst I’ve grown to expect from Mother, I remind her that I am not asking for permission. She tells me that’s a good thing, “Because there is no way in hell I would ever give it to you!” Mother and I are once again stuck at an impasse.
Sitting in our familiar cold stony silence, I can feel the frustration radiate off her stiff, unmoving, cosmetically-enhanced features as they refuse (try as she might) to form a disapproving frown. When she tells me that my father is not going to approve of this, I can’t help but wonder what suddenly makes her an expert on the things Daddy will or won’t approve of. That marriage of theirs has been on the rocks ever since the Fletcher clan went belly up. Honestly, I think the only reason she hasn’t left him is because he’s someone to split the rent with. Mother is not cut out for this lower-middle – (oh let’s be honest, lower) — class lifestyle that Daddy’s forced her into. And I can feel the resentment percolating in her boney body every time they share a room.
I’m not exactly thrilled with our financial status, either. But I am beginning to see one positive in this otherwise completely crummy situation. For the first time in my entire adult life, I’ve got a Daddy that’s available. Available to give me advice, encouragement and love whenever the mood strikes me. After years of being parented by a crazy woman with a cocktail, I look forward to developing a deeper relationship with the more stable side of my genetic make-up. It feels good to know that even though my new Zen Daddy can’t support my love of horses financially, he might be up for supporting me spiritually.
I tell Mother that Daddy says I need to go out and grab life by the horns before the man has a chance to snatch it away from me. She snorts in derision and says, “Your father traded handmade custom Italian suits for sweatpants made of marijuana. Maybe he’s not a good candidate for career advice right now.” (She does have a point there. That doesn’t mean he can’t be there for me emotionally. Give me a pep talk when I’m feeling insecure or a hug after a hard day at work.) But the second I suggest that Daddy might take an interest in my new profession, Mother squares her jaw and looks at me with the kind of determination she usually reserves for a really good sample sale. A cold chill runs down my spine as she issues the warning, “Margaret, I forbid you from even mentioning this ridiculous idea of yours to your father. EVER!”
Try as she might, Mother doesn’t always have the power to terrify. Growing up, I endured all kinds of grave warnings about what a youth spent riding in the sun will do to my skin or how my chances of finding a good man would be over if, God forbid, I end up bowlegged. Usually, Mother’s warnings fail to register a blip on my radar. But there is something about the look in her eyes just now that gives me pause. The longer I stay quiet, the deeper the panic appears to grow on her otherwise-frozen face.
Before I have a chance to light one of Daddy’s hemp sweatshirts on fire in hopes that the medicinal fumes might calm Mother down, she screams, “Margaret, you CANNOT tell your father that you are hanging out at racetracks like some kind of degenerate! He is under a lot of stress right now. He’s fragile and I’m not sure our lives can handle ONE MORE CRACK!”
Before Mother has a chance to lay on any more guilt, Daddy walks in the front door, skin radiating with tranquility and spiritual enlightenment.
“Namaste, Cookie,” he says, as if “Cookie” is a totally reasonable thing to call one’s adult daughter or “Namaste” is a normal greeting for someone who used to handle the finances of millionaires. “Cookie, you seem a little stressed.”
I assure him that I’m fine. But he insists that I’m not, and then starts talking a whole lot of garbage about the color of my aura. Learning how to interact with the new and improved Zen Daddy has had its fair share of awkward moments. This is a new one and I have no idea how to proceed.
Mother takes one look at my perplexed face and springs into action. “Oh, don’t worry about Margaret, Snuffles. Why don’t I make you one of those kale smoothies you like so muc
h?”
I can’t help but notice that Mother lowers her voice a few octaves and takes care not to make any sudden movements around Daddy. Seeing him in the harsh fluorescent kitchenette lighting and witnessing the preadolescent-like glee with which he accepts his new nickname “Snuffles”, I realize that she’s right. He’s fragile now. I do my best to mimic my mother’s calm demeanor before grabbing a couple gluten-free cucumber sandwiches and quietly slipping out. Maybe I will keep my unconventional news to myself. At least for a little while.
To be honest, the thought of galloping young thoroughbreds crushes my Zen, too. Am I really ready to fly around a track at a hundred miles an hour, dirt pelting me in the face, while a nervous trickle of urine soils my breeches? I KNOW I’m a good rider. But am I good enough to pilot a two year old heat-seeking missile that nobody bothered to install brakes on? The sad truth is, being the first girl to wear a hot pink jacket lining is the closest thing to real bravery one might encounter in the Hunter Princess world. But it has been years since I could claim that safe haven of high-end riding apparel as my own.
Bottom line: I can spend my life stuck in the past like my delusional mother or I can stop complaining and start doing.
Who knows, my aura might appreciate the facelift.
FROM A DISTANCE, WINNING EDGE FARMS LOOKS LIKE A REPUTABLE ESTABLISHMENT. I see riders galloping on a well-groomed training track and nobody appears to be in immediate danger.
I have always believed that there is nothing more elegant than the sight of horse and rider moving together as one. But elegant isn’t an adjective I would use to describe the riders at Winning Edge. I can’t tell if these ruffians are men or women. What is up with all the boxy jeans and unflattering T-shirts? I have NEVER felt out of place in my Tailored Sportsmen breeches. But if one more androgynous humanoid gives me the stink-eye, I might regret ironing that crease down the center of my pant legs.
Oh dear. This one appears to be headed straight for me. I suppose I have some spare change on me somewhere. I fumble in my pockets. Nope.
S/he calls out, “You must be Margaret.”
And you must be… a boy? A girl? A character from a community theater production of Oliver Twist?
Undeterred by my quizzical expression, she (I’m going to go with girl for now; I’m pretty sure those are breasts under that baggy T-shirt) gestures wildly and says, “Follow me.”
Before I know what has hit me, I’m standing in the cramped living quarters of a dingy horse trailer with my Tailored Sportsmans down around my ankles. I’m really hoping I got my gender identification right. I get one more sample of her voice as she informs me that, “People around here don’t wear breeches. It’s not a show barn.” Yep, that’s definitely feminine. Good thing. Getting molested by a male stranger in a substandard horse trailer is not how I want to start my Gallop Girl career.
I notice an inflatable mattress and rusted hotplate on the floor. Wait. Somebody actually lives here? The philanthropist in me wants to investigate this human tragedy further. But I’m suddenly distracted by the sensation of… maxi pads being taped to the inside of my shins? Maxi pads with wings and little butterflies embossed on the squishy part?!!! My shapeless little companion tells me, “The Boss has six horses for you to work today. Believe me, there’s nothing worse than rubbing yourself raw with three more horses to go. On the off chance you decide to stick around, you’ll want to buy a pair of leggings.”
I reluctantly accept a baggy pair of jeans, a stained shirt and something resembling a Kevlar vest. Can you believe this woman has the nerve to toss my freshly polished field boots aside without even inquiring if I have boot trees? She tells me that they’re pretty, but fine leather like French baby calf won’t last a week in these parts. She offers me a crusty, cracked, smelly pair of paddock boots, as if that’s an acceptable solution to the problem of excessive wear and tear on one’s boots. I feel totally violated.
But it’s not until she has the nerve to reach for my hairnet that I lose my cool. I don’t know what comes over me. Without warning, I haul off and clock that grabby little trailer hermit square in the jaw before she has a chance to misplace a hair on my well-coiffed head.
I have never before put fist to flesh. Margaret Fletcher is not the kind of girl who gets tangled up in a bar fight. My knuckles sting and my opponent doesn’t appear weakened by my effort. In retrospect, I regret the outburst. Now I can only hope that Oliver Twist doesn’t try to hit me back. But she just stands there and quietly mutters, “Wow.”
I retrieve the belt from my Tailoreds, tuck my T-shirt into the waistband and break the stunned silence with a politely extended hand, “I apologize. I’m Margaret Fletcher. It’s nice to meet you.”
The startled look remains frozen on her face. She refuses to take my hand. “Did you just punch me in the face?” There is no avoiding the truth. We both know what I did. I do my best to look submissively apologetic as I regretfully nod my head.
My host takes another pause to digest the last three minutes of her life before cautiously extending her hand. “Emily Morris. I’ll be honest. I was kind of expecting you to be an over-privileged joke with no hope of making it past your first fifteen minutes of trying to be a Gallop Girl. But anyone willing to defend herself like that, no matter how crappy the punch, has a slim chance of fitting in here.”
I appreciate Emily’s honesty, so I forgive her for covering me in tacky clothes. I even strike up a conversation on the way to the barns. She tells me about her big plans to become an Olympian in the rough and tumble equestrian sport of Three Day Eventing. She just needs to find that cheap off-the-track thoroughbred with a heart of gold to train up into an Olympic mount. It’s all very sweet, so I kindly decide against crushing her dreams with realities gleaned from years of competing against those with an ACTUAL shot of making it to the Olympics. Where I come from, girls with those sorts of aspirations have competition budgets that require their wealthy families to take out second mortgages on their third and fourth homes. They don’t ride horses that almost ended up in their Jack Russell’s dinner bowl. They certainly don’t call a horse trailer “home”. Hell, I doubt they would even call Emily’s horse trailer a horse trailer.
I’ve never been good at biting my tongue, so I’m grateful when we finally arrive at our destination. Two identical bay colts wait for us in the crossties. They both look pleasant enough. I’ve already survived the most terrifying wardrobe change of my life. I can handle this, right?
Emily goes over each horse with a fine-tooth comb, checking to make sure the bridles are properly buckled and the girths tightened just right before handing me the plain bay that will be my charge. I appreciate the efficient manner with which she completes these tasks. No muss, no fuss, I always say. “The Boss isn’t around. He told me to tell you that if you survive today without getting dumped, you’ve got the job. I’m going to give you a leg up. When you get on, grab the yoke with one hand. Put your feet out in front of you and get your shoulders back. Be assertive and ready for anything. Remember, this isn’t the hunters.”
And with that, she shoves a crop in the back pocket of my jeans and throws me up on the horse. I’ll admit it. I’m a little nervous. I have a feeling this young colt has a more exuberant definition of gallop than the overweight warmbloods I grew up riding. So when Emily says “All we’re doing is jogging today,” I’m relieved.
Emily ground mounts her horse with the grace of a ballet dancer. I dare say she looks elegant floating through the air in her early model Levi’s and rough suede off-the-rack chaps with fringe on the side. Like a discount bin cowgirl doll that doesn’t look cheap until you get up close and see the “Made in China” label.
Now properly mounted, we head in the direction of a large field just beyond the training track. Emily explains that the track tends to rile the horses up. Apparently, the anticipation of galloping their little hearts out is too exciting to take. “We’re going to take it nice and easy today. Just a slow jog in the field,” she sa
ys before instructing me to plant my knuckles in my horse’s withers, get off his back and let him work.
The adrenaline from my little “mixed martial arts” moment is long gone, and worry starts to creep into the pit of my stomach. Am I really ready to die with heavy-flow butterfly embroidered maxi-pads glued to my shins? I remind myself that I’ve jumped five-foot fences. I’ve won national championships. Hell, I was the first girl in my barn to dare to wear rust breeches to a show! I can do this, right?
I’m still weighing the pros and cons of my situation when, without warning, Emily picks up the trot, prompting my horse to do the same. This leaves me no choice but to plant my knuckles in his withers, get off his back and let him work.
Ten minutes later, I’m starting to enjoy myself. Sure, endlessly trotting around a field like a carousel horse isn’t exactly the thrill of nailing eight perfect fences in front of a tough judge. But I’m back on a horse. I’ve got the wind in my hair and a smile on my face.
Five horses later, my maxi pads are worn thin. So much for “all day protection”. I’m exhausted. I’m not sure I’ve got enough energy to collect my Tailored Sportsmans from Emily’s “apartment”. But who am I kidding? I can’t abandon my favorite pants in the trailer of unlikely dreams.
I have to say I’m surprised when Emily offers me a glass of tea. I had gotten the impression that she was hoping I wouldn’t stick around. She pours the steaming refreshment from an electric kettle into a small glass jar with an old tomato sauce wrapper stuck to the side and says, “I read all about your junior career in back issues of The Chronicle. It was pretty impressive. But you’re in for a little culture shock here. Nobody is going to pamper you at Winning Edge. If you get hurt, you’ll be expected to bandage yourself the best you can and get back on another horse.”
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 2