“I’ve got to be honest, girls, I got really scared up there,” I quietly admit. “Sure, I’ve jumped big fences and ridden in front of some of the toughest critics. But I’ve never been out of control like that before, and I’m not a hundred percent sure that I’m going to have the guts to ride that horse again.”
The girls exchange looks. Emily starts talking to me like she has just realized I sustained minor brain damage. “Margaret, you’re not going to have to. The Boss has a mandatory one-week no-riding rule after a concussion. Besides, I overheard him say that he doubts he’ll ever put you on that horse again.”
I should be relieved, right? So why do I feel like I’ve just been told I’m being held back a grade? Emily tells me that she overheard the Boss scratching Matty from his first race, on account of him working too hard today. “As glad as he might be that you’re not dead, nothing pisses him off more than having to scratch a horse because one of his exercise riders screwed up.”
Screwed up! I didn’t screw up. “I fell off!”
“No. First you let him run away with you and then you fell off,” Emily says. Sarah nods her head in agreement and tells me that I’m lucky the Boss likes me so much. He has been known to fire riders for less. What?!!! How am I the fall guy here? It’s not like I fell off because I’m slacking on the job. It’s not like I didn’t try my damndest to stop Matty from running away with me.
I can see that I’m not going to get any sympathy from my companions here. The walls of Emily’s trailer are closing in on me and I want out. So when her egg timer alerts us that it’s time to go cold hose that horse’s leg, I struggle to my feet and offer to do the job.
Emily and Sara share another one of their looks. I bet they think I don’t know how to cold hose a leg. Look at them, waiting for me to ask instructions like some kind of rube. Well, I’ve got news for you girls. Margaret Fletcher may not always be able to stay on her horse, but in the past few weeks, she’s learned a thing or two. I’ve been reading those Pony Club manuals of yours ever since the Boss laughed at me for calling myself a horseman. I crawl out of that trailer with my head held high.
There’s more to Margaret Fletcher than meets the eyes, girls. More than meets the eye.
JUST AS EMILY PROMISED, the Boss gives me a full week off without pay. He insists that my suspension is not a punishment. “It’s for your own safety and the safety of my horses,” he says. “Matty could have gotten seriously hurt galloping around the barn like that.”
Why does everyone keep acting like I got dumped on purpose? I did EVERYTHING I could to stay ON!!!!
I resist the urge to throw a temper tantrum and politely remind the Boss that getting dumped was Matty’s idea, not mine. The Boss remains unsympathetic. He doesn’t even bother to look up from his work chart as he insists, “No, Princess, you were cocky and let your guard down.”
Cocky? I was doing my BEST to ride a DIFFICULT horse. So I got dumped. Sounds like that kind of thing used to happen to Emily and Sara all the time. Why is it such a big deal when it happens to me?
I’ve never been one to turn down a week vacation. But I’ve got bills to pay now. Using my best damsel in distress voice I plead, “Have a little sympathy for a working girl, Boss. You wouldn’t want me to go hungry would you?” The Boss plucks an apple out of his desk drawer and (with no regard for my poor reflexes) tosses it in my direction. It lands on the concrete floor with a thud, its juicy destruction providing an apt metaphor for the past twenty-four hours of my life. He still hasn’t looked up from his paperwork. And I can’t help but feel offended by his lack of concern for my situation. Against my better judgment I say, “Did Erica get pissed off at her mirror again and whip up a batch of poison apples?”
The Boss stops scribbling on his chart and looks at me squarely, “Watch it, Princess. You’re walking on thin ice.”
Thin ice? Isn’t he the one who should be shaking in his boots? Undeterred by his authoritative tone, I snap back, “Fine. Suspend me. As soon as we negotiate whatever workman’s comp I’m due for the pain and suffering YOUR horse caused ME, I’ll be out of your hair.”
But the Boss just laughs. “Princess, if you expect to get compensated every time you get hurt, you need to find another job. Maybe there’s a tack shop somewhere that could benefit from all your years of experience shopping.”
OK. That felt like an insult and this time I’m not taking it in stride. I pick the what’s left of Erica’s poison apple up off the floor, slam it on the Boss’s desk (with no regard for the delicate mahogany finish) and say, “If the only thing I’m good at is racking up credit card debt and looking cute in fancy breeches, why am I galloping the toughest horse in the barn?”
The Boss snorts dismissively, “Don’t flatter yourself, Princess.”
I chuckle, “You think I’m flattering myself? Then tell me, who is going to gallop Matty while I’m out?”
All I need to do is take one look at his face to know he hasn’t quite figured that part out yet. Watching the Boss slowly come to the realization that HE is going to have to ride the one horse in the barn that is strong enough to dump his best Gallop Girl at forty miles an hour ALMOST makes my suspension worth the cost to my bottom line. A better person would just claim victory and head home. But I wouldn’t want to flatter myself into thinking that I’m a better person. Nope. Instead I just look at my panic-stricken boss and say, “What’s a matter? All you have to do is make sure you don’t get cocky and I’m sure the whole experience will be easy as pie.”
He doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm. But I think he likes the situation that I’ve put him in even less. I can see that every bone in his body is telling him to scold me for insubordination. But he doesn’t. I bet if I stick around long enough, he’ll cave and offer me a big fat bonus if I agree to exercise his horse during my “suspension.” I’m not going to do that. Because I think somebody here could stand to learn some manners, and it’s not the girl with road rash on her butt.
I just walk away with my head held high and my fancy ass swaying in the wind.
THE PAINKILLERS I GOT AT THE HOSPITAL make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Temporarily disarmed by the delicious narcotic glow, I ask Mother to meet me at the only salon in town willing let her pay for her pedicures with designer labels ripped out of the seams of her once-fashionable wardrobe.
“In my heart, I will know that it’s an Alexander McQueen even if I no longer have proof that it is, in fact, an Alexander McQueen.” Mother pulls out two Christian Dior labels procured from the soles of a pair of well-loved stilettos. There is a tense moment as the beauty technician complains about residual foot odor. Fortunately, Mother has a couple Ralph Lauren Black Labels in her back pocket to smooth over the transaction.
Watching Mother trade worthless scraps of dirty fabric for actual goods and services inspires me to ask for her advice on my current financial situation. “Oh, don’t worry honey,” Mother comforts me, “You’re not screwed until the I.R.S figures out how to garnish your PayPal account. Good luck trying to making money selling your old crap on eBay after that happens.”
The mushy effects of my painkillers wear off the moment my feet hit the cold, soapy water bought and paid for by Mother’s bizarre barter system. Suddenly, my mind becomes lucid enough to fully grasp the consequences of my actions. The Boss was going to relax the terms of my suspension. I could feel it. All I had to do was ask one more time. But there’s no way he’s going to do that now. Especially after I told him he could kiss my fancy ass and then waved it in front of him like a tasty little morsel he can never sample.
Full-blown panic sets in as I remember storming out of the Boss’s office, proudly proclaiming that the riders in my Equestrian Barbie collection have a better shot at galloping Matty than he does. Oh dear. What if he fires me?
“You know, honey, maybe this is a sign that you should finally give up on this ridiculous horse obsession of yours,” Mother says as she admires the blood red varnish on her nails.
In a weak moment, I almost agree. Then again, I don’t see Mother giving up anything so easily herself. I see her getting the weekly pedicures that I’m sure Daddy’s accountant told her she can no longer afford. Mother holds on to her old life with whatever white-knuckled grip she can maintain. So why can’t I do the same?
Later that afternoon, I corner Emily in the tack room of Green Acres and ask her how much board money she earns in exchange for all the little chores she performs around the farm. Emily rolls her eyes and purses her lips as if she is preparing to deflect an insult.
I cut her off before she has a chance to get defensive. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever the amount, it’s more than I’m making at Winning Edge right now. Why don’t I take your place so you can use the extra time to pick up my rides at Winning Edge? Chocolates’ board will get paid, I will be covered in all kinds of unspeakable farm detritus and you can finally start pulling your weight in this partnership of ours.”
That last sentence didn’t go over too well. For the next seven minutes, I have to listen to Emily rant and rave about all the important ways in which she contributes to our partnership. “You know, Margaret, I would love to see you drive to the barn every night and wrap Chocolate’s legs or clean his water bucket or keep on top of his hay order or do ANY of the many chores I handle in order to keep our horse alive!”
Emily eventually settles down and agrees that something has to be done about my temporary halt in income. Reluctantly, she admits that even I, Margaret Fletcher, have the skills to pick up her slack at Green Acres and we shake hands on the agreement before I have a chance to come to my senses. The problem is solved. But I have the nagging feeling that Mother would have managed to strike a better deal.
MY DUTIES AT GREEN ACRES are pretty simple. I am to muck stalls, feed lunch hay and bring horses in and out of pasture. So why is Emily acting like I’m being asked to negotiate peace in the Middle East? She’s got her business face on as she squawks, “MAKE SURE you cross-reference the feed chart before throwing hay. DON’T just rely on memory. God forbid Susan Smith’s Hanoverian gets alfalfa instead of timothy. You’ll hear about it all week. I know it’s an easy job and I’m sure you can handle it. I just want to make sure you take it seriously.”
Et tu, Emily? Et tu? I don’t understand why everyone suddenly has the idea that Margaret Fletcher is untrustworthy around their animals.
Emily rummages around in that plastic container she calls a “trunk” and produces a pair of crusty deerskin gloves. She gives me strict instructions to wear them whenever I handle hay. The gloves have the name of the tractor supply where Emily purchased them stitched into the palm in bright green lettering. Yeah, I won’t be wearing these. I smile and nod, doing my best to hide my irritation, and reassure her that I plan to follow instructions to the letter.
A clap of thunder fills the air and the heavens open up outside. Then I remember the four days of rainstorms in the forecast. Emily warns me that I better have a good pair of wellies if I hope to get through the next few days without contracting gangrene. Ugh, yes, I have a pair of pink rubber boots with little doggies holding umbrellas on them. Now leave me alone so I can find my painkillers and take a nap before I have to feed lunch.
DAY ONE
So, it turns out my pink rubber boots with the little doggies holding umbrellas on them are not waterproof. These things were all the rage on the Hunter/Jumper circuit three years ago. Everyone had a pair. I mean everyone. I don’t care if was ninety degrees out without a cloud in the sky. Any self-respecting Hunter Princess hanging out in between classes had her pink rubber boots on. I can’t believe no one ever figured out these things don’t actually work in the rain!
Luckily, Sara is around to help me line my two hundred dollar decorative “rain boots” with plastic grocery bags, and I am able to muck thirty stalls without getting too much urine on my favorite pink socks with little cats holding fancy canes.
Halfway through lunch, I curse the decision to turn my nose down at Emily’s deerskin gloves. My hands and arms are covered in tiny little scratches from the hay. When the scratches turn into puffy little welts, I bring them to Sara’s attention. Knowing my luck, I’m probably infected with some kind of incurable barn skin fungus. She tells me that her skin does the same thing when she handles hay without gloves. Apparently, the welts are the product of a hay allergy. I’m allergic to hay? How is it that I’ve been around horses my whole life and it’s only when I have an entire barn full of them to feed that I discover that I’m allergic to hay???!!!
I’m a sniffling, sneezing, puffy mess with urine-soaked trash bags on my feet. It can’t get any worse, right? Oh, but it does. I’ve got three ponies in a muddy pasture that need to be brought in. Three EVIL little ponies who think it’s absolutely hilarious to slowly trot just out of my reach. After watching this comedy routine for fifteen minutes, Sara takes pity and gives me three buckets of bran mash. Those fat little ponies get one whiff of that mash and descend on me like they haven’t eaten in a week. I manage to avoid getting knocked down in the mud, but my shirt is completely covered in mash by the time I get each pony back in its stall. Wonderful.
Sara takes pity on my situation and encourages me to take the rest of the day off. I want to scoff at the suggestion that I take it easy. Haven’t I just spent the past six weeks trying to prove that I’m tougher than I look? But the urine-soaked garbage bags on my feet are starting to smell and the bran mash crusted on my slicker looks like vomit. I’m out of here.
DAY TWO
Against my better judgment, I return to the scene of the crime. I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a pair of ugly green rubber boots at the tractor supply, so I’m wearing my ONLY pair of paddock boots. I used to have seven pairs of paddock boots: one for each day of the week. A lot of people don’t realize that fine leather needs a full weeks rest after the good soaking of sweat that comes with a hard day’s ride. Not that I ever actually rode in my paddock boots. Bunny insisted on field boots only. But they were good to have around in case my seven pairs of field boots all sprung a defect at once.
But I can no longer afford that luxury. I’ve got ONE pair of paddock boots at the precise moment in my history when I am actually required to ride in them seven days a week. These babies better hold it together ‘til I get myself back on the payroll at Winning Edge.
It rains all morning. I’m hoping this means that I can forgo turning horses out in that swamp of a pasture. But Sara informs me that the mud in the pasture isn’t sitting atop a slick, hard base of compacted stone dust like the barn aisles are. So I go ahead and throw Chocolates out, seeing as he’s one of the horses in the barn smart enough not to run around like an idiot in pasture. I take one look at the deep mud of said pasture, however, and I KNOW my paddock boots won’t survive even one step inside.
I make sure Sara is occupied sweeping out the tack room and grab a lunge whip from Emily’s locker. The plan is to unhook the lead rope from Chocolate’s halter and use the lunge whip to encourage him inside the pasture without actually setting foot inside myself. I know Emily would absolutely NOT approve of my actions. But she is not here to offer me a better solution. So I go for it.
Everything is going swimmingly until Chocolates panics at the slight of the lunge whip and bolts in the exact opposite direction of the pasture. The ten minutes that Chocolates spends galloping loose around the barn at full speed are the longest of my life. Fortunately, he stops in front of the hayshed long enough for Sara to catch him. I tell Sara that Chocolates, one of the laziest horses in the barn, inexplicably took it upon himself to jump out of the pasture. It’s a ridiculous story, and Sara knows it, but she decides not to press the issue any further.
>I take Chocolates from Sara and walk him deep into the pasture until mud sucks the soles right off my precious paddock boots. I can feel the filthy pasture grime creep in between my toes and under my toenails. There isn’t a pedicure this side of the Mississippi that could get the smell out anytime soon. It serves me r
ight for putting the safety of a pair of replaceable boots ahead of my one-of-a-kind Chocolates.
DAY THREE
Emily is waiting for me in the feed room. Uh-oh, I’m in big trouble. Sara told her all about Chocolates jumping out of the pasture and my pristine paddock boots. Crap. I’ve never been a good liar. So, I break down in a sloppy, blubbering mess and confess my sins. I’m not even mad at Sara for busting me. I deserve whatever punishment Emily dishes out.
But she just stands there and stares at me with a look of pity. Is this some kind of Jedi mind trick designed to make me feel even worse than a good tongue lashing ever could? Because it’s working. I repeat the story for Emily again. In case she missed any of my unforgivable behavior. But she just looks at me with a calm expression and says, “It’s OK, Margaret. I’m sure you learned your lesson.”
“No, Emily. It’s not OK! I’ve been screwing up left and right all week. My negligent actions could have caused serious harm to my two most favorite horses in the world,” I yell and scream and spit more mucus across the tack room.
But Emily is not biting. She continues to look at me with understanding and tells me that she is sure I have learned my lesson.
I snort in disbelief, “Come on, Emily, we both know that all it’s going to take is one more lapse of judgment on my part and one or both of those horses will be dead!”
Nothing. Nada. Not even a slap on the wrist.
Fine. I really bring out the big guns and wail like a banshee, “I’m not cut out for this! My priorities are all screwed up. How could I be so concerned about a stupid pair of paddock boots? They’re not even custom! What am I saying? That shouldn’t even matter! Right? I should probably just give you Chocolates, find myself an office job and never set foot in a barn until I can afford to have a team of trainers supervising my every move!”
My plan is backfiring. Emily is clearly uncomfortable with my dramatic self-flagellation. There’s no way she’s going to yell at me now and risk my further descent into madness. I end with, “I give up, Emily! I give up!” and hope that the humiliation of the last fifteen minutes is an adequate punishment for my totally unforgivable behavior.
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 14