The Last Carousel

by Nelson Algren

  Fortunately the crisis was resolved by the announcer’s cry, “They’re off!”

  And so they were, going six and a half furlongs on the other side of the track. They disappeared behind the toteboard a moment, then emerged with Rain Swamp, off at 11-1, neck and neck with GoGoGo, off at 5-2; until Popcorn Bummy, off at even money, charged down off the crown at the track and under the wire by a length and a half.

  When the big shout had died the players looked around. Sure enough, there was Old Skinny still waiting for his seat. And Fats still sitting on his program.

  “Two-year-old Anthony is in the Security Office,” the PA system announced, “he is waiting for his mother.”

  Some bet the stable and some bet the rider; some bet the trainer and some bet the program selection. Some stayed at home if the day was clear and sulked, having put all their hopes upon a steady all-day drizzle turning the track from dust to slop; from slop to mud and from mud to a sinkhole and rising tides.

  Watch out for a horse coming out of the paddock taped to its rump —they warned one another—it might be taped that high to keep the odds up against it. Look out for a horse on the outside post if he’s wearing one-eyed blinkers. Look out for a horse on the inside post if he’s wearing a shadow-roll. Look out for a rider who’s been flown in to ride just one race. Look out when there’s a last minute change of rider. But ignore the mud-bettor who keeps samples of mud, in Mason jars, from Santa Anita, the Big A and Hialeah: he may sell you one of his jars.

  Then here comes the clown with yet one more system: all you have to do is add the selections at the foot of your program. “What does it say here?” “Nine, five, and six.” “Okay, how much is that?” “Twenty.” “Okay, now look at the second race—add them up.” “Eight, two and one makes eleven.” “Alright, how much is eleven deducted from twenty?” “Nine.” “Okay—number nine is the winner of the third race. It never fails.” And he walks off, program in hand; looking as though he were actually in his right mind.

  While small whirlwinds made of soybean chaff, pursued one another tirelessly, out of the chute and into the backstretch, around and around, hugging the rail then going wide; sometimes lugging in then lugging out, in a race that had no starting gate nor even a finishing line; that yet made perpetual mimicry of riders forever driving.

  Upon horses forever dumbly driven.

  Bearing hopes of bettors who first lost their cars and later their crafts; later their homes and at last their wives. Yet went on discerning quinellas, exactas and daily-doubles by a fickle shoeboard, a changeful earth; and certain treacherous stars.

  Don’t bet a race with a horse in it whose odds are even money or less, they warned one another. Don’t bet to place or show: one way to lose a bet is enough. Don’t bet jump races or races for two-year-old maidens. Don’t tout anyone else onto a horse. Don’t listen to anyone touting you. Bet when the odds are 4-1 or better—and if two horses in the same race look good, bet both to win. Don’t fight your losers. Remember there’s always another race.

  But not one said Look out for Vaes.

  No other woman would have risked making a public fool of herself, by dressing up for the winner’s circle, while leading a 23-1 shot to the paddock, except Catfish Kate. Yet, after the grooms in broken straw hats and manured boots, here she comes in her black satin party gown, her flowered and floppy hat with the pink ribbon about its crown, stepping lightly in red-tasseled slippers. Leading a big tawny ridgeling with red and green ribbons braided into his mane.

  Helmeted riders were crowding the paddock bench. Casaflores, Houssayen, D’Arcia, Duryea and Vaes; but she didn’t see Floweree. It went across her mind that he’d taken off with the fifty instead of paying the fine. Was he stupid enough to pull something like that? She wondered. “Almost,” she decided.

  Then she saw him leaning against the paddock in his silks. Just as Red’s Big Red decided to go back to the barn.

  “Hold him, Catfish!” Vaes called out.

  “He’s worried about his rooster is all,” she called back, laughing; and got Red moving back toward the paddock.

  “He’ll be alright in the gate,” the Paddock Judge assured her, “we had a mare once who got so hooked on her goat that we couldn’t get her saddled less’n the goat came along and stood by.”

  “The only kind of goat I’d keep would be a nanny,” Kate went along, “I wouldn’t have a billy. You know why their whiskers are stained yellow?”

  The Paddock Judge expressed no interest; but Kate told him anyhow. “Because they piss their whiskers. Deliberately. To keep people away. You get a horse who doesn’t like people either ’n he’ll really appreciate sharing his stall with a stinking yellow-beard billy.”

  The Paddock Judge cupped his palms and gave that big barnyard shout—“Last bus for the Sunday School picnic! Everybody up!” to summon the riders.

  The little men in their bright silks sauntered to their saddlings. And every time a horse kicked the boards of its stall, an old sad scuffler peered through the webbing and thought, “I’m glad that ain’t me in there!”

  Kate gave Floweree a leg up and Red’s Big Red wanted to leave right then. But Kate held him long enough to give Floweree final instructions.

  “Take him back off the lead and lay about third or fourth going down the back side. Let him move on the elbow. If you can’t get through on the rail at the head of the stretch, circle the others—he’ll have plenty left.”

  “I’ll try not to fall off,” Floweree replied; and flicked his little whip. Yet held Red’s Big Red tight until Moon River, Casaflores up, then Port-O-Pogo, D’Arcia up, passed his stall.

  Then he swung Big Red in front of Lady Night, Houssayen in the irons. Kate kept her hand on Red’s bridle until Floweree swung the horse into the narrow brick-walled areaway between paddock and track. He glanced back to make sure that Drumgo, Houssayen’s groom, was giving Big Red plenty of kicking room. He pulled Red in a half-turn away from the wall, showed the horse the whip, took a double-grip on the reins, flicked on the current and touched Red under his tail.

  Floweree felt the shock of terror flash through the horse and hauled hard on its head, talking low and reassuringly into the animal’s ear—“I see you, little bay horse, I see you.”

  Big Red quieted and Floweree swung him out onto the track. It had taken him less than ten seconds to throw fear into Red; then to quiet him. yet the horse had come asweat.

  Floweree cantered past the toteboard lights, keeping Red’s head averted. The on-and-off flashes of the board increased Red’s nervousness. By the time Floweree had gotten past the lights, the horse’s neck was shining with sweat.

  Floweree leaned forward toward the horse’s ear, kneading the great neck with his free hand and asking softly, “You think it’ll rain, old buddy? How would you like mud, old buddy?” Then patted the horse reassuringly. Mud would never come in time now.

  A wind came drifting down from the heights and moved across the soybean field behind the toteboard. The whole field stirred.

  And old sad scufflers, lifting their eyes, saw a full moon barely risen, looking down in mild surprise; on grandstand and clubhouse alike.

  A moon that appeared to know, somehow before the toteboard itself knew, all possible daily-double payoffs.

  Yet could not remember the last time it had rained.

  Port-O-Pogo delayed the start of the third race by backing out of his gate every time D’Arcia had him halfway in. Two starters, in yellow raincoats against the imminent threat of rain, hauled at the horse, rump and mane, until they got its big rump locked in at last.

  Sensing the tension building in Big Red since he’d gotten the electric touch, Floweree murmured, this time softly, into the horse’s ear until the flag went up. Then he split the ear with a sudden shout—“Get all the money!” The affrighted horse leaped out a full jump ahead of the field, with Casaflores, D’Arcia and Houssayen on his tail neck and neck. Floweree cut to the rail.

  Houssayen cut into Lady N
ight, veering her into Moon River’s flank and Moon River went off stride. Floweree got the rail and Houssayen got it right behind him half a length ahead of D’Arcia. Houssayen kept the half length to the first turn then took his horse wide in order to draw D’Arcia wide—the whole field might follow wide.

  It didn’t work. D’Arcia let Houssayen go wide. Then got to the rail behind Floweree and began making up ground.

  “Spinning out of the turn,” the caller made it, “on the rail Red’s Big Red by a half, Port-O-Pogo by two on the rail Djeddah’s Folly, Flying Indian in the middle of the track by three Fleur Rouge by one Flash McBride Lady Night by four trailing the field Moon River.”

  Fearing to spend Red’s strength too soon, Floweree wasn’t letting him have full rein. The horse was running well. Houssayen, now far back, saw Big Red’s tail begin to blow and knew he’d done his own job well: all Flower would have to do now would be to hold the horse to the rail until he made the turn for home; then let him out.

  He’ll make it by three, Houssayen judged the pace—nothing but Port-O-Pogo could catch him now. He saw Big Red beginning to draw away and instructed Floweree in his mind: “Not too soon, Flower; not too soon.”

  “Red’s Big Red showing the way by two—two and a half—” the caller made it, “Port-O-Pogo on the rail in the middle of the track Djeddah’s Folly and Flying Indian head and head by two and a half on the outside Fleur Rouge by four Flash McBride by three Lady Night”—then he got a laugh by adding, “the distant trailer Moon River with his tongue hanging out.”

  Now he ought to make it by four, Houssayen judged the final turn —then caught a flash of orange emerging from Port-O-Pogo’s outside flank against D’Arcia’s green—“Look behind you, Flower!”

  He warned the rider in his mind. And as if Floweree had heard him he glanced back and saw Vaes coming.

  Floweree stood in the irons, doubling the reins in his left hand and flashed the whip before Red’s eyes—the horse took off as though freshly shocked. The big lights flashed like an explosion above the line, Big Red swerved and Vaes drove Fleur Rouge straight up onto Red’s heels.

  Fleur Rouge propped. Propelling a blue-orange streak over her head head-on against the rail. And raced on riderless.

  Vaes lay face down with one boot hooked by the rail and his fingers spreading to get hold of earth. Then heard horses coming and put both hands to his ears.

  Duryea stood in the irons to clear the fallen rider and the horse appeared to clear; its hind legs kicking dust against Vaes’ goggles.

  “Loose horse on the track,” the caller appealed to the crowd, “please try to make as little noise as possible, ladies and gentlemen, so as not to frighten the animal”—as the great shout slowly died.

  And a stillness came down upon grandstand and clubhouse like a great dark hand. Then a wind went about tossing drifts of rain into faces of all who were listening there; who didn’t know what they were listening for; losers and winners alike. Yet all moved back, murmuring, to the sheltering stands.

  “Ambulance to the finishing line,” the caller added like a sorrowing afterthought.

  Two groundkeepers raced to Vaes. One jumped the fence. But the other, a stout Negro wearing a red cap, tried to go under the rail and knocked the cap off. He bent to pick up the cap, appeared to falter; then picked up something else that he put in his raincoat pocket. He stood watching his colleague prying at Vaes’ left boot to get it loose from the rail. He’d forgotten his cap.

  “Take the boot off, dummy!” some railbird shouted.

  “Don’t move him!” a woman’s voice cried warning. And her voice, so querulous and thin, brought troubled laughter; almost like derision, from the crowd.

  The Inquiry lights began burning an angry red while the yellow figures blinked beneath:

  3-5-5-3-3-5-5-3

  The ambulance, blocked by horses being led to paddock for the fourth race, got onto the track at last. By the time the stretcher-bearers bore Vaes into the ambulance, the pony riders had reined Fleur Rouge.

  “One thousand pairs of panty hose to the first thousand ladies through the gate next Thursday,” the PA system reminded all bettors, “make your wagers early.”

  “A rider fell,” a customer informed The Popcorn Woman, “his haid hit the rail.”

  “If his head hit the rail he’ll lie still quite a spell,” The Popcorn Woman decided with finality.

  “The boys were riding rough right out of the gate,” he added—“put some more butter on this stuff.”

  “I don’t care whether that bunch kills theirselfs off one by one or in a group,” The Popcorn Woman assured him; adding a shot of oleo.

  “He kept trying to raise his haid,” the customer recalled.

  “I can always tell a killer,” The Popcorn Woman filled the customer in, “because he don’t have a sense of humor. And, if he does, he laughs all the time.”

  The vasty hollows beneath the stands began ringing again with the cries of tipsheet-shouters. Paddock lamps burned in the heavy air like stars trying to bum themselves out.

  “It must be an arfy-moon,” the Popcorn Woman thought to herself, “the outpatients are out in force.”

  The ambulance siren had long faded before the toteboard lights at last stopped blinking. And the red OFFICIAL came on at last.

  Win

  Place

  Show

  1.

  1

  $6.60

  $4.00

  $2.80

  2.

  4

  $8.80

  $4.80

  3.

  3

  $8.80

  Floweree dressed slowly. While D’Arcia was being photographed with Port-O-Pogo, he’d seen the Chief Starter handing a whip-handle to one of the stewards. “I didn’t even feel it leave my hand,” he remembered. “It must have bust against the rail.”

  They’d let Kate pick up the purse for show money, anyhow. But there was no need, now, of hurrying about anything.

  Framed photographs of forgotten riders, that lined the color-room walls, looked down at him. And though he’d always felt that he knew them all, they looked like total strangers now.

  Walking, bareheaded, back to the bam area in the warm drizzling rain, the small lamps of the shed-rows shone like harbor lights in a fog. In the off-and-on drizzle he took shelter under a shed. Knowing that Kate would pass, cooling Big Red.

  He heard the horse’s hooves before he could make the animal out. They were almost up to him before he could make out Kate, in her flowered hat now sodden. He knew her slippers must be muddied. The horse was shining with rain or sweat. He stood under a lamp so she couldn’t miss him; then he had nothing to say.

  “Pay your own fine this time, rider,” she let him know as she passed. And led the horse around the shed-row’s comer.

  “Kate!” he called after her. She stopped and turned about, waiting for him to speak.

  “I’m glad Red didn’t get hurt!” was all he could think to say. He felt her studying him in the dark.

  “You’d fuck up a one-car funeral, mister,” she told him at last. Then turned and led Red’s Big Red away.

  She’d be walking the horse for twenty minutes more, at least. That would give him time to get his clothes out of the trailer and be gone before she returned. If he didn’t get his things on the sneak, he’d have to face her in the morning. Best to sneak it, he felt.

  The naked light above the trailer was burning and she’d left the door unlocked. But when he entered all he saw, that was really his own, was a pair of rider’s boots so down-at-heel they weren’t worth toting around the country any longer.

  He shut the door and turned back toward the stands. Headlights were swinging out of the parking lot. Bettors were already leaving.

  He stood at the rail while the riders paraded the horses, for the final event, past the toteboard. Their silks were already darkened by the rain; as if the color of every stable was black against darkening grey against black. The course
had changed from dust to slop; from fast to slow; slop was turning to mud.

  It was a mile and sixteenth event. And when they came into the turn for home the lead horse was already splattering mud against the goggles of the rider behind him.

  Had Big Red entered in the ninth, instead of the third event, he considered ruefully, he would have had no need of all that block-and-tackle work. There would have had to be no inquiry. Like everything else, mud came too late.

  Then a visual image of himself came to him: He was standing, in his civvies, before a small table on which lay the broken half of an electrified whip. Faceless men stood around him. He forced the image out of his mind: that was one scene he’d never make. And turned from the rail as the riders, their pretty-day silks muddied, began returning to the jockey’s room. He waited, in the shelter of the paddock, until they began coming out in their civvies, heading for the bars. He let them all pass, in the dark where he stood, until Troy Duryea came out; and called to him.

  The boy peered into the dark to see who’d called to him.

  “Hi, Dad,” he recognized Floweree, “What’s your story?”

  “What’s the word on Vaes?”

  “Bad, Dad. Bad. Broke his back.”

  Duryea turned away—then swung suddenly about—My horse cleared him,” he absolved himself. A light high in the stands went out as he turned away. Others followed, as the apprentice moved toward the gate; one by one.

  When the crowd is gone and lights go down—how strange a change! How ghostly a toteboard, where payoffs flashed past like boxcar numbers, when the board is shuttered, dark and still.

  When no lights were left except those of the bam area, burning like lights in a shifting mist, Floweree stood at the rail and looked at the shuttered toteboard. The moon was a wan dying light. Behind it he heard the soybean field whisper faintly; as the rain began slanting across it. A line of horses, each one black and bearing a rider in black silks, began parading before the darkened board.