1998 Winner: Teaser

by Scott Travis Hutchison

WHEN you're in charge of a farm's stallion barn for long enough, you sort of get used to the way people see you: You're supposedly a rugged, hard-necked son-of-a-gun who handles the kind of Thoroughbred that wants to breed and wants to run and wants to stomp you into dirt. And not necessarily in that order. They believe you assume the attributes of the animals you work with, and, since no right-minded person would trust a rank-minded stud horse, people naturally assume that you're the kind of guy who might kick or bite them, given the chance. That's the way the horse farm workers say it, whatever it means. Even if you aren't exactly that kind of person, you live with people seeing you that way just the same.

Kristi is an exercise girl on the farm I work at. Hanover Stables is a notable Thoroughbred facility, in the business of breeding, boarding, breaking, and training. Three hundred and fifty horses to maintain. She's up in the training barn with a shedrow of six horses all aiming at the track. Some she broke, some she got back in shape after a racing hiatus. Kristi's a fine-looking woman with no ring on her finger, and I'm a single man. A good single man. She's like me, bumping up in the 30-years-of-age range, about ready to stop the farm- and track-hopping and settle into one place. And though I've been trying to stir up a little interest, trying to get her to maybe give me some consideration, she's got her opinion of stud men; says stud men are insensitive brutes on a par with the headstrong horses they work with. Maybe I shouldn't respond by telling her she's green and giddy as the horses she saddles up, but I can't always help myself.

I'm not sure of how it sounds to say it, but our farm's teaser stallion is all mixed up in this. You understand his job, I'm sure: I take him up to the mare barns from late January to early April, leading him around to various broodmares, trying to get them in the mood, or accepting verification when they squeal and kick out at him that they most assuredly aren't in the mood.

His name's Richmond Charger, and he's never led me to think that he's anything less than up for the job. Sorry about that. Now that I've said it, I hear the pun. Folks are always finding puns and innuendo in the speech of stallion handlers, even if it isn't intended. Hell, that's the exact problem I'm aiming at when I tell you that people have got stud men pigeon-holed on being the grand possessors of testosterone-enhanced attitudes and macho senses of humor. I say things and people see all kinds of male crudities in it. But, to tell the truth, I'm not that clever.

So I take Charger around, sometimes up to a stall door, sometimes out in the mares' field while they're grazing. He's game enough. He knows the manner in which a stallion is supposed to present himself, and he's out there trying to stir up a little hormonal curiosity amongst the ladies. For his troubles, he gets to go up near a broodmare and sniff a little. For his troubles, she sometimes breaks down showing she's in season or sometimes she fires out a hind leg trying to connect with something she is not in the mood for. And sometimes she connects. Either way, I lead him on out of there with nothing, or with nothing to show for it but a nice hoof mark in the dust of his neck.

Kristi's got her opinions. She says that the number one worst job on the farm is cleaning out the washrack traps, where water and manure and horse hair all collect and percolate. I pretty much agree. Which I'm learning is a good thing to do with a woman. But then she says that the second worst job on the farm is being the teaser stallion. Kristi has it in her head that a teaser must live a life of frustration, seeing so many females each day, feeling the fire, and then having me shank him back at the moment when things are looking most promising. She can't understand why the fire ever comes back, day after empty day.

The first day I ever met Kristi, we got off to a bad start. She was fresh on the farm and putting her nose into every corner of the place, seeing what was what. So, she came jouncing her five-foot-tall jockey-firm frame into my stallion barn to check out the "old track retirees," as she called them. Kristi had a little blush going across her spackle of freckles and had a comment at every stall, comparing her shedrow of hopefuls to my proven winners. But I held my tongue. Still, as she moved through the barn the studs all started acting up, nostrils flaring, pawing at the floors, biting at the bars of their stalls. Stallions have a keen sense of smell, and they know when a female, even a human female, is going through a cycle. I'd seen it before. I'd been polite toward Kristi the whole time, but my charges were out of sorts. I was in God's-own earnest when I asked her if it was that time of month for her, but Kristi took it all wrong-jabbing a pointed finger in my chest before I could even finish my sentence, calling me a few choice names even I hadn't heard before, and kicking buckets as she exited the barn.

I've had a devil of a time getting past that one over the course of this past year. I had to apologize and admit to stupidity in choosing my words about a hundred thousand times. Took six months before we ever really got to a conversation level, and a few more months of fixing her truck, offering to help rake her lawn, and finding all sorts of odd reasons to take me up to the training barn on errands before I could get her to go out with me. Might not be too smart, but I'm patient.

It so happens that Kristi and I have the same time off schedule. Twelve-and-a-half days on, working Saturday mornings, then Saturday afternoon and Sunday off. Half the crew gets one 36-hour reprieve on a given weekend, then the other half gets it the next. With free time being so precious, I try to make something happen with Kristi. Sometimes she'll go out to a movie with me. She likes an earlier show, because she wants to get some sleep later. I'm the same way myself.

Sometimes she'll go out to Bonanza with me, and I'll order the T-bone and she'll order the petite filet, and we'll fill our plates at the all-you-can-eat salad & fixings and we'll try to illuminate our particular views of the horse world to each other. There's other times she won't go with me at all, and I stay at home on Saturday night and try not to think about the fact that at 7 p.m. my best bet for TV is 24-year-old reruns of Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw.

I've tried to explain to her that I'm not like other stud men, that if I'm not out with her then I'm not going into town and to Andy's Pub trying to see what else is out there. I'm not going to say that in my younger days I wasn't racing around and doing alright for myself, but those times simply don't have the same pull for me anymore. I've pretty much put such notions behind me; I like a slower life, and I'm not looking to be back in that kind of position again. I've said that to Kristi when we're out having dinner, and she shuts her eyes and takes a bite of blue-cheesed lettuce and shakes her head saying, "God, what a stud man." Coming from her, I pretty much know that's not a statement of attraction.

But I stand up for Charger when she starts getting down on his job. I've got million-dollar stock in the stallion barn-one Derby runner and the others solid moneymakers-and they've all got serious cases of the ornerys even though they're paddocked daily as well as led up to the breeding pen once or twice a day to cover mares. When the season is in, that is.

They're a bunch of hard heads, but I know how to handle 'em. Some of them you've got to put the shank chain over their nose, others you put it in their mouths for a little teeth filing, while others you've got to put it on their gums occasionally for a reminder. Then there's one nasty character that I simply have to muzzle before I take him anywhere. Some folks say it's harsh treatment. I say it's survival when you've got a thousand-plus-pound animal who'd like nothing better than to prove on you that he's still got the rigor and the vigor to bust you in half. I give good for good when they're behaving, and dirty for dirty when they get into their attitudes.

But Charger isn't like them. Though he's got the last stall at the end of the barn, he knows who he is, and he's got as much heart as any of their blood-line and stat sheets protest to. I bought the brass name plate for his stall door myself.

Four years back he was a sharp-looking, two-year-old chestnut with three white stockings, paying his dues in the training barn. I was working lay-ups at the time, but I liked to go up to the training facility when they were working Charger. Everybody was hot for him. Said he had the real-deal shot, a Grade 1 stakes runner for sure. The whole foot crew would get up in the observation tower to watch the jockeys breeze their horses, and Charger was something to see. He knew how to pace himself and hang in the top three the whole time, biding his time, but what made him special was when he was asked to take the lead. I never saw a crop put on him. A hand nudge, a little leg squeeze, and he knew what he was supposed to do. We were all saving our money just so we could bet it on him one day.

He was out in a back paddock by himself-some Sunday crew worker was giving him a little exercise-when the Thoroughbred bad-odds caught him. It had rained the night before, and Charger was just being his young fiery self, cutting across a field at full tilt. And when he went to put on the brakes with the usual distance to spare, that soft earth and mud kept him right on going through a wire-weave fence with a top-board. The board snapped on impact and stabbed over a foot deep into his chest.

I got the call to come help the vet work on him, even though he was a training horse. Doc always liked me holding for him because he trusted me to keep him safe. If a horse acted up, Doc knew that I'd pull the horse on top of me and get stomped or crushed on a wall before I'd let anything happen to him. He knew, no matter what, I'd stay by him. I've still got that kind of reputation as a horse handler-it's not something that holds true for just everybody. Kristi's told me that some of the other handlers have said that to her. She begrudges admitting it, but I like her smile when she finally allows for the fact that I might be solid that way.

Working on Charger, removing board and splinters and going in and sewing up on multiple levels of muscle took over three hours. Even though we had some serious painkiller in that horse, I think he'd have let us do what we needed to do for him without much of a fuss. It's like he knew we were simply trying to do right by him. The boss put in calls to the insurance company, and we took before-and-after pictures. When all got said and done, the insurance people covered the medical cost, and that was it. They said the way they saw it was we still had a live Thoroughbred. Any chance of that horse's chest coming back into racing form was shot to hell, but their position remained the same: live horse, they'd pay the vet bill, but no big money to cover the loss of potential. I get it-I just don't like it.

Charger has some fairly decent bloodlines. Even so, the boss didn't have to pay much for him, seeing as how Charger's former owners were more than happy to unload him for whatever they could get. And that's when his career as a teaser began. It tore me up inside to see that horse so limited, when all he really wanted to do was what he was born to do: he wanted to run. But becoming a teaser kept him from a worse fate.

I've noticed lately that Kristi's taken to wearing some kind of perfume, both in the barns and when we go out. I couldn't tell you the name of it, but I know it beats the hell out of anything else I'm accustomed to smelling during working hours. She comes down to my barns still sweaty from knocking out her own chores, and I catch that whiff of sunshine on new-cut hay or whatever it's supposed to be-some fancy Frenchy label, probably-and I forget about my back or the load of feed coming in or the head-butt our big horse gave me while I was washing out his automatic waterer. I try to act all crusty like she expects me to, but when I get to telling her about the plans I've put together for Charger and that scent is hanging on the wind, I get kind of strange inside, and I don't suppose I've got her fooled very much.

Kristi appreciates the fact that I've made the effort to call every little two-horse farm in the tri-county area, seeing if people want a free breeding for their school ponies and plugs. All told, I round up five or six mares a year for Charger to cover, and the owners get a foal that's better than they could have ever afforded and Charger finds a reason to keep the fire. Kristi says that a good stud man knows how to work hard to bring in the ladies. And me, I'm not sharp enough to figure if there's anything inside of what she's saying, though I've hurt my brain a couple of times trying. But one thing I do get is how I can look in Charger's eyes and sometimes I see a dullness, I sense something like a sadness in that horse. I think he knows he's moving on in years and he wants more, and certain runs just aren't available to him.

It was last Saturday night that I think I finally got through to Kristi. We'd come back to the farm after a late KFC run, and I popped the question. Full moon was out, and I asked her if she'd do me a big favor. I asked her to ride Charger. There was risk involved, to be sure. He hadn't had a saddle on since the accident, four years ago, much less a bit. And it was night. Don't ask me what possessed me. Somewhere over the mashed potatoes, perfume, cole slaw, and original recipe, Kristi kept talking about what it meant to a Thoroughbred to be ridden, how you could tell that their hearts swelled all big in their chests when you asked them to pick it up, and how horse and rider-when it was right-were one fluid animal racing in the wind.

We were driving in her truck, a half mile from the farm when I asked her. I said I'd lead her around in a breaking pen and make sure Charger was okay with it, told her I'd protect her if she felt she was game for a ride. And she stared at me for the longest time without saying a word. I was getting pretty nervous, not knowing what I'd said this time. But then she pulled into the barns' driveway rather than going on to the workers' houses, and I guessed she'd made a decision.

We got out at the stallion barn. I went to turn on the spotlights while she reached behind her seat for the old saddle and tack she liked to haul around with her. She gave me a tired look when I made sure she had a helmet along with everything else. When I backed off, said it was her show, I liked the way she laughed when she said we were both dumber than stud horses.

Let me give it to you this way. Charger looked surprised when we started putting the saddle on him, but he sniffed at the bridle and then took it when I put the bit in his mouth and pushed the leather up over his ears. His ears suddenly perked up, and he stood up straight, and he didn't even move when Kristi cinched up the girth or when I gave her a leg up on him. I slowly led the two of them out of the barn, and they both looked fine with it. My plan was to have them go in a breaking pen for a little jog, but Kristi set me straight on her plan. She's one strong-minded woman. And I respect that. After only a little protest on my part, I nervously led them the quarter-mile to the training track. My mind was all afire with what I might have started.

Charger has a serious hitch in his stride. When he's been turned out and you see him running around in a field, you can tell that his front end doesn't extend quite right. He fires out those front socks best as he can, but the muscle mass just isn't there like it's supposed to be, and it's an odd pull. I explained all that to Kristi on the walk up the lane to the track.

To the right of the lane was the mare and foal field; the ladies were snorting and walking up to the fence, checking us out, while some of the babies were lying down in the field and sleeping under the moon. I went on a second time, making sure she understood the dangers of going forward with this enterprise; she cut me off midstream with an icy "I know." By that time we were at the oval. So, I clamped my mouth shut, let her loose, and took myself on up into the observation tower.

It's hard for me to relate what happened from there. Maybe what lit my eyes up was on account of the light and shadow tricks of the full moon. I was gripping the white-washed wood of the tower rail. Blood was coursing hard in my veins. Watched Kristi get Charger warmed with a little jog, watched her ease him into a canter, and I could see that her weight was a different element for him to coordinate in his gait. Still, it was like I was seeing a little dance to his step-like there was something in him that had waited for this opportunity. And when she gave him a little squeeze, I couldn't believe what I saw: they were moving. Fast moving. Taking the circle. A blur along the rail on the backside of the track. Hoofbeats. Heartbeats. One grey form. Straightaway. Laying it down. Making the turn and flying. Ghost-mount. Drumming. Tearing it up in front of me. Gone.

I was down out of that tower in a flash, running to get out on the track and catch those two. They weren't supposed to go that fast. They weren't supposed to tap into anything like that. Charger could pull a muscle, or stumble, and Kristi might get dumped forward and roll under a falling horse. Hadn't moved that fast in years. I was running. I was yelling her name.

And then, right out in front of me, they emerged from a moonlit steam cloud, darkness haloing all around them. She was patting him on the neck and talking nice to him. I led them both on back down the lane, past the mares and their foals all lined at the fence. All of us looking at one another, taking in this new power. And Charger, hot and tired, but his eyes looking like sadness wouldn't ever visit him again.

I wish I was smart enough to know where I stand with Kristi. But I got my opinions. We worked together untacking Charger, and washing him down, and then took turns walking him. I was waiting for Kristi to say something, but we were pretty quiet, except for the little business stuff we were taking care of, asking for the sponge and passing the scraper blade.

Once Charger was cooled out and put back in his stall, we both stood there looking at him as he satisfyingly munched on his hay. Then my heart started beating fast. Kristi actually put her arm around me, and let me put my arm around her. We stood there in the stallion barn and watched that horse for another hour. We started talking then, telling the story four different ways and laughing at all of it.

And I don't care what anybody thinks-I'm telling you I was perfectly content when she kissed me on the cheek. I was happy for her. I was happy for Charger. I was happy for me. I could have stayed there all night.

About the author

Scott Travis Hutchison grew up on his parents' small Thoroughbred farm in Virginia and, starting at age 13, worked for Ed Stevens at Rockett's Mill Farm either full- or part-time for 16 years. Hutchison, whose work has appeared in such magazines as The Georgia Review, The Southern Review, and Florida Horse, was an Honorable Mention winner in the first Thoroughbred Times fiction contest. He has completed a poetry manuscript, Reining In, for which he is presently looking for a publisher. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife, Gail, and daughter, Caitlin.