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6th Annual FIRST CHAPTER Contest

NO REGRETS
Susan Coppola

Chapter One
Love at First Sight

Brooklyn, June 1900

     A brisk wind off Sheepshead Bay blew up Flatbush Avenue across the plowed fields of my father’s Flatlands farm. I smelled the salt in the air. Just ten years old, I could never predict the change this wind was bringing into my life, a wind that would carry me all the way to the Kentucky Derby.

     The screen door slammed. As I hopped off the back porch, I heard Ma yell.

     “You make sure you’re home before supper.” Her voice carried over the sound of my baby sister crying. With six of us kids she had to be loud to be heard.

     “Yeah, sure, Ma, I know. Just gonna meet Tommy and go to the park.”

     Jumping over a pile of manure from one of Pop’s horses, I ran up the dirt driveway onto King’s Highway. He left early this morning taking a wagon full of vegetables to market, made this a good time to sneak away before he got back.

     My best friend, Tommy Weitz, and I were going to Gravesend Racetrack. Pop hated the place, said it was full of plungers and chiselers, but I’d take my chances on a whipping. I wanted to see those horses. Someday I wanted to ride them, just like Winnie O’Connor. He was my hero, another poor Irish kid from Brooklyn; he was traveling, seeing the country, making tons of money as a jock. I wanted to be a part of that more than anything.

     The horses of the neighborhood were my earliest friends. I liked them because they were square business. You always got the truth with a horse. Grownups weren’t like that. Ma and Pop talked about how we’d be in the clover before too long then Ma would go and have another baby. There was never any clover, never enough of anything. But horses were different, like Daisy, the junkman Mr. Mulrooney’s horse, a sleepy eyed gray. I’d stand under her head; scratch her chin till she fell asleep.

     “Will ya look at that? I’d swear she’s smilin’. You got a way with her, kid.” Mr. Mulrooney dug in a leather pouch tied to his belt, handed me two pennies for the scrap metal I’d collected.

     “Thanks. Mr. Mulrooney, I love horses.” I rubbed my hand under Daisy’s velvety nose, soft and fuzzy like moss on a tree.

     “Well, you sure seem blessed with good horse sense. Use it well. It could take you far.”

     “Oh, I’m gonna. I wanna be just like Winnie O’Connor, win all the big races at the Brooklyn tracks, then hit the rest of the country. Make a bundle so Ma and Pop won’t have to work so hard. Buy my own newspaper every day like a regular plunger.” Mr. Mulrooney laughed. I didn’t understand why grownups always laughed when kids were serious about something.

     “From your lips to the Good Lord’s ears, Joseph, and don’t forget some of them plungers lose more money than they win. Stay out of trouble and I’ll see you next week.” He shook the reins, Daisy started walking.

     “Sure, bye, Mr. Mulrooney.” Every week they would come down the block, Mr. Mulrooney hollering, almost like singing.

     “Raaaags! Tiiiiiin! Bring em out, noooow!”

     I’d save those pennies for weeks, buy a ticket to Steeplechase Park on Coney Island. I loved to ride the mechanical horses down the long wooden track; pretend I was in the Suburban Handicap at Sheepshead Bay headed for the finish line.

     Otto and Max were my favorite horses. They pulled Pop’s wagon. It was my job to muck out their stalls, give them fresh hay and water. I’d climb on their huge backs, pet their manes, scratch their necks. They’d stand, strong and quiet as stone, like the statues that guarded the entrance to Prospect Park. Some days I’d listen as they rolled away; the steady clopping of their shaggy hooves echoed off the street as they went up Kings Highway. I loved that sound; like something good was coming.

     “Hey, Tommy, what time your Ma want you home?” I yelled.

     “Six. How ‘bout you?”

     “I better make it five; get home before my Pop, so I don’t get my butt whipped. Ma’s so mad at Pop I don’t think she’ll even notice. She’s been doggin’ him night and day for an icebox. Says she needs it to keep milk for the babies. He told her we already got an icebox, the cow, and to be happy we got that. What a grouch.”

     We ducked through the crowds on Flatbush Avenue and made our way past wagons full of lumber and crates of bricks. The sounds of saws and hammers filled the air. I smelled the pine from the fresh cut wood. Brooklyn was booming. The trolley ran all the way to Coney Island now and rich folks were buying up all the farms and building rows and rows of houses. I’d heard Ma and Pop talk about selling, but Pop didn’t want to, said the farm was his life.

     At the corner of Bedford Avenue, Mrs. Doolin hung out her window sill and Mrs. Hockheiser was at the stoop with her scrub brush and bucket scouring the granite, like she did every day. I hopped on and off the steps, smiling at Tommy.

     “Watch this,” I told him, waited for the explosion.

     “Gott Damnit! Get your feet off the steps. Now, raus mit dir!” All us kids liked to drive Mrs. Hockeiser crazy.

     “I swear she drinks vinegar instead of water,” I said. “I thought my Pop was sour but that old puss has got him beat by a mile.”

     Tommy busted out laughing and we took off; Mrs. Hockeiser cursing away in German. We ran a few blocks and reached the back fence of the track on Ocean Parkway.

     “Tommy, look there’s a loose board down here. We can squeeze in.”

     “Joe, I don’t know about this. We could get caught.”

     “Geez, Tommy, you listen to those nuns at St. Iggy’s too much. I ain’t got enough money for a ticket in and lunch too. I’ll take my chances. Don’t worry so much. What’s the worst that can happen? We get thrown out?”

     “No, they take me home to my Ma who’ll whip my ass.”

     “Well, they gotta catch me first. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

     We snuck around the back stable area, and looked for a way to blend in without being stopped by the Pinkertons. Found the chance when I saw a kid about our age wearing brown overalls and a plaid cotton shirt that was smudged with dirt. Tall and skinny as a stalk of celery with hair the color of fresh carrots, he walked beside a sweating, heaving horse. We fell in step beside him.

     “Hey, how ya doin?” Tommy was on the shy side so I always asked the questions.

     “Fine, thanks.” He turned to me, nodded and smiled.

     “Where you goin’ with the horse?” He walked fast. I skipped to catch up a step; Tommy trotted along beside me.

     “Over to that ring.” He pointed to a circle of dirt where another man was leading a tall gray horse. “It’s called hotwalkin’. Can’t just let em’ go back to their stalls right after they’ve run. Gotta cool em’ off.”

     He reached the ring then started to walk. I looked at the horse. He shined with the color of a new penny. I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my whole life.

     “What’s his name?” The horse tossed its head as if in reply.

     “This one’s Olympian. He’s a fine gentle one. Not like his daddy, Domino. Couldn’t turn your back on that one, bite your ass off.” He turned to the horse. “Come on, now. Let’s get you some grub.”

     The animal was breathing slow and easy. Unhooking the brass catch on the bridle, the guy led the horse out of the walking ring and back to his stall. He got a bucket from the corner and took out an oval shaped brush, then ran it over the animal’s muscled back and shoulders. I smelled the wet leather and sweet scent of horse sweat.

     “That’s a good fella, now.” He talked to the horse that answered with a low nicker; then looked over to me and Tommy.

     “So what you doin’ here anyways?” A short man with tall rubber boots walked past us leading a black horse. He carried a saddle and bucket.

     “We come to see the races, snuck in the back fence on Ocean Parkway.” I pointed my thumb at Tommy. “I’m Joe Notter and this is my buddy, Tommy Weitz. What’s your name?”

     “Name’s Sean Kelly. I work for Mr. Rowe. You guys ever hear of him?” He picked up a shovel and started to muck out the stall.

     I spoke up right away. “Heard of him? Hells bells, he’s only the greatest trainer in New York, probably the whole country!”

     Tommy chimed in. “Joe, ain’t we here to see the races? Let’s go around to the grandstand before the next one starts.”

     “Yeah, yeah, hold your water! You go find us a place near the finish line. I’ll meet ya there.”

     My mind was someplace else. I wanted to know more about this kid and his world in these stables.

     “Yeah, sure, buddy. See ya in a few. See ya, Sean, nice meetin’ ya.”

     “Yeah, same here. See ya.”

     Tommy walked away toward the stands.

     I looked at this kid with the dirty clothes and smudged face. I wanted to be where he was, taking care of a beautiful horse. I was only ten years old, but I knew I’d be out working soon. A few of my friends already had jobs, but not swell ones like this. Besides farming, the only places to work in Flatlands were the track or Paine Fireworks Company and one of my buddies already had his thumb blown off packing firecrackers.

     “So, how is this Mr. Rowe to work for? Does he pay good?” I watched as Sean rubbed down the horse.

     “Nah, none of us get paid, just a meal card for free eats in the track kitchen. We’re all workin’ for a chance to ride, but Mr. Rowe’s a great guy, aces in my book.” He latched the stall door behind him and tossed some hay in the hayrack.

     “Do you know if he needs another guy? I got plenty of experience. I muck the stalls for my Pop’s horses.”

     Sean reached in his pants pocket, came out with a striped candy and gave it to the horse that hung his head over the stall door. “Tell you what, buddy. Let’s go find Mr. Rowe and see what he can do, just let me do the talkin’.”

     Tagging along behind Sean, I couldn’t believe I was going to meet Jimmy Rowe.

     We walked around to the grandstand, a long wooden bleacher with a wide overhang. The people in the stands, most dressed in black, looked like rows of penguins wearing hats. The front of the grandstand was decorated with a red, white and blue ribbon like striped icing on a cake. I could smell the roasted peanuts. It made my mouth water. A band sat the far end playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” the feathers on the musician’s hats swayed in the wind. The track was wide and sandy, looked like peanut butter.

     “Hey, Joe, here comes the bugler. It’s almost post time.” Sean pointed to a man in a red jacket with tall black boots and a long thin bugle.

     “Why’s he wearing that outfit? Looks like a doorman at some fancy hotel.”

     “He’s the track bugler. I guess he wears the jacket and boots to impress the swells. Goes back to when horse racing first started in England. He’s calling all the horse and jocks so they know it’s time to race. I never heard that song played anywhere but the track, gets me all excited every time I hear it. Means something good is going to happen.”

     “Geez, that’s just like I feel when I hear horses clopping down our street. Something good is coming.”

     Sean took off for the front of the stands and I searched the crowd for Tommy. The man in the red suit jacket finished his song and the horses walked onto the track. The jocks clothing looked like colorful ribbon candy all shiny and waving in the strong breeze. I found Tommy buying peanuts. We wormed our way through the crowd to Sean who stood at the rail next to a man wearing a straw boater and a suit complete with vest and bow tie. I recognized him from his picture in the paper. It was like meeting a star from the Floradora Girls.

     “Say, Mr. Rowe, this here’s Joe Notter. He’s looking for work and since we need an extra mucker, how about you give him a chance?” Jimmy Rowe turned in our direction and seemed to give me the once over.

     “Hi, son, you have any experience with horses?”

     “Yes, sir, I work with ‘em on my Pop’s farm and I’m not afraid of anything.”

     Jimmy Rowe smiled.

     “I like your moxie, kid. Tell you what; you get a meal card for the track kitchen to muck the stalls in our stables. You get a little more familiar with everything, I’ll move you up to hot walker like Sean here. If I don’t have work, always somebody needing help. How’s that sound?”

     I stuck out my hand. “Sir, it’s a deal! And you won’t be sorry, I’m a hard worker, you’ll see.”

     Jimmy Rowe extended his hand and we shook on it. I was surprised how strong his grip was. I always thought guys in suit were kind of soft. He squeezed my fingers and it felt like the time I caught them in Ma’s wringer. Mr. Rowe turned back to the track as the cry of, “they’re off!” came from the crowd. He put a pair of binoculars to his eyes. I stood on tiptoes to see over the rail. The horses looked like a swarm of bees as they went along the back stretch. They started to thin out as they made the turn for home.

     “Come on, Spence, let em’ go. Give him the gun!” Mr. Rowe shouted. Sean elbowed me and pointed to the pack of horses.

     “Mr. Rowe’s yellin’ to Spencer on Petruchio. See the guy in the blue and white? That’s our jock. Watch him make his move.”

     Two horses in the lead were being challenged on the outside by a bay making long strides, eating up the ground. Like a magician with a magic wand, the jock flashed his whip and the horse started to pull away. A gray horse next to him stretched out his stride and came even with Petruchio. Spencer went to his whip again, tapped him on the side and the horse gave him some more. The crowd roared. I felt the pounding of hooves come up through my feet as the horses flew past us, sand flew into the faces of the jocks and horses in the back of the pack. Petruchio crossed the finish line first and Mr. Rowe clapped Sean on the back.

     “Fine race.” Then he turned to me.

     “Boy, kid, you might be a good luck charm. What do you think? We’ll see you here bright and early Monday?” It was like a dream, the great Jimmy Rowe talking to me.

     “Yes, sir, absolutely.” My eyes felt all watery and I didn’t know if it was from the wind or the excitement. I wiped them with my arm. I didn’t want Mr. Rowe or Sean to think I was just a kid.

     Mr. Rowe chuckled, but it didn’t feel like he was laughing at me.

     “I see the game’s got you bitten already. We all started that way. Meet Sean at the stables at six. He’ll show you what to do.” The great trainer walked off to get his picture taken in the winners circle with Petruchio and Henry Spencer. I turned to Sean.

     “Say, thanks a lot. This is gonna be great. I’ll see you Monday.” We came to the back gate, the crowd pushed us along.

     “Sure, I’ll meet you at the stables. Nice meeting you Tommy.”

     “You too, Sean.” He waved then walked off toward the barns.

     As we left Gravesend my imagination was working overtime as I thought about this chance to work the track; felt like the luckiest kid in Brooklyn. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Ma and Pop the news. And then it hit me.

     “Damn, Tommy, you gotta help me out with somethin'. If Pop finds out I went to the track I’ll get my ears boxed.” I could feel my face flush, couldn’t believe I was so dumb.

     “What you gonna do?” Tommy scrunched up his face, like the sun was in his eyes.

     “We’re gonna tell Ma ... mmm ... let me think ...” Scratching my head. “I got it! We ran into a buddy of yours from school at Prospect Park. This guy ... let’s see ... we’ll call him Jimmy ... works at the track. Got a brother who ... ah ... was gonna be a priest but he died of consumption. Jimmy, being the fine Catholic boy he is, has to leave his job at the track so he can take his brother’s place. That should sell Ma on the job seein’ how she loves the church and all. That’ll get her workin’ on Pop. I just need you to back me up when I tell her. Okay?” We walked to the trolley stop, got in line for the next car.

     “Geez, Joe, I’ll have to do a whole rosary because of this, you know. That’s gotta be worth something. Give me three aggies and a cat’s eye and you got a deal.”

     “For crying out loud, you know I only got three cat’s eyes and besides you got ten of ‘em.” Tommy had the best marble collection in the neighborhood.

     “Okay, skip the aggies, but I want the cat’s eye.” He wasn’t budging.

     “Fine, you got it.” We shook pinkies to seal the deal then climbed on the trolley and rehearsed our tale on the ride home.

© 2008 Susan Coppola

Susan has been writing since early 2005. She has been a finalist in five writing contests including Glimmer Train Press Short Story Award for New Writers Fall 2005,  Cedar Hill Press, J.D. Vine Publications and Southwest Writers Group. She performed a memoir piece for a spoken word production, Lip Service at Books and Books in Coral Gable, Florida in November 2006. Currently a member of a weekly writer’s workshop/ critique group in Miami, she is working on a creative nonfiction book based on the life of Hall of Fame Jockey Joe Notter. View her work here.
 

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