Paul Smith

Stud

They’d been pestering me a lot lately, badgering was probably more the right word, and I got to where I couldn’t take it anymore, so I finally said yes, yes go ahead and operate on me. It couldn’t be any worse than the misery and worry I’d experienced after losing all that money, money there was no way I could pay back. 

So Pasternak and Igor took me to what was supposed to be a hospital. It was in the warehouse district.

“It doesn’t look like a hospital,” I said as they led me in past some forklifts, some pallets and pallet jacks, empty offices with an empty echo.

“Well, we made it into one,” Pasternak said. Igor just nodded. We stopped in an open area where the late afternoon sun came in through one of those louvered things that has a fan in it, a fan to blow out all the old, stale air. The blades hardly moved.

That’s how it starts, doesn’t it? It starts small, maybe with a small bet here and there, or maybe it’s not bets at all, maybe it’s pills or whiskey or anything addictive. And gradually it builds so that you are hooked and they know it. Then you give in, maybe just a little, and one thing leads to another without you knowing where this is all going. Suddenly you’re in way over your head and there’s no getting out.

I was in way over my head.

“We’ve all been losing lately,” Pasternak said, “So we had to skimp a little, cut a few corners to pull this thing off. It won’t be that bad. But the thing we had to cut back on was – the anesthesia.”

“Now, wait a minute,” I said, trying to get up off the table they put me on. But Igor helped Pasternak push me back down and strap me in. I looked at the tape they used. It wasn’t even duct tape. It was the cheap kind you get at the Dollar Store. They lost big, too. That thought, and the tape cutting into my wrists, unnerved me.

“It’s not like we’re going to slice you open without anything,” Pasternak said. “Bring me that Pepcid.” 

“Pepcid!” I shouted, “That’s for an upset stomach, for nausea!”

“We don’t want you nauseous and all, you know, like throwing up.”

“Pepcid is no good!” I shouted louder.

“OK, pipe down. What else we got?” Igor had a plastic bag that rattled and finally pulled out some Ibruprofen. “That should do it.”

Ibruprofen was not going to do it. I knew it, but took four of them.

“What does that book say?” asked Pasternak.

Igor said, “First you break the ribs. Then wait.”

“I remember that part,” Pasternak nodded. “Let’s get that parking bumper.” They went outside and came back, lugging a concrete bumper from the parking lot. They hoisted it up and then Pasternak said, “One, two three!”

They dropped it. I heard a loud, cracking sound. That was my ribs.

“I think we broke them, boss.”

“OK, now what?”

“It says spread them apart and uh, remove it.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t say. Look, boss. This book sort of assumes you’re a doctor. It doesn’t go into detail. It just has the steps.”

That’s pretty much it. It’s about control, or not having any control. You get behind the eight-ball, and then they got you. You make pleas, deals, concessions, One thing leads to another and pretty soon they are running your life. You don’t know what the next step is. In this case, though, it meant removing my heart.

So they did it. They pulled it out, just yanked on it till it came loose. Blood spurted everywhere from veins and arteries flopping around like a half dead trout.  I was frantic. Then they put some more of that cheap tape over my mouth so I couldn’t put up a fuss.

“Get that fucking ventilator over here. We’re going to lose him!” Pasternak shouted. I’m glad he was at least shouting. That meant he appreciated the gravity of the situation.

“Ventilator?” Igor yelled. “I thought you said ‘compressor’!” In the corner I saw a Gardner Denver 300 cfm compressor. With something that big, they would blow my insides out to kingdom come.

“You big dummy,” Pasternak snarled. “I said ventilator!”

“What do we do now?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Pasternak said. “You’re going to give him the Heimlich maneuver until we get the replacement installed.”

“Heimlich?”

“Just lean over his chest was and start blowing.”

It seemed to work, though. Pasternak brought in the ‘replacement.’ The Ibruprofen kicked in and I started to relax. Maybe this was all going to work out. Pasternak said it would. Maybe he actually knew what he was doing. I went to sleep.

In post-op (same place as op, with the fan whose blades didn’t turn, with the 300 cfm compressor that might have worked, had I not got the Heimlich maneuver), I finally woke up. I was dizzy and smelled oats.

“How ya doin’?” asked Pasternak.

“Groggy.”

“Groggy he says,” mocked Pasternak. “You’ve been asleep for over two hours. “Come on, pal. We got work to do.” They hoisted me off the table out onto the street, where it was dusk. “Sort of reminds me of Sportsmans Park. They run the trotters at night, or they used to. Casinos killed the tracks, even with the OTB. Nothing like live action. Nothing like our new hero. You ready?”

I wasn’t ready, but I was ready, ready to pay off my bills. Here we go.

“Now, just to be sure, Igor, let me ask you – it’s six furlongs around the block, right?” He waved his hand in a circle that was supposed to cover the block of warehouses in this neighborhood. I looked at the pavement with a mixture of angst and anticipation and wonder. 

“Six, boss,” Igor said, holding up six fingers.

Pasternak pulled out a stopwatch. “Good.” Then he pulled out a gun. “Starter gun,” he explained. “It shoots blanks. It could shoot bullets but, hey, we struck a deal, didn’t we?” he slapped me on my hindquarters. I almost kicked him in return.

He held up the gun. ’Bang!’ it went.

“Anything below 1:08,” I heard him say as I started to trot. I broke into a gallop  past two warehouses and into a very sharp turn, hoping that they would never be this sharp, then another, then more warehouses and shops, sharp turn, then the last one you come spinning out of into the homestretch. I saw Pasternak up ahead, waving at me and decided to really show them something. I kicked in the afterburners and really sprinted, flying past them as Pasternak held up his stopwatch and hollered as he put it in front of his eyes.

“Holy Cow!” he said. “1:09. You have heart, my friend. You have heart. Heart like Native Dancer.”

Igor spoke up. “You sure this is gonna be legal, boss? I dunno if the Board will allow –“

“Screw the board. I told you. We’re not going to Gulfstream or Pimlico or Arlington Park. Think smaller, local tracks, maybe just some guy’s pasture down in Kentucky. Some guy with a wad of money and the heart of a skeptic. Think ‘chump’.”

I stood in front of them, breathing hard. The operation had been a success. It was over for now. 

“Just win three races. That’s all. Then we’re all squared up.”

Igor held up six fingers.

I nodded that I understood. I didn’t understand. We’d gone over this, but I was groggy. “What?”

“Ignore him.” Pasternak was holding up three fingers. “Three, that’s all, you understand?”

We shook hands. My hand was square and lumpy. I needed new shoes. It was over.

“And guess what?” Pasternak said. “After those three races, you know what the standard protocol is? You know what’s in store for you?”

A chill went through me. You mean there’s more? I shook my head no.

“Well, my friend, when a thoroughbred like you passes a certain milestone in his career, he is put out to pasture. You know the pasture?”

I shook my head no. They both laughed.

“The pasture is where the ladies are, my friend – the damsels, the fillies, the mares.” Pasternak and Igor all went big-eyed, laughing at some sort of joke I was supposed to get, but hadn’t gotten. It hadn’t sunk in. “No capiche? Let me put it bluntly – we’re going to put you out to stud.” All got quiet. 

They were going to put me out to stud.

“One slight problem, though,” Pasternak said. “In your current state, you are not uh equipped to perform your macho responsibilities. So just get us through these next three races and we’ll pay the hospital here one last visit so that you’re outfitted for success. That’s in the book too, right?” Igor howled. Pasternak howled.

“That’s where the real money is, the stud fees. We’ll get you patented or copyrighted or something and make a damn fortune. No one will believe till they see it. They’ll happily bet against the kinkiness of you beating a thoroughbred in a fair and square race. ” Pasternak’s head went up and down. “Then Igor and me will be all squared up too.” He held up one finger. “Just one more.”

Igor still held up six fingers. Whose fingers was I supposed to listen to?

“We’ll even get you a stepladder,” Pasternak said. This brought on more convulsions of laughter.  A stepladder. A stepladder for the next step where they replace the part of me that is nearer and dearer than even my heart.

The streetlights came on. Their yellow luminescence camouflaged the grim look of this area. That’s how they get you. They get you to laugh, go along with it. The stud fees were what it was all about. Pasternak didn’t even share that with Igor. Not with me, of course. My cut? Zilch. There is always one last hurdle that is hidden. Now Pasternak could pay back all he lost at that last fiasco at Gulfstream.  That’s how it’s done. First you trot. Then you gallop. Then you sprint, all the way. The thing is – there is no finish line anywhere – not even when you’re sent out to pasture.