by Michael Thomson (apologies to John Fante & Charles Bukowski)
Read About the Sombrero
On Sunday night, Marfa and I lay on Seal Beach, drinking manzanilla and smoking cigarettes. Marfa had black hair and was tall and was twenty years older than me. She wore a lot of makeup, but what did I care. I was lonely. The worst thing about being lonely is that a lot of people, especially other lonely people, can tell. With Marfa, though, it didn’t matter. I mean, I’ve never seen her with a boyfriend or anything, at least not a real one. When the sherry hit her, Marfa told me all about her childhood and how she was molested by her alcoholic father. She said he looked and acted like a cheap knockoff of Burt Reynolds. When it was my turn, I told her that my old man was a drunk too, but with him, well, he was just never there. He never hit me or nothing like that. He’d just rather have spent all this time down at the bar than ever come to any of my games. With my arm, I could’ve pitched varsity back then, but I never tried. My mom, she ran away with some loser horse jockey that frequented our bar, and my old man, well, he just slid all the way to the bottom of the bottle until the bank took the bar and his liver gave out. Anyway, I didn’t kiss Marfa. I just put my arm around her. Didn’t feel right, her being so emotional and all, though I could see her cheeks were pretty red in the moonlight and she was slurring her words.
The next morning I woke up to Old Lady Lum woodpeckering on my door. Marfa was in the bathroom, and by the amount of snorting I heard, she’d either caught a cold on the beach or she was nose deep in powder. The old lady outside was banging on my door for rent, but I didn’t have it, not even the seventy-four dollars I owed for the week before. I rolled over and put the pillow over my head.
Not more than fifteen minutes later, she came back. This time she wasn’t just knocking.
“Hello?” she said, muffled through the door.
“I gave at the office.” I mouthed the words, pretending to yell back.
Then Marfa came out of the bathroom, holding a syringe in one hand and its plunger in the other.
“You have any needles?” she asked.
I put my finger to my lips to shush her. She looked much older than she had the night before. With all her makeup removed, she looked every bit of forty-seven. She put the syringe up to her lips as if she understood my dilemma. I could see the old woman’s shadow through the crack at the bottom of the door. She didn’t know I was inside, at least I didn’t think so. Poor little old lady, probably never had a drink in her life. She knocked once again, but louder. I shook my head no, about the needle, and Marfa tiptoed back to the bathroom. I sat up and checked that the chain was on the door.
“I know you in there, your shoe out here!” the old woman bellowed.
It was quiet for a moment, then she gave the door another good knock and shuffled away. I’ve tried to play by the rules all my life and I’ve always lost, but not today, I decided. I made up my mind. Today I was going to turn the old screw.
I got up, threw some water on my face and got dressed. I smoked my last cigarette and checked my wallet—twelve bucks. I did actually have rent covered a couple days ago, when I cashed my last unemployment check, but I spent nearly all of it on the ponies and the bottle of sherry Marfa and I polished off on the beach. When I opened the door to get my shoes, the old woman was standing there clutching them under her arm.
“You pay today, or I call the police!” she said.
“Okay, okay, right, I understand. I’m sorry,” I said.
I thought maybe a little contrition might get me my shoes.
“Hmph, sorry no good,” she answered. “You pay, you get your shoes!”
Then she turned and left mumbling.
I slammed the door, which brought Marfa back into the room.
“Was that the cops?” she asked. “Scared the shit out of me.”
“No. My shoes are being held for ransom.”
“Well shit, get ’em back.”
“I’ve got twelve bucks.”
“Then you’ve got problems, kid . . . you want some coffee?”
Coffee was code for shit, which was code for meth, which is in my mind an e-ticket ride to an early death.
“No thanks,” I said.
“I’m out anyway . . . I need to go get some more.”
“You got money for that?” I asked.
She jokingly motioned with her hand and mouth like she was sucking something and shrugged like she didn’t understand. I told her again that I only had twelve bucks, and we both had a laugh.
It was almost noon. I suggested we go down the street to the 35‘er for a drink. I could figure out what my next move would be there. Marfa was already high. She agreed, said she could use a screw driver. We agreed to meet there in half an hour and she left. I picked up my duffle, slid my socked feet into my damp shower shoes and left everything else in the motel room.
I arrived at the 35’er a little early, so I went into the liquor store next door. I thought I might be able to make a few bucks if they needed the sidewalk swept or some boxes broken down, but they didn’t, so I flipped through some magazines until I got an idea to try one of those lottery scratch-offs. I bought two, one for me and one for Marfa. I had to match three Mexican hats to win the dollar amount next to them. The first ticket was a wash. I called that one hers. But on the second ticket, I got three in a row and won eighty bucks. I’d never won more than five bucks on a scratch off. Before the cashier finished counting out my prize, I’d already picked out the five-dollar bottle of vodka I was going to bootleg into the 35’er.
The 35’er was one of those places where each barstool had a light shining down on it from above, but in the spaces between the stools, no drinks lingered. It was cold enough to hang meat in there and it smelled more like mopped floor nearer the bathrooms in the back.
When I walked in, I couldn’t spot Marfa right away. My eyes needed a minute to adjust, but Patsy Cline’s “Someday You’ll Want Me to Love You” was playing on the jukebox, and I knew that was Marfa’s favorite song.
Finally, I spotted her at the middle of the bar.
“How’d you get here so fast?” I asked.
“Not bad for an old lady, huh?”
Then Senovich walked up. He was the daytime bartender, a real asswipe in my book. He always used a jigger on my drinks, but not anyone else’s.
“Good afternoon, ya son-of-a-bitch,” I said.
“What did you say?”
“I said afternoon, Senovich.”
“Wise ass.”
“Vodka water for me, and a screwdriver for my friend,” I said.
“Hi Marfa,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
“Hiya Sen,” Marfa said. “How about you make it sloe?”
“You want it up against the wall like last time?”
“Sure, if Nate’s buying.”
I nodded.
Senovich leaned in close to Marfa.
“Why do you hang out with that monumental asshole?”
“And a sandwich too,” I interrupted.
“We don’t serve food here,” Senovich said.
“Alright then, drinks are on the house!”
“Dream on, Aerosmith.”
By four o’clock, I was down to thirty bucks and I was good and drunk, hungry too.
“Hey Marfa,” I said.
“What, love?”
“If you’re not working tonight, wanna split a room?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, I want to see the ponies today, in about ten minutes, come with?”
“I love horses!”
“Well, if we leave now we can make the last race.”
“Okay, but then we get a room, mama’s been up two days, honey.”
We shared some of the vodka I had on the way to Hollywood Park, but when we got there Marfa couldn’t seem to open her purse fast enough. I wasn’t sore about not splitting the fare because I knew the track waived the entry fee for the last race, and I still felt lucky from that second lottery scratcher.
Inside the park I picked up a discarded racing program on the ground and we went directly toward the track. I loved the familiar smell of horse shit hanging in the air like a fresh-baked apple pie. When we got to the rail, I could see all the way across the track. Not a horse was out. The clock on the board said we still had eighteen minutes, which meant that we had plenty of time to get to the paddocks to view the horses, compare the odds, and pick a winner. Usually I’d bet on the horse that looked the most active. If more than one had the spirit in them, I’d bet on the one that had the better-looking coat. Recently, I’d been going on the horse’s name alone, especially if it reminded me of something nice, but if I couldn’t make up my mind, I’d just bet on the number five horse. Number five was my lucky number.
At the paddock, the jockeys were already mounted and the horses were being led to the track. I pulled Marfa by the arm and we hurried toward the infield. I wanted to see the demeanor of each horse before the start of the race. We leaned against the rail as they were being led out.
“Number seven looks like a winner,” Marfa said. “The jockey’s cute.”
I cringed. That was no way to pick a horse. I already had my winners, number four and number five. Five looked the best. She was the most spirited of the three-year-old fillies, but she had that bum Stevens on her back. He was notorious for pulling up on his rides down the straightaway. Four was a bit older, and she had the lightest jockey of the race on her, Nakatani. I’d never heard of him.
“Five looks good with nine-to-two odds on it,” I said.
“Is that good?” Marfa asked.
“Well, it isn’t the greatest, but if she wins, I can make a hundred and twenty bucks.”
“That sounds pretty good.”
Actually, it was a bit of a long shot. I checked number five’s name in the program. She was called Harriet’s Honey. A grey horse named Harriet’s Honey. What a dumb name, I thought. It didn’t feel right. I checked the race surface, and at the top of the page it said that the final heat was to be run on the turf. Better. From my experience, grey horses always won on grass. Always. Harriet’s Honey was led past us. I couldn’t help but notice that her handler was wearing one of those majestic hats that the Mexican cowboys wore, just like the ones on my lottery ticket. It was made of black velvet with silver jewels that looked like stars — it resembled a galaxy of stars in space. I thought about us standing there, little microscopic specks on this giant hat, the milky way. I thought, what does it matter if I run out of money and have to start my life all over again? I have been doing that all my life.
“Let’s go!” I said to Marfa. “I need to place my bet before they close the windows.”
“I think I’m going to stay here,” she said.
“Suit yourself, but don’t go anywhere, okay?”
“Where would I go?”
“Just . . . stay . . . here.”
I ran to the betting windows and managed to place my bet just before they closed. Ten dollars to win on number five. I kissed my ticket and went back to where I’d left Marfa. She was still there. She asked me with her eyes if I’d made it in time, and I nodded. Then we both nodded, as if we were shaking on it. We were excited, ready to see Harriet’s Honey bring it on home.
When the last horse was led onto the track, I turned to face the grandstand and looked up. Every now and then, I’d swear I thought I saw my mom in the crowd, but I’d tell myself I was just drunk. I took the vodka out and took a big warm swallow and handed it to Marfa. She took a big swig and made a bitter face. She didn’t look so good in the hot sun. The makeup on her face looked like it was melting, and around her eyes she started to look like a raccoon.
When the horses finally reached the gates, Marfa grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me. The smell of alcohol on her breath mixed with the horse shit in the air was fine by me.
“That’s for luck, Nate.”
After a few moments, the starting bell rang, and away they went.
Across the track, I couldn’t tell the horses apart. When the field spread at the number ten pole, I saw a jockey stand almost straight up. I prayed it wasn’t that bum Stevens. Then I spotted Harriet’s Honey — she was alone between the two groups. My old grey wasn’t gaining any ground on the lone leader, but the three horses ahead of her were losing ground. Ten furlongs into it, at the quarter-mile mark, it was number eight in the lead, with six, two, and now, my number five in fourth place. I turned to look at Marfa. She had her fingers crossed and her eyes tightly closed. As the horses approached the turn, my grey number five had taken the third, and was now in hard pursuit of the leader.
“Marfa!” I shouted. Everyone was shouting. “Look what she’s doing!”
“Oooh I can’t!” she howled and started running in place.
I looked at the track. They were at the top of the turn. I saw that beautiful horse fighting, digging for the lead, head bobbing, legs all a blur under her.
“Go baby! Go baby!” I yelled.
The crowd got louder as the horses drew nearer. Marfa covered her eyes. She had her back to the track and her face buried in her hands.
Out of the turn, two horses were neck and neck, and mine was one of them! No one was even close behind them. As they neared us, the ground rumbled and vibrated in my feet and chest. I’d never seen such a beautiful sight. My number five horse was tied for first and throwing up a rooster tail of grass in the air behind her, with that damned number eight sandwiching her against the opposite rail.
“Oh my god!” shouted Marfa as they thundered past us in an instant.
We didn’t see the finish. It was farther down the track to our right. The crowd roared when the horses crossed the finish line. The race was over. I gulped the rest of the vodka down and looked at the pole. It read: PHOTO FINISH . . . 6, 5, 2. It was over. I had nothing left.
“Oh Nate,” said Marfa. “That’s too bad.”
I just stood there, staring at the pole.
“Let’s go back to my place and have a drink,” Marfa said.
“You know, I could use one.”
As we walked through the stands with the crowd, most of us looked gloomy. Every now and then we’d see some happy winner with an ear-to-ear grin. The track announcer came on the public address to announce the winner.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen. We have a ruling on today’s final heat. Number six, Tiny Turbo, has been disqualified for illegal bumping. Please make note of the new results: It’s number five, Harriet’s Honey, for the win, followed by number two, Spicy Cat, placing, and number four, Lil Red Flyer in for the show.”
“Did you hear that Marfa? We won! I mean, I won . . . I won!”
“Oh my god!” she shouted.
And there we were, jumping arm in arm, like we’d just won the lottery.
“Can you believe it?” I said. “Come on, let’s get my money and go back to the 35’er, drinks are on me!”
“Can you loan me some cash? You know I’m good for it!”
“Sure Marfa, sure.”
In the taxi back to the bar, all I could think about was getting that son of a bitch to pour us drinks, and then going back to Marfa’s place and reading tomorrow’s race form. In the back of my mind, I thought maybe I’d kiss Marfa.
© Michael J. Thomson 2020