Outgrown Horses by Mia Siegert

          “You should keep Sam here with me,” Daniel said. Brent had picked up Sam nine months ago at an auction. He was a mangy 17.1hh giant with a thick coat of brown fur mostly hiding his thin body. They listed him as a four-year-old trakehner, although Brent suspected he was crossbred with another Germanic horse. Hanson was a predominantly western environment, and the only expected bids for Sam were for the slaughterhouse. Brent watched the gelding trot alongside his handler. Sam’s neck rounded, he stretched his legs in a beautiful extension, then yanked the lead rope from the handler and reared in the corner of the arena.

     Brent put in his bid, and won.

     “The hell you gonna do with him, Brent?” Michael Jingoes, the auction’s proprietor, asked as Brent paid in cash. Brent didn’t answer, but secured Sam’s halter and lead rope, mounted Delilah, and ponied him back to his barn. Grained three times a day, and put on a slow fitness regime, Sam began developing muscle, especially in the crest of his neck. Brent assumed that Sam had been gelded late. With good grooming, Sam shed his dingy brown hair to leave a stunning black with the smallest of a star and pink snip. They looked like someone dribbled paint.

     Sam was the most dangerous horse Brent had to break and now, as a five-year-old, he wasn’t any easier. Sam was fast, careful, and had a lot of scope, but he reared and bucked and spooked.

     Daniel had been craving Japanese food, and Brent never had sushi, so he drove them an hour to the “best place,” which was three towns over from Hanson.

     They travelled down the deep slope of the valley to get there only to find that it was closed for renovation. Daniel’s mood soured, and they drove around a bit until getting pizza to go. Parked in the gorge, they ate it on the hood of Daniel’s truck and drank orange Fanta. And now, Daniel wanted Sam. “I’ve got the ring, the jumps, the trailer. Could really do something with him.”

          “He’s too dangerous to sell. Someone’d get killed.”

          “You’d ride him. I just want him at mine. Looks good for clients to see a cowboy riding a difficult horse. Plus it’d be good for you to get away from those hicks and ride some real horses. Not backyard train wrecks.”

          Brent didn’t want to admit it, but Daniel’s deal sounded good. His barn was big with manicured jumping fields and an indoor ring. Sometimes Daniel would call and tell Brent to come over to his farm and ride. He’d usually let Brent ride at least one of his sale horses and jump a course or work on his flatwork. Brent usually got the green and spooky horses but once in awhile he’d get to ride a nice horse. He never knew that jumping could be simple until the first time he rode one of Daniel’s clients’ horses. The chestnut mare was hot, fast, easy, and careful. Daniel schooled one of his grand prix horses at the same time as Brent, and the jump crew raised the fences higher and higher. That was the first time Brent jumped a course that was just shy of a small grand prix. He didn’t miss a single distance, and turned as tight as a barrel racer.

          When Daniel asked him if he could school one more horse, Brent eagerly agreed. The second horse was a dirty stopper, and still elated from his first ride, Brent was overconfident, trusted the horse too much, and was dumped at the third jump. He took the poles and standards down with him. 

          Brent scratched his thigh. “I quit working for John.”

          “You what?”

          Brent shrugged, and sipped his Fanta. “You could smell the hate there.” Across the gorge he could hear cows mooing, it was getting dark. He glanced at Daniel, who looked like he was trying to say something but couldn’t figure out what.

          “When?”

          “Today.”

          “Today? You didn’t tell me?!”

          “Wasn’t important.”

          “Of course it is. How the hell are you going to make a living?”

          “I’ve got the Harrisons.”

          “You know they won’t fill your pockets.”

          “I can sell Ready Go and the colt, get something else from slaughter, do a turn around.”

          “Brent, you don’t do turn arounds.”

          “I just haven’t marketed Ready Go. Or the colt. They’ll go fast.”

          “They’ve got no show records. No pedigree. No nice barn. Just a little, fenced in field next to a run down barn. You’re not going to get more than $5,000, and even then you’d be lucky.”

          “That’d still be a profit. Maybe I could show them to potential buyers at yours.”

     “They’re going to wonder what’s wrong with them, why they’re selling so ‘cheap’ at mine. You won’t get a bite. Jesus, Brent. Why the hell would you do something that stupid?”

     Brent capped his soda bottle. Empty. He looked at the pizza box, but didn’t take another slice. “It was personal.”

     Daniel’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Started up shit about you being gay?”

     “Not me.”

     Daniel didn’t understand. Then did. He felt in his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and offered one to Brent.

     “You smoke?” Brent asked, and shook his head. Daniel shrugged and shoved the pack back in his pocket.

     “If I can’t drink and drive, at least I can smoke.”

     Daniel ignited his lighter, hand shielding the flame as he sucked the amber flame to the end of his cigarette. He set the lighter down on the hood of his truck, then took a drag. “So, what’d he say about me?”

    “You don’t want to know.”      

    “Of course I want to know.”

     Brent frowned. “He saw me show. Said something like ‘at least you beat that faggot,’ and ‘no man should look at you the way he does.’ Or something like that.”

     Daniel pulled the cigarette from his lips and laughed. He coughed on smoke, shook his head, and kept on laughing.

     “Daniel?” Brent asked.

     “Seriously, you quit because he thought I was queer? Fuck me, that’s great. Ha, ha.”

     “You don’t care?”

     “Let him think what he wants. I’m confident.”

     “That wasn’t what I meant.”

     “What’d you mean?”

     “You know what I mean.”

     Daniel’s laughter simmered out. He took a drag and put the lighter back in his pocket. “Fuck him with a donkey. You know, you could send your horses to a sporthorse auction. Probably get more money than if you sold them on your own.”

     Brent thought about saying one thing, then changed his mind. Sometimes Brent wondered what Daniel thought. Daniel was hard to figure out. Brent wondered when Daniel changed. Was it sudden, or a slow transformation over the years? Daniel could be kind. Daniel used to be kind. Daniel still sometimes was kind, but that kindness was disappearing.

     “Were you listening to me at all?” Daniel was annoyed.

          Brent hesitated, then guessed. “I’m not sending them to auction.” He must have guessed right because Daniel seemed okay and his anger was gone.

          “You could sell Sam to Marc,” Daniel suggested. “That’d be $100,000 off the bat.”

          “$100,000?!” Brent got tense. He braced his back. “You told me anything less than sixty was a rip off. I thought you meant he was worth around that.”

          “Couldn’t evaluate him fairly jumping a course as low as you did. But God, that horse is fast and careful.”

          Show jumping was Daniel’s game, but Brent didn’t think the jumps were that small, especially on a horse that was that green. Daniel put a hand on Brent’s shoulder. Brent didn’t think it was sincere.

          “He’s a great prospect. Really, you should have kept your job longer, then you’d do better financially and could wait longer. Price is only gonna go up from there.”

          “Jesus…”

       “I’ll call him right now.”

     Brent looked over the gorge. He could make out the shadows of cattle, but couldn’t distinguish sheep from goats. “I’ll think about it.”

          Daniel paused. “You’re turning down $100,000? Brent, that’s more money than you’d see in your life.”

          “Marc didn’t make an offer.”

          “He wouldn’t think twice about buying him.”

          “You said a bit longer and his value would go up, right?”

          “He needs to compete to do that. If you want my advice, sell him now, or find a way to get showing. This horse wants to do it, Brent. You can’t hold him back.”

     “Are there any other options?”

     “Keep him going the way you are now, which is getting you nowhere.”

     “What would you do? If you were me, I mean.”

     “Sell the beast and get a few other prospects. You’ve got a good eye for horses.”

     Brent looked at the box of pizza, and took a slice. Daniel squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s go to the liquor store and have a party. Party of two, me and you. Or see if there’s anyone hot there we can bring back. Gotta celebrate you not being in the poor house.”

     Brent put back the slice of pizza he took, untouched otherwise. He didn’t feel like eating anymore. In the gorge, he heard the screaming of baby foxes. When Brent was little, those sounds scared him until his father said what they were, then went out hunting, and came back with a tail. He hung it up in Brent’s bedroom. The white tip looked like a ghost in the night. Brent took it down.

     “I don’t want to sell him yet.”

     “Every horse is for sale.”

     Brent didn’t like the way Daniel said that, but it was mostly true. Everyone in the horse world knew that. That was one of the first things you learned. Brent had on the horse he learned how to ride on. He came home one day, and Bingo wasn’t there. Someone was looking for a safe horse for their kid, Brent’s mother said, and they had enough money to buy Brent another horse and keep some. He got the new horse, mounted, and was bucked off before he had the chance to put his feet in the stirrups, sprained his wrist. When his arm was in a brace, Brent rode with the other hand on the reins. Eventually, he got that horse to stop bucking and his parents sold him. They then got Brent an old, swayback mare with a club foot who wasn’t worth much, couldn’t do much, and wasn’t much impressive. That mare had to be put down, and there was no money from a sale to buy Brent a new horse.

     He wondered what would have happened if Daniel’s mom hadn’t given him Delilah. He’d have probably only been able to ride some of his Dad’s horses, when his father wasn’t working cattle or doing rodeos. He’d never have sat in an English saddle, or learned how to jump high, even if Daniel thought he jumped low.

     Daniel didn’t stop at a liquor store, and Brent recognized the way back to his house. He didn’t want to go home. And, though he didn’t want to, he asked if Daniel wanted to go to a bar or club. Daniel looked surprised, but said he had to teach some lessons in the morning. Brent didn’t remind him that an hour before Daniel had suggested other plans.

     Everything was dark at Brent’s house—the barn, too. He unlocked his door before Daniel turned his car around and drove back down the driveway. Everything seemed empty, the house too big for one. He took off his shoes, walked up the stairs, changed into boxers and a t-shirt, then got in bed. He wished he could sleep. He got out of bed again and walked to the window. It was too dark to see properly, but he didn’t want to turn on the light.

     There wasn’t much to do that didn’t involve horses. He had an old TV with a DVD player, but not a lot of movies. He didn’t have a computer. He didn’t have many books, either. He had some riding instruction books, some on equine veterinarian practice, and some like Black Beauty and Shane. In school, he borrowed what he needed for class.

     Brent walked back to his bed, flicked on the lamp, and knelt down. He reached under and pulled out a plain box. It was a gag joke from Daniel on Brent’s 18^th birthday, magazines Brent would never dare get on his own. Brent took the top magazine off and leafed through the pages. None of the guys at Mustangs looked like the guys in the magazines. The closest was one guy near the end who was blond and small like Daniel.

     Brent put the magazine back in its box, and back under his bed. He stripped, then lay on top of the covers, turned the light out. It seemed less wrong that way. He was silent except for his heavy pants and the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Once, he’d called one of the phone numbers advertised in the back of the magazine. The sound of another man’s voice did him in. It felt dangerous. Like someone could be listening even though, by then, he was living alone.  He hung up before he had the chance to get off.

     That night, he’d tried to build up the momentum, tried to imagine the men, tried to imagine himself as one of them, but he only saw Daniel. He tried to distract himself, but Daniel kept coming back. And he wanted it, wanted him, wanted to watch Daniel ride just like he used to when they were kids and Brent was jump crew, while Daniel took his lessons. Brent thought about rodeos, saddle broncs, bareback, bull riding. Stud farms, show grounds, Mustangs. Daniel. Brent arched his back, bit his forearm to keep quiet, and came. He trembled on the blankets before wiping up with tissues, then pulled his boxers and t-shirt back on, got under the covers, and closed his eyes. He thought about Daniel, thought he could get hard again, but it wouldn’t do much good. Dreams of Daniel were the closest he could come.  

Mia Siegert is a graduate student concentrating on fiction in the MFA Creative Writing program at Goddard College. She received honorable mention in the 2009 Montclair State University English Department Awards for fiction with her story, “A Vertical West.” She is currently a drama editor for The Pitkin Review. For more information about Siegert, please visit her website at: www.miasiegert.com