POLO LOCO

Even though he was feeling the chill to his bones, he wanted to appear relaxed and disinterested. This rich woman gave him zero attention and he certainly didn’t want her to know it bothered him. Cogitating, Buddy was older than Sam was and, after all, he had worked with horses longer. He was the manager of their boss’s ponderosa, and damn it, that made him Chief Executive Officer over Sam. An educated and logical conclusion was reached---It’s not fair! Maybe the lady in pink should be slapped with a few condescending questions. He might be too rough on her—might even get her crying, but just exactly, what was this polo-city-slicker in a pink dress doing here, trying to finagle with two rough ‘n tumble rodeo cowboys? She was yabbing on about some sissified croquet game played on polo ponies. Ha! They probably got linen napkins tucked around their collars and sip tea from a china cup and, eat crumpets while playing. And all this was going on down in some state that’s never seen a snowflake! Somebody, call a doctor.

“Ma’am,” said Buddy. “You come strutting over on our turf, riding up in your highfalutin, pink carriage, and waving your gobs of honky-tonk money and, personally, I think you look pretty foolish. Pretty damn foolish! Your pink go-cart matches your little pink dress, and frankly, you remind me of an under qualified, middle-aged, Barbie doll. Ma’am, where in hell did you come from?

“Shut—up, Buddy,” Sam growled quietly. Maggie’s ears went flat. Ethel Parks put on a smile that might sound like a screech, and folding her arms across her petite frame, took a warrior stance in her stiletto heels. Freezing or not, she cocked her head to deal with this punk one last time. She didn’t blast him with both barrels, having to reach into her arsenal of vernacular snobbery, for she thought her time more valuable.

“Been to Hawaii. Know where that is, cowboy? Unplanned stopover here—brother-in-law’s house merely ten miles to the west. Pink go-cart? It WAS Elvis’ car once and now it’s one of many in my brother-in-laws collection. Palm Beach, tomorrow.  Don’t need winter clothes, except for skiing in the Alps---or standing here like a fool talking with you.”

“Anyway,” she said looking back at Sam, smiling. “Mr. Seneca Travis, would you be interested? I know it’s a short notice but it was a fluke to even hear about you at all, this evening. Hector simply left—and according to Mr. Poker at the barn, you haven’t immediate family living near by. He said you’re a bachelor living in a small apartment in town, and well, we thought we would give you a try.” She smiled optimistically. Before Sam could speak, her vocal cords were making more noise. “Oh, and one other thing—I think you’ll like this. Mr. Parks and I are willing to pay the rent on your flat here for six months while you’re working for us in Palm Beach this winter.”

“Poker sure didn’t hold back on you’re history,” Buddy pouted to Sam.

“When’s departure time?” asked Sam, head swimming. Maggie shifted her weight to one side and let her back hoof go limp. Her nostrils blew out a dense burst of foggy air, whereby, the car’s low beams highlighted the moist breath freezing up and dropping, mixing with the falling snow.

“Right now, darling.” A gust of cold wind whipped by and she clutched the collar of her wrap before throwing up her other gloved hand to catch her flat cap so it wouldn’t set sail.

“George… Mr. Parks has an appointment tomorrow in Connecticut and we’ll be back in Palm Beach for my bridge club early Monday afternoon.  As for now, we need to be at the airport in about an hour. If you are interested, I will give you a thousand dollar bonus to pick-up and leave right this minute.”  She glanced at a sparkling wristwatch fastened around her white glove. “I am afraid we’ll not have time to stop at your apartment, but I think the advanced bonus will provide an adequate wardrobe when you get to Palm Beach.” She paused, her mascara tear smudged for a second by the brisk sting of the wind to her eyes before freezing and there was a feathery coat of snow covering her mink shoulders.

Sam attempted to speak but her mouth raged on like the winter storm, still hard selling the job offer. Buddy glared.

“We need,” she continued, “a trainer, a player, and someone to doctor injured ponies. We will give you appropriate raises. And if you stay on with us, you can buy your own horses at the track and board them rent free, at our barn. Train your own ponies in your spare time and sell them to high-goal players. It so simple and so very lucrative.”

Again, Sam opened his mouth to speak and once more he was cut off.  He waited for an insightful owl hoot but he knew even feathered friends couldn’t get a word in edgewise.