Kicking a Dead Horse Page 2

  He begins to stroll back and forth, extreme downstage, continuing to address the audience.

  (Strolling.) Long story short, it must have been some other poor fool’s destiny I had been assigned to because I couldn’t recognize it in any way, shape, or form as my own. Not one drop. Not even the simplest act, like turning a doorknob or opening the mailbox or addressing the doorman by name. Doorman? Oh yes, I had become quite the big-ass success, no less. No question about that. Quite the big shot on the block. But somewhere along the trail the thrill of the kill had eluded me. The ecstasy of power—and now there was a kind of constant hankering for actuality. Hankering? How else can you put it? The sense of being inside my own skin. That’s what I missed. That’s what I missed more than anything else in this world.

  (Direct to audience.) How could you lose something like that?

  He returns to the self-inquiry between the two voices and forgets about the audience.

  (To himself.) Are we supposed to reach out now and somehow walk a mile in your sorry shoes? Now that you’ve managed to get yourself into this jam? What is the petition you’re making, exactly? You’re not an immigrant, are you?

  A what?

  Immigrant.

  Why should that be?

  You sound funny. Suspicious.

  Funny?

  Foreign.

  I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the way you’re hearing it.

  Don’t try to put it off on me, now.

  I’m not.

  Are you the son of an immigrant, maybe?

  Probably so. What’s the point?

  The son of the son of an immigrant? Twice removed?

  Twice?

  One of those white barbarians Benjamin Franklin brought over to protect us from the Appalachian wilderness?

  ABSOLUTELY NOT!

  Then what’s your story? Why beat around the bush?

  Hobart stops. Turns to audience.

  (Directly to audience.) “AUTHENTICITY.”

  Pause, then continues to audience:

  The little conundrum mounted slowly to a frantic state of crisis. I was running out of time. Birthdays flying by—I could see it coming. I sat down with the wife, face-to-face. Told her—look now, here it is; right here in front of me. I’ve turned the corner. I can feel it creaking in my bones, my teeth—the eyes are all cloudy in the mornings now. It’s coming to get me, I swear. Maybe ten good physical years left and that’s it—tits up; roll over, Beethoven. Ten years left to still throw a leg over a horse, like I used to; still fish waist-deep in a western river; still sleep out in the open on flat ground under the starry canopy—like I used to.

  Pause, to himself:

  When was that? This—“used to”? When was that?

  Long pause. He stares out, then begins to stroll aimlessly, kicking at the dirt. He talks to himself and the audience again.

  The kids had all flown the coop. Empty nesters—that’s us—suddenly. It happens just like that. You don’t see it coming. Sitting around, folded up on sofas, sipping tea and reading The Week in Review—the world going up in smoke across the blue Atlantic. Internecine warfare. Remote. Pathetic stuff. Truly. Impotent. What’s there to do? I proposed it to her gently, although she had no trouble seeing the sense of it, especially since my nervous condition had gone from bad to worse, constant pacing all hours of the day and night, talking to myself—which is no surprise—and then sudden, unpredictable bursts of fury where I’d rip valuable objects of art off the walls and hurl them out the windows into the lush canyon of Park Avenue: Frederic Remingtons wrapped around the lampposts, for instance; Charlie Russells impaled on bus stop signs, crushed by maniacal yellow taxis. All stuff I’d discovered back in my “truer” days, hanging out worthless in lost Wyoming bars, skunk drunk in Silver Dollar saloons, staring bleary up at these masterful western murals nobody could recognize anymore through the piled up years of grime, tobacco juice, and barroom brawl blood. There they were—forgotten—just hanging dusty and crooked above the whiskey.

  He shifts into dialogue voices:

  “How much you want for that old cow painting up there?”

  “That? Never thought about it. Why would you want to buy something like that?”

  “Aw, just to hang up in the tack room, you know. Conversation piece.”

  “Hell, I guess I’d take twenty bucks for it. Never look at the damn thing anyway, anymore. My back’s always facing it.”

  “Twenty bucks? I’ll take it.”

  Shifts back to speaking to audience directly:

  Turned that twenty into a hundred grand, that hundred grand into a million. Whole thing just kinda snowballed. I raided every damn saloon, barn, and attic west of the Missouri—north and south, took truckloads of booty out of that country before anyone even began to take notice. Some of it’s hanging in national museums now. What I couldn’t see, though, was how those old masterpieces would become like demons, glaring down at me, nostrils flaring, Colt revolvers blazing away. Couldn’t see that back then for hell or high water. Things come back to haunt you, that’s for sure.

  He turns, looks at horse.

  Like my horse—this horse right here.

  He moves toward the horse.

  I told the wife I’d been dreaming about my old horse—the one I’d left behind years before all this success with paintings. I had one good one left, out in the Sand Hills on open range. Course, he was just a colt back then—big, good-lookin’ son of a buck, too. Kept visiting me night after night. Just appearing in the dark—standing there with all his tack on—waiting—beckoning with his big brown eyes. I took it as some kind of a sign—some omen or other.

  He pauses by the hole and sounds the word down into it—an echo answers back.

  OMEN.

  He moves back toward the horse.

  If I’d known how short he was going to last I’d have thought about it twice, that’s for damn sure. Setting off into the Great Beyond with a doomed mount. Look at that. DEAD! Can you believe it? There he is.

  He kicks the horse.

  And now I’ve had to dig the gaping hole, of course. Can’t just leave him out here to rot in the ragged wind. Let the coyotes and vultures rip him to ribbons. I’m not that callous. Horse served me well, back in the day when work was work. Served me damn well.

  Pause. He looks down into the pit.

  Been a good long while since I’ve dug a hole this big, by hand, by God. Back then, of course, I had a spine like a steel rod. Wind and muscle—now—now, it’s like every pained shovelful is about to be your last. Every scoop. Pathetic. Got her done, anyhow. Got her good and done. Deep enough to keep the varmints from digging him back up. All that’s left to do now is to tip him in and fill it up.

  Hobart gets down on his knees and puts his shoulder into the rib cage of the horse on the upstage side, trying to roll the horse over and into the hole. He makes great heaving efforts with no result, as he goes on speaking, breathing harder now.

  (Struggling with horse.) This is somehow not at all the way I’d envisioned it, back in the planning stage, back in the flush excitement of seeing myself setting out like Lewis and Clark, across the wild unknown. But maybe all it ever is, is blinded by the dreaming of what it might become.

  Hobart switches to the stiff front legs, rising to his feet. He shoves on the legs with the same intention but no result. Then, slowly, the body of the horse begins to rotate. Hobart switches to the hind legs and struggles with them in the same way. Again, inch by inch, the horse rotates slightly so that all four feet are finally sticking straight up in the air and the horse is resting on its spine. Hobart continues talking as he keeps changing positions on the horse, going from front to back, shoulder to hip, putting his whole body into it.

  (Struggles.) Look what became of him, for example—one of them—Lewis, wasn’t it? Mr. Meriwether—what in the world was he thinking? Shot himself with two pistols in some dark, slab-sided cabin on the Natchez Trace. Imagine that. A pistol to the head and a pistol to the heart
. Wanted to make damn sure he was dead, I guess. What was he thinking? To wind up like that—after opening up all that great expanse of country—maybe he realized something. Maybe he foresaw something. Maybe he saw exactly what we were going to do with it. Maybe he did. But me—not me—this is not what I foresaw, for sure. Nothing like this. Some dumb show—struggling with a dead horse, mumbling to myself in front of a gaping hole you’ve spent a solid day digging, rambling on to imagined faceless souls. There must be plenty out here, that’s for sure. Faceless. Not that I require an audience, God knows. Don’t get me wrong. I need no witnesses to this—whatever it is. I could just as easy keep it all silent, I suppose, but just the sound of it keeps me company. Voices.

  Pause. He listens.

  Some sense of company. Other ones, out here. There’s got to be some sailing spirits somewhere in all this space. The ones they left behind. The ones that left them and wandered off. Dazed and weaving. Drowned in sand. Skin peeled back like red birch bark. There’s got to be some still out there. One or two at least—maybe right here now—floating—gazing down in dismay at this little sad display.

  Hobart has wound up exhausted, lying back on the horse’s belly, staring up at the sky—the horse’s legs stiff and vertical on either side of him, as though cradling him. Suddenly, Hobart snaps himself out of his reverie and jumps to his feet.

  There you go, rhyming again! Now you’ve caught yourself rhyming!

  Mocks himself.

  “Gazing down in dismay at this little sad display”! Have you got no shame! Who the fuck are you supposed to be now? William Butler Yeats or something? What is the matter with you? This FUCKING HORSE!!

  He rushes to the horse and kicks it furiously in the ribs, then stops himself and turns to the audience, somewhat sheepishly.

  (To audience.) You wouldn’t think a common saddle horse could weigh as much as this.

  He stares at the horse, which remains rigidly on its spine, legs pointing stiffly to the sky.

  Of course, dead weight is famous for being heavier than live. All I need to do is tip him down into the hole there. Just tip him in. Easy enough to say.

  He goes to the edge of the pit and looks down.

  Bound to be deep enough, don’t you think?

  (Looks at audience.) I’m not climbing back down in there with the shovel, that’s for sure. Can’t help but feel you’re digging your own damn tomb, with the damp walls growing higher and higher all around you, every shovelful. The smell too—the deeper you go. The history of it. The dinosaur bones. Ancient, aching bones. The fossil fuels. All the shit that rolls through your numb skull as you shovel, one scoop at a time. Tedious stuff. You’d be surprised, the way the mind can’t sit still—squirming—harking back—leaping forward. Usually always back now, though—rarely forward. No future—not with a dead horse and no prospects but hoofing it out into the Lone Prairie for days on end.

  He sounds words down into the hole.

  THE LONE PRAIRIE!

  He listens to the echo.

  What’s it come to? What exactly did you have in mind? Intentional exile? What could you hope to find? There’s nothing out here. No one! Not a single sorry soul. Look—just take a look.

  He holds the binoculars up, stares, then quickly brings them down, in a panic.

  I’ve got to get this horse down in the hole. Now! That’s all I know.

  He rushes back to the horse in a frenzy and again tries to tip it over into the hole, but the horse won’t budge beyond the halfway position. Hobart continues struggling as he speaks.

  (Pushing on horse.) Fucking horse! Fucking goddamn horse!

  Kicks horse.

  Look at that! Even dead he won’t play ball. Stuck! Hung up. What’s the justice in it? I guess I could just leave him. Just turn my back and leave him belly-up, hooves pointed to the heavens. There’s plenty others’d do just that, believe you me. Ride a horse into the ground—shoot him for hamburger—eat him raw, some of them. I’ve known that kind. Yes, indeed. Barbarians.

  Pause, puts binoculars up again and scans horizon.

  They must have been a desperate bunch—the pioneers—mountain men. Can you imagine?

  Lowers binoculars.

  All this—space. What were they thinking? Just movement—migration—but me—what about me? I’d get out here, on my own, miles from nowhere, and somehow feel miraculously at peace? One with the wilderness? Suddenly—just from being out here, I’d become what? What? Whole? After a whole lifetime of being fractured, busted up, I’d suddenly become whole? The imagination’s a terrible thing. No question about it.

  Pause.

  Well, you can’t very well go back now, can you? Tail between your legs. She’d laugh you right out of the house.

  Shifts into dialogue voices.

  She? You’re not going to tell me you’re actually missing someone now, are you? The wife? The kids. The Mom. The Dead.

  She was amazing to me. She was.

  Was?

  Is. Still. But then—

  In the past?

  Yes. In the past. She was beyond belief. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

  Oh, please—spare me.

  She was—

  What? Authentic, I suppose?

  Beyond—

  What’s that? What’s beyond authentic?

  More—more than you can imagine.

  Don’t make me puke. You put yourself in this situation, now face the music.

  I’m just saying—

  What?

  She—

  You obviously can’t explain her.

  No.

  You can’t make do without her either. Is that it?

  Hobart wanders toward stage-left mound of earth and sits on it, resting, as he reminisces to himself.

  I thought I could. I had—in the past. I had been utterly alone—at other times. Completely. Without a soul. Not even family. So I know what that was like. To some extent—but—I mean, I thought I could handle it. It didn’t terrify me anymore. Complete aloneness. Not like when you’re little and—in the dark, listening—screams—distant—broken glass. Not like that—anymore. You learn to make do. Make toast. Little fires. Sing a song to yourself. Hum a little. Still—I preferred being with her. Really. I did. It was nice. The companionship. Someone—something you could depend on. Take walks with. Have tea together. Coffee. Read the paper. Sleep with side by side. Touch—and even, talk. Sometimes. Sex. Sometimes. Talk about whatever—although she loved politics. Liked to get excited about it. I despised it, so that became—what? Stale, I guess. Awkward after a while. But we got along. Don’t get me wrong. We became—tolerant, I guess. Of each other’s—what do you call them? Idiosyncrasies? Yes. That’s it. Except for those occasional times when she’d explode and call me an asshole. Those were the moments I suddenly realized the depth of her anger. How much she deeply resented me. Surprising. Time together does that. Then we’d inevitably go silent. Sometimes days. A week and a half at most. But then—

  Sings in old country western mode:

  “Together Again.”

  Back to spoken voice.

  Back to the old routine. Everything forgotten. So you can see how it became hard for me to imagine myself without her.

  Suddenly, he leaps to his feet, disgusted with his self-indulgence. Back to dialogue voices:

  SNAP OUT OF IT!

  What? Sorry—

  There’s times I don’t recognize you at all.

  Like when?

  Like now, for instance. I ask myself, who is this person I blindly follow? Who’s placed me in this precarious situation with no concern whatsoever for my welfare or safety? Who is this dangerous person?

  Dangerous?

  He laughs.

  You can laugh. Have you thought about how you’re going to get our asses out of here without a horse?

  Our asses?

  Yours and mine.

  Well—we’ve got beans enough. Beans enough for a week at least. Bacon. Jerky. Trail mix. Plenty of water
. I’m not worried.

  He goes to the duffel bag and equipment down right and rummages through stuff.

  Glad to see you were thinking ahead.

  I’m well prepared for the worst.

  You need to trim down.

  What?

  Trim. Cull. Get rid of some of this extra junk. Looks like a damn yard sale or something. How are you going to carry all of this out of here without a horse? Get rid of it.

  Like what?

  The saddle, for instance. Toss it down the hole.

  The saddle? Bury the saddle?

  The horse is dead.

  True, but—

  Toss it.

  Hobart goes to the saddle, picks it up, drags it to edge of pit, hesitates, looks down into hole, looks at audience.

  Just toss it. You’ll get over it.

  Hobart throws the saddle down into the pit, a resounding thud; looks after it, fondly.