Brooklyn Cowboy This story may have started out long ago, but has always been close in my heart. Dragging ourselves out of bed at 4 in the morning, into the early silence of our respective houses. Fast cup of coffee slammed down. Check through the gear one last time, because once on our way, there was no going back. You'd have to do without. Gloves, gum, jacket for the chill. No time for a bus. No extra money to be spent; they'd give us a quick breakfast that we'd linger over, then out into the day. I'd first seen them putting together the structures that would become the barn and stables and ring coming back from some family trek and wondered what they would become. Saw, I think back now, a notice in the paper or a sign. Fate, the time we were living in, and our musical choices did the rest. A riding stable, the late '70s, the Eagles, and WHN, a real old time country station in New York. Disco. Guys with gold chains. The failure of the preceding generation. Wanting something different. And my best friend, with a like mind, caused it all to happen. "Let's go check it out." he'd said. "Let's ride." I said. I knew my way around horses, or so I thought. So we begged 10 bucks and walked the way. Down Rockaway Parkway to the pier, then along the shore a mile or two. It was raw, but it was coming together. And I could feel my friend's itch, hear the plan forming in both our heads. We were always nothing but different than everything and everyone around us. We'd found each other for that reason. And now we felt, in some strange way, home. We saw something we desperately wanted to become a part of. 9:00am. Cool and misty with the shore's chill. A bit disorganized at first. Shunning the step that most used to get on their horses. Five or six others with us. An hombre trying to keep it all together. I was rusty and would be sore after, but I was to awed and shy all the ride. Soaked up what the hombre said, the sights and sounds and smells, the horse on its own beneath me. We hung out that whole morning, talking, smiling shy smiles at the work going on around us, taking it all in. trying to pick out who was who, what was where, trying to screw up enough courage to ask a question forming in our hearts but too scared at the thought of rejection. We asked around politely, from the waitress to an old hand until we saw the man we sought. My friend spoke first. "Excuse me sir." The man was busy with a thousand details and it showed. "Yeah, what can I do for ya?" "Are there any jobs here?" "Jobs?" His eyes cleared and he saw us. Looked us over and really saw us. "Something for us to do? We can do, will do anything." "Jobs." He stopped long enough and someone came over and pressed a cup of coffee in his hand. "Ever worked on a ranch before?" He saw our faces drop, could feel in the air our desperation. Seemed like he'd known a little something about it. "You can start in the barn. Pick up a shovel and do what comes natural. Dollar an hour. Be here at 5, that's AM, get yourselves some breakfast, lunch at 1. We'll see how you work out. My name's Pete, and I'm the boss around here. Pay you when you're done." We all shook hands, and he asked our names. He pointed to the barns, "Now go boys and do a good job. Don't disappoint me. Show up and you'll work. There's always something for you to be doing." "Yessir," we'd said. And starting that day we began to shovel our first ton of manure. Learn the other men's names and faces and jobs. Began to become Brooklyn Cowboys. Up at 4, coffee, then a long walk into the dawn. If we weren't awake (more usually a Sunday) we took the bus part way. Then the walk along the shore, to more coffee, lots of hellos, then to Pete for our mornings assignment. We shoveled, we cleaned, we carried. We asked tons of questions of all the old hands they'd brought in to get the place going. We were young and dumb, made not too many mistakes though. We showed up every weekend, and our knowledge grew and grew. We went from dollar an hour shit shovellers to handlers to the ultimate: trail riders. We developed good relationships with the best horses and rode all the time. One day, as I was saddling up, I was adjusting the chinch strap that holds the saddle to the horse around it's belly when one of the old hands, who'd been watching me, comes over and checks it. Wham, up comes his knee into the horse's belly, and as I turned to protest his ill treatment of my mount, the horse deflated, and I could chinch up almost three more notches on the strap. "They'll fill up with air like a balloon, then when they let it out you get dumped. Hard. Keep your knee in it and you'll be OK." "Thanks" "Ya needed to know. Them hosses are tricky bassards," he said and walked away. � Months after we'd been there, after nods from the old hands, some reinstruction when we'd felt confident doing something alone, finally feeling like real cowboys, we decided to go to the only real cowboy bar in New York City. Sawdust on the floor, Lonestars in out hand, Saturday night never felt better. Good music from a live band, foot on the brass rail, looking old enough to crack jokes with the waitresses and nod to the barman who served us. Every crease in our hats earned, every crack in our boots deserved, every callus on our hands or rope burn on our palms hard won. There were others among us, and they nodded or smiled to us and made us feel right at home. In walks in a guy with all the look. 200 hat, 300 shirt, 500 boots. Comes and sits next to us, the faint horse aroma coming off us probably attracted him. Bought us a beer. Told us, in a drawl, how much he loved horses, the West, the whole real deal. We looked at his hands, his clothes, his boots and didn't know what to say. "Where do you ride?" we finally said to him. "Ride?" "Yeah, where do you ride?" "Well I don't actually ride. I go to horse shows and once a year to a, uh, ranch." "A dude ranch?" "Yeah, well, um, you know." "No sir, I certainly don't. But if you want to come ride with us, here's where we work. We'll take you out." "On a horse?" We looked at each other. The barkeep had had one ear cocked towards us, and when he caught my eye he winked. He popped two more for us. "Mister, these two young fellas ride. They work for a living. These two are on you." "Sure, no thing." "Come out with us tomorrow. It's going to be a good day out there." He picked up his beer, slapped a twenty on the counter, and said, "Sure, hey, well thanks. Maybe I'll see you out there. Thanks." And walked away to study the juke box. "He probably can't figure out where to put the quarter," the barkeep said, "They come in all the time. Wouldn't know which end of a horse to feed. They're okay. Harmless. Good for business. As long as they just drink and not get anywhere near a real live horse. They might get dirty or something." We just laughed. And we never did see that guy out at the Ranch. Sad. He might've like it. Or it would have shattered that TV dream he had about it all. Horses are mean, horses are tricky, horses are crazy. They're unpredictable. They're just like us. They do what they want when they want how they want, except when you let them know you're meaner, trickier, and crazier than they are. That's what I learned. Every day at the ranch was a different day. Since we were so close to the shore, hot days were the most different. By about 11:00 am, the horses were a bit tired, a bit cranky, hot. This was the hardest time to ride. And for us the busiest time. You'd tell people who came all the time to come earlier, or come later, and some would listen, but some never got it. You'd say the horses were fresher earlier, or the days cooler at the end, the sunsets beautiful, the rides longer. But the 11 o'clock ride was always the fullest, 15 or 17 people would show up, to be guided by the two of us. For us, to get through it was a miracle. For the horses and riders to get through it unscathed was a revelation. There was a god. Here's how the rides worked. You'd meet the riders by the barn doors, check out what they were wearing, clothes and footgear. No long scarves, no soft shoes, glasses ties on with a string. No crops; people bought these things, but to hit a horse you don't know only makes them mad. Mad horses are vengeful. They'll take you through bramble to shed your clothes or you. They'll roll over on their sides to get you off. 500 pounds rolling over you legs means I call the ambulance and carefully tell you while you're screaming that you'd signed a waiver, and couldn't sue for spit. After the check you'd saddle up. There was a step you stood on, and I handed you the reins for the first tome. First you left foot in the stirrup, then swing on up into the saddle, then your right foot in the stirrup. I held the horses head and checked all the leather: left stirrup secure and chinched for your leg length; bridle OK, bit loose in its mouth, then the right stirrup. Usually had to tell them to keep the bit easy in the horse mouth, just a gentle pressure where you want it to go. Then I'd send you forward, to group with the others at the end of the corral. One of us helped the riders mount up and the other rode herd, answered questions, allayed nervousness, kept everyone together. We really didn't worry about the riders, except when we could see who watched too many movies. It was the horses that we checked. We knew them and they knew us, so we could size up the people and pick who should go with who. Some people just eased into it, others got nervous and the horses would pick up on it. Unpredictable. Then I'd mount up, never with the step, thank you, and would take control of the group. One of us would lead, the other nursed the riders along. Onto the trail we would go. A short walk, then a cantor, the a short stop to regroup, then a hard gallop along the sand, then home back to the corral. About an hour's worth of ride. Unless... A hot morning early, me not yet awake, the horses irritable. We were twitchy. As soon as we hit the beach, one of the lead horses took off, the young rider on his back unable to control him. I went after him, riding tight like you see pony express riders ride, to cut him off. One of stirrups had snapped; the horse was out of control, and heading for the fastest part of the ride. I cut him off, pulled my horse into a tight turn right in front of him. But I flew off; the turn too tight, and hit the ground hard. Had a bruise from my armpit to my knee. As I saddled back up, I took the other horse's reins and let him back to the corral. Not a word from the other rider, not a look, no thank you or anything. I left him with another stable hand, went back to my group and took over the ride. All part of the job, I guess. A beer later took the edge off my hurt. Or when it was too hot and when the horses would see all that cool water, they would bolt for it. Another hell ride and I didn't always make it. Horses would go out into about of 4 feet of surf. They loved it. Most times it was OK; all anyone ever got was a little wet, but I was worried about them rolling to cool off. They would roll if anyone got a little too rough with the reins or kick them like they saw in the movies. So it wasn't always a relaxing ride out on the beach. We earned our keep. (We'd come home, tired, sweaty, and not just with our own sweat, but our horse's.) I can't remember when it all ended, it could have been we were just a little too tired. We'd done what we'd set out to do, and our world was changing. We were growing up. Too hard to get up too early for so little money. Maybe we got a little too jaded, the people we took out a little too spoiled and demanding, but at one point it finally did end. I get so proud when I think of those times then, the people I worked with and met, the mornings watching the sun come up over the shore, feeling like it was the most beautiful thing in the world and that only me and my friend and the people we worked with were part of it. Of being outside time, coming home tired, smelling of leather and horses when the people around us were listening to disco and wearing silk shirts and gold chains and doing the hustle. 25 years after, I can still smell and taste and remember the proud days when I was a Brooklyn Cowboy. When I was a Brooklyn Cowboy.
Copyright © 2002 Lawrence Peters |