Degenerate in the Seventh

Ponies slogged through mud at the track, dull suck of hooves in and out of mire. I had put on my best wool suit, a size or so too small so the sleeves scooted up between my wrists and elbows. I ordered myself a whiskey sour and a plate of hot open face turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy and smoked a Viceroy all the way through both. Rain piddled down from the sky, reaching even into the covered portions of the track. I folded up my racing form and bit into a Bic pen, trying to locate the name of the trotter to bring me instant fortune.

That's when the leprechaun hopped up on my shoulder.

"Top of the morning to you," he said, his voice not as high or Irish accented as I would have expected. Instead he spoke like a newsman, precise cadence, distinct pronunciation of each vowel and consonant.

"Who are you?" I asked.

The little bugger had on a green silk shirt, black trousers with puffy calves, and a stereotypical hat with a small bell dangling from the point. His hair was unmercifully red and his complexion blotchy.

"I, sir, am Iain."

"Well, Iain, this isn't the time or place. I've got to hit the window before the race starts."

"I can help you scout your bloody races."

"Can you now?"

"Try Sweet Mother of Jesus in the third."

So I did. I placed a two-dollar wager just in case the imp was off. He wasn't. Sweet Mother of Jesus practically floated around the track, lengths away from the other ponies swallowing her dust. I came back with ten bucks on that five to one shot.

To thank Iain, I bought him his own plate of hot turkey, which he sucked down like he hadn't had a clam to eat in a fortnight.

"Why you choose me?" I asked as he scooted his stale white bread through the glossy gravy on his plate.

"The lads back at the patch, they had an inkling about you. Your ancestors from Cobh?"

"I think so. I don't much keep a family tree."

"They hailed from there. It seems they brought you a bit of the luck and a bit of the blarney, both of which you use to no avail. You need guidance to turn this into good fortune. That's why Iain's at your side. You must realize your full potential."

"My potential's best realized by winning the next race," I said.

"Try Liver and Onions in the fourth."

In a wink I was at the betting window and laying down a fiver this time. My hands shook with excitement as I pinched what I knew would be a winning ticket between thumb and forefinger.

Iain belched turkey as the ponies galloped around in the slime. He danced as his chosen horse shot from behind the pack and slid forward to break the lead by a nose.

"A stunning rose," he said about the pony.

"I'll be right back," I said. I hit the pay window and collected my take. Another five to one shot. A pattern was emerging. This time it paid off $25. Another whiskey sour was in order.

"I'll take my fee," Iain said when I returned to him. He sat on the guardrail. No one else seemed to notice him.

"What fee? I already bought you a meal."

"You expect I earned my keep by charity and a simple cobbling of shoes? I give nothing away for free, my good man. The first time you indeed purchased me a meal, for which I am ever grateful. I now expect further compensation."

I handed him the sour. "Will this do?"

He took a sip and puckered. "It will do just fine."

So I watched the leprechaun get drunk as I sweated over the form, precious minutes ebbing by until Iain would give up his pronouncement as to which horse would take the fifth race. But then the fifth told me what I thought I needed to know. Another five to one shot would win. The fix was in. Iain's secret was out.

I slipped away while he was drinking and stood in line at the betting window. He soon wobbled over to me, the empty sour glass fogged up in his hand. "I haven't given you the favored beast."

"Don't need it," I said. "I'm game to your system. I don't need you."

"Ingrate," he said. "How can you be sure?"

"Sod off," I said.

He didn't completely disappear. Instead he took a post near the gents, one foot up against the wall, back to the wall, trying to scratch up a flame by rubbing his fingers together. It was a pathetic sight, I thought.

I placed my bet on Mons Pubis in the fifth. This time the fortune didn't smile on the five to one shot. Mons Pubis dragged through the mud, slipping and sliding instead of finding her footing. She finished a replete last.

I approached Iain as I tore up my ticket. "You bollocksed this up, didn't you?"

"I did nothing, sir, except mind my manners. You were the rash one, rushing off to lay bets without benefit of my advice."

"What would it take for you to put me back to winning?"

He thought a moment. "One of those cigarettes would suit me fine."

I tapped out a Viceroy. He snapped his fingers and out shot a flame, which lit the wick. I wanted to break his little neck by that point, given that he had me in a kind of vise insofar as the ponies went. Still, I maintained composure and waited for him to draw down the last dregs of smoke before he deigned to give me the winner in the sixth.

"Fanciful Mittens in the sixth is a lock," he said, grinding the butt of the smoke into the sole of his shoe.

This pick was only a three to one, which mean the payoff wouldn't be so good as earlier. This made me think more dismally of Iain even as I lay my money down at the betting window.

Fanciful Mittens trotted gamely throughout the race but in the end he slowed and finished only second, giving me another loser. This time I did grab Iain by the throat and set about to choking him. "You ripped me off," I said.

He gasped and gurgled but still forced out words. "It wasn't me. It was you."

I released my hold slightly. "How so?"

"You stopped believing in me. Without faith, you are dust."

"I have faith that you're going to stop breathing soon and leave me to my own devices as I was before."

"It would be a mistake."

"How so?"

"You'll die as broken and lonely as one of these nags if you don't follow my advice."

"I'm already broken and lonely. That's not news."

"But you have a chance with me to climb out of it. That's the gift of your forebears. They want you to be well off. It's important to their mission."

"You speak like they're still alive."

"They are. They dwell with me in the faerie patch."

The strangling grew tight again. "Faerie patch, my ass."

He gurgled through the strangling. "It's true."

"Prove it," I said, "and I'll spare your life."

So we left the track. I buckled him in to the passenger side of my Chevy Cavalier and away we went. The miracle was that I drove without stopping, without additional caffeine or nicotine, all the way to the coast, the radio tuned into a folk station, which normally would have caused me to rip the radio right out of the dash. We reached the shore of the Atlantic and then the miracle continued in the form of the Cavalier setting about on top of the water, floating all the way over to bloody Ireland while I slept without a trace of seasickness, another miracle inlaid with the rest.

We climbed ashore and he led me blindfolded to a field. I took off the blindfold when we arrived, and there in the grass lay soft eggs of light. Only they weren't eggs but rather beings much like Iain. I shrank down to their level and walked amongst them, much darker.

They were faeries. They all wore tailored suits, crocodile zip up boots, and ascots. Plus they had tenderly veined wings adhered to their shoulder blades. Some of them I recognized from ancient family portraits of my youth. They were relatives. They were kin. It was a special moment.

Until I saw other leprechauns slip harnesses over the faeries and whip them into speed. They beat circles in the grass. I smelled whiskey. I was back at the track. Only in a different world.

"What gives?" I asked.

"Your ancestors were primal runners," Iain said. "Now you know your lineage."

"I thought they were equals with you."

"Never said that. Just that they dwelled here. Learn to listen, boy."

And with that fatal 'boy,' I felt a harness slide over my head, the bit cold and steely in my mouth. Golden coins fell into tiny palms. The whip and the driver's heels dug into my side and I ran faster and faster, until I won the race.

Degenerate in the seventh, they said.  ◊

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Michael Fontana's fiction has appeared in a variety of publications, including Altair, TransVersions and Fiction International. He works at a community mental health center in northwest Arkansas.