148 The Meadow Farmington reads a lot of bible and names his horses based on his favorite passages. When I started free-lancing with his outfit, Mr. Farmington told me he had gotten rich by giving inspirational talks in the auditoriums of expensive substance abuse programs. Then he warned me that, if I ever showed up to work under the influence of alcohol or drugs, he would fire me on the spot. After I showed up straight for six weeks, Mr. Farmington began to praise my talent and declare that with my voice I could become an opera singer. “Effort, and more effort.” he says to me as he holds out a five-dollar bill, advance pay for walking Mary’s Miracle. I take the bill with as much dignity as anyone can muster who has just been given a four-word, unwanted lecture. I hold the horse still and, looking directly into the eyes of Mr. Farmington, ask: “Is it possible to train zebras?” “What?” he answers. “Can you put a saddle on a zebra and teach him to gallop with a rider?” He stares at me a few seconds, and then says: “If your skill at speaking was one quarter of your singing voice, you could pack an auditorium.” Then he smiles and mutters, “Zebras.” He shakes his head and, dropping his smile, orders: “This horse is hot. Walk her the full thirty-five minutes.” “Zebras,” he mutters again, as he walks to the door of the barn, pulls it open with his good right arm—his left is shrunken, you might say, deformed–and closes it behind him. I begin walking Mary’s Miracle, thinking how Mary’s Child is so frozen now that I could not even brush his tail. I walk the horse the full thirty-five minutes. I put her in the stall, remove her halter and head for my room. As I climb the
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