Every Saturday Morning

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We sat there talking about how the odds were in our favor,

It was considered the best horse on the set. At least that’s what the drunk bastard told us, now tossing nuts into giggling women’s mouths.

“You know this horse never placed higher than 6th right?” rick said after reading the stat line.

He screwed us. It hasn’t been the first, and it won’t be the last.

 We did this every Saturday,

And this morning, nothing changed but our seat.

I was doing this for my buddy Rick,

His wife left him, the day after he retired.

I was on the verge of alcohol poisoning but what I’m really

Worried about is that Rick may never find his coarse.

*The gun sounds, and off they go…

McQueen takes the lead, followed by Lady Dusk..* reports the announcer.

“Where the FUCK is Bucky the Bolt!?”

*And to no surprise The Bolt has lost his strike.

He’s falling off track! – the announcer screams through his phone.

*Wait a minute! He’s… he’s underwrap! This is how it all ends!

 

“Fucking Bucky the Bolt!” I yell.

“No… Fucking Mason!” replied Rick.

Mason turns his tollhouse cookie sized head around laughing.

Bucky the Bolt did not finish.

It was his retirement party. A bug boy rode Bucky for his final lap, receiving

A standing ovation for an outstanding career.

“Shit.” I said under my breath.

“Yeah shit.” Rick agreed.

Rick worked with me for 24 years. Before he started,

I read his work, he thought no one touched. He was an excellent writer,

He was able to bring energy and spark refreshing ideas.

At the time, I was who was leading the race at my company, but suggested to the editors

That he was the one to watch. That he would take us down the right path.

They took my words for shit and dismissed my offer, which I didn’t mind.

Because I quit.

Because I believed in him.

He was 10 years younger than I was, but his skill carried weight

That I have yet to see.

The problem with Rick was he needed guidance.

That I had no problem offering.

He had problems accepting.

Each of his articles were 5-7 pages long. But his problem was each one was

worst than the one that proceeded.

My girlfriend, now my wife, even noticed.

“What is happening to him? There’s no passion, it’s all being forced out.”

 

When we began our company, we sought after fame.

We weren’t well known.

I think we reached some fulfilment,

But not enough to measure whether the odds were in our favor.

The writing was an elation of its own.

The business was uncalculated,

And it became our downfall.

Each week we dealt with pessimistic editors, lousy accountants,

Bitching and nagging,

Pushing us against the wall.

So I cannot blame him for getting out.

My curtain was soon to be dropped.

The love remained but was I supposed to seek another Rick?

Perhaps I hire the bloke with the large ears and the greasy hair.

Or dig into the messy hamper online.

For I hoped he would be sending me postcards of his meal in Italy.

I ended up getting to taste the stale burger for the past 4 months.

Retirement was supposed to be mornings watering the lawn

Moping around the house, in bed slippers,

Questioning whether a glass of whiskey was better to drink

In the morning, afternoon, or night.

Was retirement or work, hell on earth?

I mean it’s what drives us right?

The end?

 

Despite his misfortunes,

Writing was becoming less and less of a drug

But it was still there.

 

“Fuck Mason. Same time next week?” Rick asked.

“Of course!” I answered.

For we continued adding trees to the pile

Watching the fire spread

We laid under the flame

Water rested at our side

But we enjoyed the view.

 

“It was a good run for Bucky the Bolt. We’re going to miss him.”-announcer in background