By Michael Fowler
Sandy is the mechanical horse inside the big grocery store in town. The name Sandy is painted below the horse’s hooves, on a pedestal. Sandy was put out to pasture during the long Covid years, but a shinier, cleaner Sandy is back, ready to ride the range. Sandy costs a penny, and that’s cheap enough that the store provides the coins. A handful of coppers is strewn below the horse’s disinfected belly each morning by a store clerk, in easy reach of small children or adults who can bend over.
When a child climbs in the plastic saddle, or is lifted in by an able parent, and a penny falls into the slot, a pleasant but authoritative voice demands that parents do not leave their child unattended during the ride. A loud whinnying is then heard, and Sandy, to the accompaniment of the bouncy wild west theme from Bonanza, begins to gallop gently in place.
All goes well for a few seconds, and the western music proves infectious. A smile breaks out on the proud parent’s face. But then Sandy, perhaps as a result of the daily doses of strong disinfectant applied to his (or her) hide, begins to get sick. The parent, if they have knowledge of equines, may even recognize ringworm, colic, and before the ride concludes, the strangles, also known as equine distemper.
Sandy keels over onto his side, and with quick parental assistance the child jumps free, barely ahead of being crushed or smothered. Groaning loudly and releasing a stream of malodorous yellow liquid onto the store floor, Sandy manages to break free of his pedestal and crawl into the nearest grocery aisle: frozen foods. There the horse eats a box of fruit-flavored popsicles, then crawls back and collapses at the child’s feet, loudly breaking wind.
Amazed or even distraught at this point, the child points to another ride, recently installed, located behind Sandy but partially hidden by the claw crane and a stack of propane tanks. This is Vaz the Vet, who takes a quarter. Vaz the Vet sports a white cap, a stethoscope, a cowgirl skirt below noticeable breasts, and a thick black mustache, all in molded plastic. Vaz’s arm extends three feet from his body and terminates in a flashing hand whose forefinger points to the stricken Sandy.
After the parent rummages up a quarter, the upset or at least anxious child is allowed to insert the coin. Vaz the Vet then proclaims, “There there, little fellah, little lady, there there,” over and over in a twangy, cowboy-nuanced voice. At the same time, Vaz the Vet places a blanket on the downed Sandy, takes a rectal temperature, and sinks a foot-long hypodermic into the animal’s flank. Ten seconds later, when Sandy has failed to respond to this treatment, the vet’s glowing hand and finger form a loaded pistol. Vaz the Vet mercy-kills Sandy with an explosive shot to the head, and in his cowboy voice announces, “Sandy feels no more pain now.”
The child, almost certainly distressed by this, turns to Vaz the Vet for consolation, and receives it. Stepping out of his bolted-down boots to reveal yellow socks with white stripes, Vaz the Vet escorts the child and parent to the toy aisle, where he assists in the selection of sixty dollars in comforting playthings, pointing out the best ones with his lighted forefinger. Still in his stocking feet, Vaz the Vet then escorts the youngster and parent to the nearest checkout lane, and finally returns to his stand, stepping back into his stationary boots and freezing into position as if nothing happened. The ride over, his light goes out and his hand darkens.
As the child grows older, he (or she) is often less likely to want to undergo the peculiar combination of pleasure and terror that Sandy brings to little ones. Then too, the older the child, the less interest there is in an automated rocking horse, anyway. But Sandy has been a fixture in the store for fifteen years and counting, and Vaz the Vet looks like a keeper, too. There is always a new generation of kids eager to ride the wonderful horse, and to follow the whims of the merciful mechanical vet.
Giddyap, Sandy! You offer a lot for a penny and a quarter!
Michael Fowler writes humor and horror in Ohio.
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