Hot By Default...

At 7:30 on a Sunday morning I got a text,

     T:      Good morning miss Margrett

T always spelled my name wrong, but I never did correct him.

     Me:      Long night

     Me:      I’m busy trying to watch two houses and 13 animals…

     T:        Animal Whisper

     T:        Go to the down about 1..meet up

That was T asking me to go to the horse track, ‘go to the down.’ It always made me laugh.

     Me:       I’ll try. I need to have a nap

      T:       Take ur nap…

      Me:     Nap. Got it. Then paint toes.

      T:        Toe nail take longer than nap

When texting T, I tended to revert to his version of English. Telling T that I was going to paint my toenails was always my excuse to be late to the track. It was our code.

I woke up in enough time to shower, get dressed, and put make up on to get to the track by just after 1:00 PM. I wore a pink top, skinny jeans (rolled up), and a pair of heels. I toggled between flip flops and the heels, but the heels won.

I walked out into the near 100 degree heat, and I got into my car. I turned my radar detector on (I needed one because I nearly got arrested in Arizona one time for doing 90 in a 75 zone). And away I went. I left my apartment and headed east on Paseo to the freeway. I drove south on I-25, east on I-40, and then to Louisiana. I drove up to 90 miles per hour to get there weaving in and out of traffic. I only ever drove on the freeway when I was going to the track, and I loved seeing how fast I could get there. Dangerous? Probably. Stupid? Absolutely. It was just an adrenaline rush. Just a little ways down Louisiana, there it was, the big, boring sign that said ‘The Downs.’

I put my indicator on, and I turned left into what I refer to as the armpit of the horse racing world. There were two buildings. One held the actual race track, and one was the casino. You could bet horses at both, but I preferred the casino. It was newer, nicer, and cheaper. When I turned in, I contemplated just how lazy I was. I somehow managed to get a staff parking pass, and I had to ask myself if I wanted to park by the back door and just walk in, or if I wanted to park in my usual parking spot next to T.

I chose to park next to T. I knew that parking lot like the back of my hand. They had installed some massive speed bumps a few years ago, and I learned how to avoid them. I passed the staff parking lot, and I turned left into the valet parking and quickly turned right. I drove through fast, and I turned left into the regular parking lot. I made a quick left at the back row and I found T’s car. It was in the usual place, but that day he was parked backwards. He drove an old busted Nissan Altima, “I just need something to drive me to work” was what he said about his car. I suppose it was an upgrade from his old 1996 Mazda that we donated to charity a few months back.

I pulled in next to him and leaned over to grab my shawl and track bag from the passenger seat. I called it my track bag because it was filled with pens, rulers, highlighters to help me handicap, and racing form from the week before that I knew T liked to save so he could study it. Oh, and a plastic horse that I used as a good luck charm. I walked in, through one of the side doors into the casino entrance. To get in there were tall glass doors. The handle on the doors used to be brass coated, but they were worn on the top part from being touched so much. I never touched the top of the door handles any where I go anyway. I always opened the door by the bottom of door handle, it was a less traveled area, and less germs. Well, that’s what I thought. Behind me, I noticed an older Hispanic man coming in. He was quite far away, but I waited and held the door open for him anyway. “Thank you hija” he told me, very surprised that I held the door open for him. Hija is the Spanish word for daughter. That seemed to be what they said around here. “You’re welcome,” I told him.

The casino and track were interesting places, with an even more interesting clientele. It was in an area of the city where there was a sign that called it the ‘international district.’ What it really should have said was ‘Skid Row District.’ The area had burnt out drunks laying on the street with empty bottles in their laps, people who were missing limbs, and people who slept in bus stops. Inside, the casino had security guards at each entrance. They stood there to check people’s bags before they went in. There were people there who were attached to oxygen tanks, had walkers, and walked with canes. The demographic in the lounge ranged from Mexicans (mostly) Hispanics, Blacks, Asians, Native Americans, and whites. Whites were the minorities. The beautiful thing at the casino’s lounge was that it didn’t matter where you came from or what you looked like. We were all there to bet. I was simple really.

There is a homeless guy who always rode his bicycle to the track. Sometimes, on my way there, I would see him sleeping in one of the bus stops with his bike next to him. He was always sun burnt, scruffy looking, had long hair that he kept in a thin ponytail, and he was usually in the lounge. I always brought little treats to the lounge, and I always made sure that he got some. “Carl!” I’d say loudly. “Hey, it’s you. It’s the candy lady!” he would always say when he saw me. I always walked up to him and gave him candy, and I’d give him a big hug. One day, one of the guys there scolded me, “Why are you hugging him Margaret. You don’t know where he’s been. That’s gross.” I hated when people were so arrogant, so high on their horse. “He’s a person too. And, how many people do you suppose are nice to him?” I asked, offended. I didn’t receive a response. Carl would usually roam around the lounge making small talk to anyone who would listen to him. I always paid attention to him, not because I felt sorry for him, but because, as I said, he was a person too. And, in all of his despair, he was kind to everyone. I appreciated that about him.

Oh, I can’t forget the prostitutes. One time, in the bathroom a girl was fixing her hair and asked me, “Does my hair look bad?” I was expecting her to have had asked me if she looked good, so my answer was, “Yes.” “You mean I look bad?!” she said worried, with a concerned look on her face. “Oh, I thought you asked me if you looked good. I’m so sorry. Your hair looks great.” I assured her. I walked back to the bar, and I told the bartender what I had said in the bathroom. “They aren’t supposed to be in there for more than five minutes. Security gave them a time limit,” she said. “They?” I asked. She gave me a look. “Oh, They” I was so naïve. I had no idea that they were prostitutes. I’d always see them in there doing their make up, fixing their hair, or readjusting their clothes, but I was dumb. I just thought they were playing in the casino. I guess they were, but not in the usual way. They too were always kind. They always complimented me on what I was wearing or my shoes.

Anyway, that was the crowd that was there. Some of them were a little rough, but for the most part, they were all good people, given the chance.

Inside of the casino, there were two separate sections. There was the actual casino, and a place called the First Turn Lounge. That was where we bet the horses. That day, I walked into the casino, turned left into the lounge, and I walked towards our table. We had our own table, and it was usually left open for us. As I walked in, I scanned the place. There weren’t many regulars there. It seemed that there were mostly newbie’s hanging around from the big race the week before. They must have got lucky and thought they knew how to bet the horses. Betting the horses was no easy game, and they were just fooling themselves. None of them knew how to bet. They just stood at the cashier and machines longer than needed trying to figure out how to put their bet in. There were already lines at both the machines and cashiers when I walked in. That was unusual for a typical Sunday.

I looked to my left, and there was T, sitting at our table. I walked over, threw my shawl over the back of my chair and my track bag. He stood up in the meantime. “TEEEEE!” I squealed while I hugged him. He didn’t say anything. He smirked, sat down, and kept looking into his racing form. I sat down and I couldn’t stop scratching my arms. “What you doing?” T asked. “I’m sorry. I was in rich white people land by the pool last night and the bugs ate me alive. I look like a meth head with all of these marks on my arms” I complained. Just after I sat, the bartender came over to see what I wanted to drink. We didn’t order from any of the floor servers, we didn’t like them. Instead the bartenders left the bar to come over to see if we needed any thing. It probably had something to do with the large tips that T left behind.

We sat there for a while. He was passing the racing form over to me every once in a while. “Tell me what you think, and why. I have new system,” he said. What he meant was, that he thought that he found a new way to bet the horses. “I think the two horse will win,” I told him. “No, two horse not going to win” he said. I passed him two dollars to include me in the bet before he left the table. I went back to texting and not paying attention to my surroundings. He came back a few minutes later. “Fuck this fucking race. Fuck those jockeys” he complained. “I bet the two with seven, and fucking seven faded” he said. “Yeah, but the two horse won right? Isn’t that what I said?” I asked. He just threw his losing tickets on the right side of the table and ignored my comment. “I need to keep them for income tax, I signed for ticket four times this year. Don’t throw them away,” he complained again. For those of you who aren’t betters, well, when you win big betting on the horses, you had to sign for tax purposes. That was what he was complaining about. Meanwhile, my biggest complaint was how I couldn’t stop scratching my arms. It was ridiculous.

“Margaret, go get me real drink,” he said. That meant a pint of vodka with a splash of tonic. I kept scratching my arms as he told me what to do. “T, what can I do to make this itching stop? It’s killing me.” I whined. He didn’t say anything, and he got up and walked over to the bartender. He had a brief discussion with her and came back. I thought he got up to order his own drink, but then, the bartender came back and put a tiny container of butter on the table. T opened it and then said, “Give me arm! Butter moisturizes and stop itching. Your skin is dry.” It seemed logical to me. When I was a kid my mother always put butter on any burn wound. I handed my arm over to T. He grabbed my left wrist and began to put butter all over my left arm. In the mean time, he began to tell me a random story.

“You know what you do if you want pure cocaine?” he asked. I had been telling him a story about cocaine earlier. It was almost 30 minutes later that he had finally responded. That’s how he was. He kept going as I was getting slathered in butter, now on my right arm, “you put some in a shot glass and put some alcohol in it. Microwave it, and you have pure crystal. Then, you have choice to smoke or shoot it. We went golfing and I got an eight ball. That’s the only way I can golf” That was my cocaine education that I received this weekend at the track. Good to know, I thought. Those were the kind of random stories that I got from T. His stories humbled me, and made my stories sound G rated.

I walked over to the bar, and instead of going to my usual place (where the servers went) I decided to park myself next to one of the regulars to order. “MARGARET! How about them cowboys!” he said, before he hugged me. He was an older, bald man who loved the cowboys and always wore cowboy t-shirts. I hugged him and then he asked what everyone at the track asks each other, “you winnin’?” “No, I’m just here donating my money,” I told him. I ordered T his drink, “your highness said he would like a real drink” I said to our bartender. I brought it back to the table and sat down. When I looked over my right shoulder to watch a race, there was a guy who was getting up from the bar and said, “Hey, where have you been? How have you been?” I had no idea who he was, or at least, I didn’t remember him. He seemed to know exactly who I was. He was kind of creepy looking, but I said, “Hey, there you are! Where have you been? It’s been a long time!” I forced myself to smile while I said it. He came over and hugged me, “How are you?” he asked again. “Oh, you know…just a little bit older and a little bit fatter” I joked. “Oh no, you look great. Where have you been?” he asked. I sort of used T as a boyfriend figure and said, “I don’t usually come here when he’s not here.” I gestured my head over to T. That scared him back to his bar seat. I went back to the table and said to T, “T I don’t even know who that is.” He didn’t say anything and just looked into his form.

Not five minutes later, the Dallas cowboys fan came over and started talking to me again. He threw a ticket in front of me on the table. It was a $20.00 win, place, show ticket for a race. “There you go,” he said, “Now you should be good for the day,” and then he went into a different conversation out of the blue, “you know I retired…I bought a new Sonic, do you know what that is? I can drive it to Florida, it’s got good gas mileage” he said. I liked him, but I wasn’t interested in his conversation. I listened patiently, nodded and smiled, and then he went away. But, he came back. I don’t even remember what he was talking about the next time. I must have had three glasses of wine by then, and I was consumed with my texting still. Finally, he walked away from the table, and T and I were alone again. “You fucking famous” he said bitched to me while looking down at the racing form.

At the next table over, there were two other regulars. The younger of the two tried to intervene and get my attention while T had his chair slid over next to me trying to teach me his new betting ‘system.’ I gave him a half hug and looked up, “I’m getting schooled here. Give me a minute,” I said. He just walked away. T was telling me about the cost of the horses and who trained them as a strategy to make better picks.

After T was done, I turned around and gave him some attention. He was an older man. May be in his fifties. He was Hispanic, dark skinned, heavy set, balding, and he wore Buddy Holly glasses. When I gave him my attention, he stood up and asked for a real hug. I hugged him and he said, “I could pick you up.” He meant lift me up, but I made an innuendo, “No, it takes a lot to pick me up. I’m tricky,” I told him, and laughed. I didn’t really mean anything by it. I just thought it was something funny to say. The older man sitting with him said, “So, that means he has a chance?” he asked, laughing. “Is that how you men think?” I asked back. “Yup” he laughed. “There aren’t any chances over here.” I confirmed.

When I say hot by default, it sort of sounds arrogant. The idea behind that statement is that most of the places that I go, there are minimal women, and I’m usually just the youngest one there. Therefore, hot by default. Men seem to be drawn to youth. I don’t claim to have anything special, by any means.

“You got any money?” T asked. “Nope. I’m poor this week” I said. I thought about it for a minute and said, “Oh wait, I have $80 in the car. It’s emergency money.” “I don’t want to go to stupid ATM machine, it charge six bucks to take money out” he complained. I didn’t say a word. I dug in my track bag for my car keys, and I walked outside to my car to get the money. I came back in and threw it onto his racing form along with the $10 that I had in my pocket. He straightened out the folded money and got up to make a bet. I watched him walk over to the cashier, but the lines were too long, so he went to one of the machines. I turned my attention back to my phone, and my concentration was broken by T shouting, “Missed the bet. Fucking folded money you gave me, machine wouldn’t take it. We could have won over $600 on that bet!” he bitched. I just laughed at him. Now, it seems like T is an asshole, but it’s all really in good fun. His complaining was mostly sarcastic and not serious. Anyone who knew him, knew that, and just laughed at his ‘displeasure.’ In a weird way, his complaining was almost a sign of endearment.

I didn’t stay much longer after I gave him the money. He bet a race, won, and he and gave me his loan back. “Here, you cash this ticket and keep it all. It with interest” he told me. I went to the cashier and cashed the ticket. It cashed out for $145.00. I gave the cashier a $5 tip. “Thanks Bonnie!” I said. “No, thank you Margaret,” she said. I went back to the table to count out his winnings to him and he insisted, again, without looking from his racing form, “No, I said you keep it.” “Okay, thanks T,” was all I could say.

I started to say my good bye’s and hugged the regulars. “You going already?” one of them asked. “Yeah, I need to go to a Father’s day BBQ,” I was lying. I had just enough wine in me to be able to get home. I wanted to go home and have a nap. “I’ll get you a drink. Stay,” another regular said. It was tough to turn down free drinks, but I had to. “T, I am going to go because…” I got cut off. “You don’t need to explain nothing to me. If you need to go, just go. Do what you need to do,” he said. “Okay then, I’m going to go. Thank you,” I said as hugging the little Asian man good bye. And, then, as quick as I went in, I was gone.