The Armpit of the Horse Racing World

I woke up from an afternoon nap, and I decided to get up and go out. Napping had become common then. With only working seven hours a week, I needed something to fill the hours and that seemed appropriate, along with getting some writing done. I decided to alert someone of my movement, so I sent a text. I was always glued to my stupid phone. It offered some kind of self-affirmation when I got texts back. And, I needed some kind of record of what I had done the day before.

Me:      Okay, going out to cause more trouble.

And, I sent a selfie of my make up job and my freshly straightened hair to accompany my words. I hardly ever took selfies, and I never did smile when I did. I’m not sure why I sent one to him, but I did.

One Man Wolf Pack:      Don’t look so stoic

One Man Wolf Pack:      I have the same problem Hahaha

Not 15 minutes later, I sent another text.

Me:      And, I’m at the track.

Me:      Just call me Mario Andretti…lol

One Man Wolf Pack:      Don’t forget your Marlboro jacket honey haha

Me:      Lol I like driving fast, what can I say?

The track was nearly 20 miles from where I lived. I had made good time.

One Man Wolf Pack:      A lot of Mexicans around? Hahaha

Me:      Yeah, and we’re like a bunch of zombies heading to the mother land…

The parking lot was full over at the track, so everyone parked over at the casino and walked over. We walked over in hoards, in the dead heat of the New Mexican summer. It was fucking hot, and I struggled as I walked over there in five inch heels. I didn’t like the track much, really. So much so, that I called it the armpit of the horse racing world. On my walk over, I got another text.

One Man Wolf Pack:      Mexician Chuck E Cheese haha

He wasn’t far off. The track was a peculiar place. It was filled with mostly men. Okay, mostly Mexican men. But, there were others, and they all seemed to bring their kids. Gambling, it seemed, was a family event. Once I watched one kid lift up another kid to make a bet on the automated machine. I’m not joking. I’ve also seen fathers bring doll houses, and they would set them up on their table to keep their daughter’s busy while they drank and bet the horses. Nobody cared about anything at the track. There was one man who told me some years ago, “There ain’t no shame at the track.” I’ve learned to accept that he was right. There ain’t no shame at the track.

I sent another text.

Me:      I don’t usually come here alone…

Me:      I’m always worried that I’ll get kidnapped and sold into the sex trade, raped,       robbed, or all three. Lol

It was a rough crowd, and although it sometimes frightened me, I knew how to handle it. Another text came in.

One Man Wolf Pack:      I took this picture year’s ago, I posted it on Facebok as the Mexican version of Jersey Shore hahaha

He had taken a picture of people standing outside watching the horses run, with kids among them. It was funny, because it was true.

One Man Wolf Pack:      Be careful please

Me:      It’s so goddamn hot here I’m drinking water. I’ve already been called someone’s Barbie, offered a shot, and a glass of wine.

I was only 10 minutes into the track and I sent another text.

Me:       Oh, and I was asked to stand in the winner’s circle for a picture.

One Man Wolf Pack:      Awesome honey

There wasn’t any air conditioning at the track, and there wasn’t anyone that I was comfortable sitting with there. I wandered around aimlessly with my plastic cup of water. But, I couldn’t find a place to land. I did get offers, but they weren’t anything that I wanted to take. I recognized a few people, and I stopped by to say hi and give them a hug. I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want to seem too nice at the same time. “I’ll get you a glass of wine later,” one of the horse owners said after I hugged him. I saw another regular, and I went over to say hi. Before I was about to leave his table, he tried to keep me around and asked, “You want a shot? I can get you a shot.” I looked down at his table and I saw a stuffed animal and a Barbie doll, “Is that your Barbie?” I asked trying to change the subject, but it didn’t work. The old Mexican man put his arm around my waist and told me as I was trying to leave again, “You are my Barbie.” Hmm…I thought. It was time to leave. I sent another text to update my status.

Me:      I’m going to get my ass to the casino. There’s no damn AC here…

I started the hike over to the casino, in my heels. What a fucking mistake it was to wear them that day. Outside of the track, there were usually little electronic golf carts that took people from one place to another, but I couldn’t find one. I saw two valet guys, “Hey, where are all of the shuttles?” I asked. “One of our shuttles broke down,” he said. “Can one of you piggy back me? I’m not that heavy” I joked. “No ma’am, we need to stay here for the valet, otherwise I would,” one of them said. “It’s okay, I’ll make it,” I laughed as I walked away.

I made it past the valet guys, and I was headed towards the casino when, a familiar face walked around a car in the valet line. I always called him John Goodman. Have you ever seen the movie Flight? Well, he was like John Goodman in that movie, but a Jamaican version. When we saw each other, we stopped in our tracks. Fuck, I thought. I didn’t want to see him. He always asked me out, and he was always a little creepy. “Hey you!” I forced out in a happy tone. He came over and he hugged me. He was smooth, and in the past, I would get him to drive me places. But that, apparently, had given him the wrong idea. “I need to talk to you, seriously…” he said, “…when we gonna hang out?” he asked. I hated those moments, so I just said, “Text me. You have my number. I sent you a text last time, but you didn’t answer,” I told him. It was a lie. I didn’t text him, but I knew it would get me out of that situation. “I didn’t see no text, I better check,” he said. I was inching my way over to the casino, and I was trying to escape him. “Okay, I gotta go. It’s too damn hot over here, and I need to get to where there is air conditioning.” I said. I sent out another text to discuss my most recent encounter.

Me:      Now an old Jamaican man just asked me out. Special.

Me:      …in the parking lot.

Me:      All kinds of fun here.

One Man Wolf Pack:      You should’ve told him, sorry I don’t eat jerk chicken or

Jamaican curry goat hahah

I could always count on the One Man Wolf Pack for his smart-ass responses. The one who I named the One Man Wolf Pack was an executive chef at one of my hangouts. He always referred to himself as a wolf, and he was always by himself, so… Did I steal it from the Hangover? It was more like borrowed. But, it was fitting, and he approved. “I’m like Alan from the Hangover anyway,” he confessed one day.

Anyhow, that goddamn track was like a minefield, even its parking lot. It was so hot, that by the time I got to the track, I was sweating more than a…well, you know. I walked in, and I welcomed the air conditioning. I saw a random guy standing by the main entrance. “You winnin’?” I asked. That was the standard question when betting the horses. “Nope,” he said. “You’re not going over there, are you?” And I gestured to the track. “Yeah, I’m going over,” he said. “Don’t do it, there isn’t any air conditioning over there. It’s goddamn hot!” I warned, as sweat dripped from my brow. I walked past him and I went into the lounge where I usually bet the horses.

I looked to the bar where A La Verga usually sat. And, there he was, but he stood instead of sitting. I walked up behind him without letting him noticing me. That was easy because he was in some kind of heavy conversation with the floor server. I walked up behind him, and I grabbed his ass and stepped away from him. He always whipped around as though he was going to punch whoever did it. It always freaked him out, and I always laughed. “A la verga!” He shouted. I laughed and stood back for a minute. And then, I hugged him and the two that were there with him. One guy looked like Colonel Sanders and the other referred to himself as Johnny Fist. Later, he would tell me stories about how he used to be a rock star.

“What are you fuckers doing?” I asked. “I was over there looking for you guys over there, and you were here the whole time. It’s goddamn hot over there” I complained as I fanned myself with a program that I picked up on the bar. “What’s wrong with you?” A La Verga asked me. “I’m from Canada. I’m not built for this weather” I complained. “Well, get your ass ready, because you’re walking back over there with us,” A La Verga claimed. “Goddamn it, it’s hot over there. Didn’t you hear me?” I whined. In the meantime, my phone went off. It was T.

T:         Are u still at the track…pick me up a Santa Anita race form

Me:      Lazy ass…

T:         Please…handicap tonight…will give u an allowances tomorrow…

Me:      I’ll get you one…lol

So then, I had to go back to the track. “Okay…I’ll go back,” I told A La Verga.

We walked back. On the way, both he and Johnny fist each tried to get me to go home with them. I knew I wouldn’t go home with either of them, but I let them argue. In whatever way, it was sort of a compliment to have men argue over me. Instead of walking with them though, I walked with the guy who looked like Colonel Sanders. “What? I can’t hear you…” he said, “…my hearing aid is on the other side.” “Move over then, and let me on the other side of you,” I told him as we walked over. He just laughed, and there we were, on our way back to the track. “Those two jackasses are trying to pick me up, and either of them are walking with me” I laughed. He laughed too. “Hey! Both of you wanted her over here, but none of you are walking with her!” he shouted, and then laughed. They didn’t care. They had already drank too much, especially Johnny fist.

“We’re going to sit at the bar. There’s good AC there,” A La Verga declared, as he walked at least 10 feet ahead of me and the Colonel. I had given up on talking to the Colonel at that point, he didn’t hear anything that I said anyway, so we all walked over in silence after our seating instructions. We walked in through the side doors, and past security in their bright yellow shirts. They nodded their heads at us, they knew us, and we knew them. Just like it was when I left, it was goddamn hot in there and I was having hot flashes like I was going through menopause. I hated that place. Through the entrance I said, “Hey, I need to get a program for T tomorrow, wait,” they all stopped. “Seven dollars please” said the cashier. “Yeah, but it says 83 cents an issue on the cover. Why are you charging me seven bucks?” I asked, jokingly. “83 cents?” She asked and continued, “…that’s only for online forms,” she laughed back. “Hey, I had to try,” I told her.

Once I made the exchange and had T’s form, we all moved in unison to the bar, all four of us. I hated walking through that place. It was too bright, too smoky, and too hot. But, we walked through. As we walked through, past the line of tellers, I waved to the cute one who I had made a bet with earlier. He gave me a program for free, but it was the wrong one. We went to the bar, and it was full. But, because those three were regulars there, people moved for us. The full bar parted, and offered us three barstools.

Once we got to the bar, the stories began to come out. “You write, don’t you?” One of them asked. “Yeah, I’m trying…” I said while being cut off. “You know the Pachucos?” Asked Johnny Fist. “No,” I said leaning in to give him my attention. I couldn’t focus though, it was too hot, and all I could think of was finding a place with air conditioning. “They were the types of guys who slicked their hair back and always had a comb, 1950’s style. One time I saw one of them get into a fight, but he got shot. It was the beginning of a new era,” he said. “They usually fought with knives…” he continued. I had drifted off again. “Hey, will you look over my memoires?” he asked. And I came back from my daze. “Yeah, I can edit that, and I can even write it for you,” I said with confidence. I didn’t know if he would even remember the conversation the next day.

After that conversation, A La Verga and Johnny Fist began to bicker. “What are those two girls fighting about?” I asked the Colonel who was to my left. “What?!” he asked loudly. I had to lean into the ear with his hearing aid, and I repeated my question. “What are those two girls fighting about?” I said louder. “Oh they’re just squabbling over a losing ticket,” he answered, and then he changed the subject. “Look at the legs on her,” he said looking over to the bar. I was one of the guys, so it didn’t faze me. “Who?” I asked. He shifted his gaze over to one of the bartenders again. “What? Her?” I asked surprised, “she doesn’t have any muscle” He couldn’t stop staring at her, and he kept going on about her and finally he said, “She would wrap those legs so hard around your head that she would give you cauliflower ears. I heard that happens, I read a book once.” I couldn’t stop laughing. I laughed so hard at what he said, that I cried. “Oh it’s not that funny!” he said while he watched me laugh and laugh.

Next to us was the open area where people stood in line to order drinks. Next in that line was one of the other regulars standing there I recognized him, but I didn’t remember his name. He recognized me, and he came over to hug me. I warned him before he embraced me, “I’m all sweaty.” His response? “That’s okay sweat heart. I’ve had plenty of girls sweat all over me before, if you know what I mean.” I didn’t say a word. I just hugged him as though I didn’t hear anything he had said. The next thing he said was even funnier, “How’s the little one? What is she, three now?” I sat there and thought about what to say in that moment. I didn’t want him to feel stupid, so I said, “She’s good.” “She must be getting big now huh? About this tall?” he gestured with his hand. “Yeah, well, that’s what they do. They grow so fast,” I offered. “When my daughter was young…” I got bored with the conversation, and I fazed out. When he was done talking I said, “Okay, well, I’ll see you later.” He said, “bye,” before he left carrying his beer.

It was starting to get busy there, and I was ready to leave. “Let me buy you another wine,” said Johnny Fist after looking at the empty plastic cup that had held my wine. He was too drunk to order, so he leaned over to the Colonel, “Hey, you order the next round. That bitch won’t serve me. I’ll pay for it,” he slurred. It was my third glass. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I had been there since 1:00, and it was close to 6:00, so I didn’t see any reason to say no, apart from the temperature. The bartender gave Johnny Fist one last shot. She gave it to him in a tiny plastic shot glass with a Jagermeister symbol on it with Jagermeister written underneath it. It was filled with tequila. “Haha!” I laughed, “That looks like a urine sample!” And with that comment, I had worked him up. “What the fuck is this?” Johnny Fist yelled at the bartender, “it looks like a goddamn urine sample!” His complaints were ignored. He was drunk enough by then that he was beginning to annoy me. I turned around to talk to someone, and when I looked back, Johnny Fist had taken my plastic cup of wine and slammed it. “Hey, you drank my wine fucker!” I yelled. “Yup, I did” he slurred. I knew then that it was time to go. That was enough for me, at least for that day. I said my goodbye’s again, and I was on my way to T’s to drop off his form.

I drove down Eubank and caught every damn red light. I always struggled to find where he lived all of those apartment complexes looked the same, but I got it on the first try that time. I parked my car, put it in neutral, pulled the hand brake up, grabbed his form, and ran out of my car in the darkness barefoot and tippy toed to his apartment door. When I got to his door, there was a pamphlet already tucked into his door that said,

’Can the dead really live again?

Would you say …

• yes?

• no?

• maybe?

T, well, he is what I would call…not anti religious, but cynical-ish. I thought it was a perfect set up, so I clipped his racing form to his door and included the pamphlet on top of his form. And then, I ran back to my car to get my phone. It was photo worthy. I laughed the entire time to myself. I ran back, took a picture, and then I left. The next day I sent him a text accompanied with a photo of my work.

Me:      Did you get your note?

I didn’t get the response I wanted though. I thought he’d say something hateful back. But, no. All I got in return was this,

T:       Handicap…time

Later at the casino, I complained to T about being at the track without him the day before. “I can’t be there without you!” I bitched. “Do you know what happened to me!?” I questioned. I didn’t give him time to answer, “I was asked out once, asked for sex twice, offered a shot, offered a glass of wine, been called a Barbie, offered to stand in the winners circle for a picture, and invited to Vegas!” And, I continued, “…one of them is over there sitting the bar!” “Which one?” T asked. “The one with the hat!” I complained. I was worked up. “The one with the glasses and the hat?” T asked. “Yes, that’s him!” I confirmed. Just then, the bartender came over to see what I wanted to drink, and when he did, T’s sick humor came out. “Myron, you send a drink over to guy with hat and glasses at the bar and tell him it’s from Margaret,” he said with a straight face. “NO! don’t do that!” I said to the bartender, but he thought it was too funny, laughed, walked away, and he brought over a drink to the guy at the bar and said it was from me. T sent him two drinks and told the bartender that they were from me that day. Later, I had to endure more creepy hugs from my admirer. T thought it was hilarious, because that was just how he was. I suppose it was pay back because I posted that creepy sign on his door. That’s just how we were together, like a bickering old couple trying to out do one another.  At least he was fun.