Tales of Ordinary Madness (8 page)

CUNT AND KANT AND A HAPPY HOME

Jack Hendley took the escalator up into the clubhouse. he didn't really take it into the clubhouse – he just rode up on the damn thing.

53rd. racing program. night. got the program from old grey – 40 cents, flipped to the first page – mile and one eighth pace, 25 hundred dollar claimer – you could get a horse cheaper than a new car.

Jack-stepped off the escalator and heaved into the trashcan nearby. god damn whiskey nights were killing him. should have got the reds from Eddie before Eddie left town. but it had been a good week anyhow, a $600 week, which was a long way from that 17 bucks a week he once worked for in New Orleans, 1940.

but his whole afternoon had been mutilated by a door-tapper and Jack had gotten out of bed and let the guy in – a snippet – and the snippet sat on his couch for 2 hours – talking about LIFE. only thing was, the snippet didn't know anything about LIFE. the punk just talked about it, didn't bother to live it.

the snippet did manage to drink Jack's beer, smoke Jack's smokes, and keep him from getting at the Form, from getting his pre-race work done.

the next guy who bothers me, so help me, the very next guy who bothers me, I am going to lay it into him. otherwise they will eat you up, one by one, one after the other, until you are done, he thought. I'm not the cruel type, but they are, and that's the secret.

he hit for a coffee. there were the old men hanging about, staring and joking with the coffee girls. what miserable and lonely dead meat they were.

Jack lit a smoke, gagged, tossed it off. found a spot in the stands, down front, nobody around. with luck and nobody bothering him, he might be able to line up the card. But – there were always the dead dogs – guys with nothing but TIME, nothing to do – no knowledge, no program (the form at the harness was enclosed in the program); they had nothing to do but creep about, looking and sniffing. they came hours early, vacant, all vacant, and simply stood.

the coffee was good, hot. clear clean cold air. not even any fog. Jack was beginning to feel better. he got out his pen and began to mark up the first race. he might get out yet. that son of a bitch talking away his afternoon from his couch, that son of a bitch had put him on the cross. it was going to be close, very close – he had just an hour to first post to figure the whole card. it couldn't be done between races – the crowd was too much there and you had to watch the lay-ins on the tote.

he got to inking up the first race. so far – fine.

then he heard it. a dead dog. Jack had seen him staring out over the parking lot as he came down the steps to his seat. now the dead dog was tired of playing “look-at-automobiles.” he was coming toward Jack, a step at a time, middle-aged guy in overcoat. no eyes, no vibration. dead meat. a dead dog in an overcoat.

the dead dog moved slowly toward him. one human being to another, yes. brotherhood, yes. Jack heard him. he'd reach a step, then stop. then take another step down.

Jack turned and looked at the bastard. the dead dog just stood there in his overcoat. there wasn't another person within a hundred yards but the dog just had to come sniffing at him.

Jack put his pen back in his pocket. then the dog stepped right up behind him and looked over his shoulder at his program. Jack cursed, folded the program, got up and took a seat 30 yards to the left, over by the next aisle.

he opened the program and began again, at the same time thinking of the racetrack crowd – an immense and stupid animal, it was, greedy, lonely, vicious, impolite, dull, hostile, egotistical and hooked. unfortunately, the world was molested with billions of people who had nothing to do with their time except murder it and murder you.

he was halfway through the first race, inking it in, when he heard it again. the slow steps down toward him. he looked around. he couldn't believe it. it was the same dog!

Jack folded the program, stood up.

“what do you want with me, Mr.?” he asked the dog.

“whatcha mean?”

“I mean, why do you come around poking over my shoulder? there are a couple of miles of space around here and you keep ending up next to me. now what the hell do you want?”

“it's a free country, I ...”

“it's not a free country – everything is bought and sold and owned.”

“I mean, I can walk around anywhere I want to. I paid to get in here just like you. I can walk anywhere I want.”

“sure you can as long as you don't fuck with my privacy. you're being rude and stupid. like they say, man, you're BUGGING me.”

“I paid to get in here. you can't tell me what to do.”

“all right, it's up to you. I'm moving my seat again. I'm doing all I can to control myself. but if you come up on me a THIRD TIME, I promise you this – I'm going to belt you out!”

Jack moved his seat again and he saw the dog move off in search of another victim. but the bastard was still laying across his mind and Jack had to move up to the bar and get a scotch and water.

when he got back the horses were already on the track warming up for the first race. he tried to line up the first race but the crowd was there now. some guy with a megaphone voice, drunk, telling people he hadn't missed a Saturday at the races since 1945. a complete subnormal idiot. a good guy. wait until the fog came in some night and they sent him back to his lonely closet for a handjob.

well, thought Jack, I'm on the cross. be kind and they put you on the cross. that son of a bitch on his couch talking about Mahler and Kant and cunt and revolution, not really knowing about any of them.

he'd have to play the first race cold. 2 minutes to post. one minute. he pushed through the daily double mob. zero. “here they come!” came the call. a guy walked over both his feet. he was bayoneted by an elbow, a pickpocket bounced off his left haunch.

rat-dog crowd. he went for Windale Ladybird. shit, the morning line favorite. standard play. he was losing his head early.

Kant and cunt. dogs.

Jack moved on out toward the far end of the stands. the car had the rolling starting gate and the horses were just about up to the beginning of the mile and one eighth.

he hadn't made his seat when here came another dog. in trance-like state. head staring up at something in the rafters. body moving directly at him. there was no way out. a crash. as they ran together Jack pushed his elbow out, dug it deep into the soft gut. the guy bounced off and groaned.

when he got to his seat, Windale Ladybird had opened up 4 lengths on the turn for home. Bobby Williams was going to try to steal a mile and an eighth. but the horse didn't look live to Jack. after 15 years at the races he could instinctively tell by the stride whether a horse was running easy or hard. the Ladybird was straining – 4 lengths but she was praying.

3 at the top of the stretch. then Hobby's Record moved out. that horse was stepping briskly and high. Jack was dead. at the top of the stretch with 3 lengths, he was dead. 15 yards from the wire Hobby's Record rolled past by what looked like a length and one half. a good 7/2 second choice.

Jack tore up 4 five dollar win tickets. Kant and cunt, I should go home now. save the roll. this is one of those nights.

the 2nd race, a one mile pace, happened to be simple. you didn't need a time-class breakdown. the crowd was buying Ambro Indigo, because of an inside post, early foot and Joe O'Brien in the bike. the other contender, Gold Wave was stuck on the outside, post 9, with the unheralded Don Mcllmurray. if they were all that easy he would have been in Beverly Hills ten years ago. but still, because the first race had gone bad, because of Kant and cunt, Jack went 5 win.

then Good Candy got the late action on the total money-earned gimmick and all the boys came running to get on Good Candy. Candy had dropped from a morning line of 20 down to 9. now it read 8. the boys went insane. Jack smelled the fish and just tried to get out of the way. then a GIANT came rushing at him – the son of a bitch must have been 8 feet tall – where'd he come from? Jack had never seen him before.

the GIANT wanted CANDY and all he could see was the window, and the car was rolling the gate toward the beginning line. the guy was young, tall. wide, stupid. pounding the floor toward Jack. Jack tried to duck. too late. the giant gave him an elbow across the temple, knocked him 15 feet. red, blue, yellow, blue shots of light spun the air.

“hey, you son of a bitch!” Jack yelled at the giant. but the giant was leaning into the win window buying losing tickets. Jack got back to his seat.

Gold Wave came around the curve with 3 lengths at the top of the stretch. and stepping easy. it was a walkaway at 4 to one. but Jack only had 5 win, which put him $6.50 up. well, it beat sweeping shit.

he lost the 3rd., 4th. and 5th. races, hooked Lady Be Fast, 6 to one in the 6th., went to Beautiful Handover, 8/5 in the 7th., got away with it and was riding a mere $30 high, merely on instinct, then put 20 win on Propensity in the 8th., 3 to one, and Propensity broke at the start and there went that.

one more scotch and water. this whole thing, no pre-race setup, it was like trying to screw a beachball in a dark closet. go home – dying was a little easier with a breather now and then at Acapulco.

Jack looked over at the girls showing it from the chairs against the wall. that clubhouse stuff was nice and clean, good to look at. but it was there to take the money away from the winners. he allowed himself to enjoy the girls' legs for a few moments. then turned to the tote. he felt a hip and leg up against him. a touch of breast, the faintest of perfume.

“say, mista, pardon me.”

“sure.”

she put her flank against him good. all he had to do was say the magic words and he had a 50 dollar piece of ass, but he'd never seen a piece of ass worth 50 dollars.

“yeh.” he asked.

“who's the 3 horse?”

“May Western.”

“you think she'll win?”

“not against these. maybe next time in a little better spot.”

“I just need a horse in the money. who do you think will be in the money?”

“you will,” Jack said and then slid away from her flank.

cunt and Kant and a happy home.

they were still buying May Western and Brisk Risk was dropping.

ONE MILE PACE, FILLIES AND MARES, NON-WINNERS OF $10,000 IN 1968. horses made more than most men did, only they couldn't spend it.

a stretcher on rollers slid by with an old grey-haired woman under the blankets.

the tote whirled around. Brisk Risk dropped again. May Western flicked up a notch.

“hey, mista!”

it was a man's voice behind him.

Jack was concentrating on the tote.

“yeah?”

“lemme have a quarter.”

Jack didn't turn around. he reached into his pocket and got the quarter. he put it into the palm of his hand and put the hand around behind his back. he felt the fingers dip into his hand, get the quarter.

he never saw the guy. the board read zero.

“here they come!”

oh, shit.

he hit the ten dollar window, got one win ticket on PIXIE DEW, 20 to one and two tickets on CECELIA, 7/2. he didn't know what he was doing. there was a certain way of doing things, of fighting bulls of making love of frying eggs of drinking water and wine, and if you didn't do them right you choked on them, they could kill you.

Cecelia took the lead and took them down the backstretch. Jack checked the stride of the horse. a chance. it wasn't straining yet and the driver had a light hold. a fair shot. so far. but the horse behind looked better. Jack checked the program. Kimpam, 12 on the line, off at 25, the crowd hadn't wanted it. the horse had Joe O'Brien in the bike but Joe had failed on the same horse at 9 to one, two races back. the perfect blind. Lighthill let out all the string on Cecelia, Cecelia was open, throttle down, Lighthill had to steal it or chuck it. there was a chance. he had 4 lengths at the head of the stretch. O'Brien let Lighthill take the 4. then he leaned forward and let Kimpam go. shit, no, not at 25 to one, thought Jack. high-rein that mare, Lighthill. we got 4. let's go. 20 win at 7/2 can be 98 bucks. we can save the night.

he checked Cecelia. the legs were not lifting high at the knees. cunt and Kant and Kimpam. Cecelia shortened stride, almost stopped at midstretch. O'Brien sailed by with his 25 to one, rocking in the bike, flipping the reins, talking to the horse.

then Pixie Dew came running on out from the outside, Ackerman giving the 20 to one shot all the string it needed and going to the whip – 20 times ten, 200 bucks plus change. Ackerman closed down to a length and a few Chinese tokens to O'Brien, and that's the way they came down – O'Brien holding that space open, clucking to his horse, sailing by, smiling just a bit, as he does, and it was over. Kimpam, chestnut mare 4, by Irish-Meadow Wick. Irish? and O'Brien? shit, it was too much. the insane hat-pin ladies from the madhouses of hell had finally got themselves one.

the two dollar win and two dollar show windows were filled with little old ladies on pension checks with half pints of gin in their purses.

Jack took the stairway down. the escalators were jammed. he switched his wallet to left front pocket to get the pickpockets off. they hit his left rear pocket 5 or 6 times a night, but all he ever gave them was a broken-toothed comb and an old handkerchief.

he got to his car, got out with the jam, managed not to get a fender ripped off, the fog was coming down good now. but he made it up North without trouble, except getting near his place he saw something good in the fog, young, short dress, hitch-hiking, oh mother, he tapped his brake, good legs but by the time he slowed he was 50 yards from her with other cars behind him. well, let her get raped by some idiot. he wasn't going to circle back.

he checked for lights in his place, nobody there, good. he made it in, sat down, split the next day's Form with his thumb, opened the half pint, a can of beer and got to work. he'd been there 5 minutes when the phone began to ring. he looked up, gave the phone the finger, bent down over the Form again. the old pro was back in business.