| stern-faced tellers, and the sign above him read RESERVED FOR NATE. He wore a clean, crisp New York Yankee hat. “Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me how many minutes to post time for that race… the one on that screen up there,” I asked, pointing to one of the full-sized monitors built into the wall to the right of the three tellers. Once you place your bets with the tellers, the bet slips shoot out from the back of a computer and you have to reach in a grab them—the teller does not do this for you, and if you don’t know this, he just looks at them and you until you get the meaning. The head wearing the Yankee hat looked up from a personal mini-screen which was surrounded by betting slips and a few ballpoint pens, the kind that companies give away with their address and slogan on them. There were racing forms with notes, cross-outs, and calculations in the margins. Unclaimed losing bet slips were also scattered about the tabletops and on the floor. “You see that? MTR, that’s minutes to race, so you got 2 minutes to place your bet if you want to bet Yonkers, or if you want to wait you can bet Meadow Lands over there. It goes off in 6 minutes.” “Oh, OK, I see. MTR, I should have known… minutes to race… MTR,” I mumbled. “Of course, I see now.” I felt a little foolish, but he did not make me feel that way. He smiled and was polite as if he were hosting me in his living room. “You got a horse?” asked the Yankee-hat man, as he adjusted it, tipping the brim up slightly. I saw his face for the first time, and he looked to be in his 60s, maybe close to 70. He had a thin face, a beak nose, and silver hair pushed back over his ears, longer then most 70-year-old men keep their hair. He also had a grey, untrimmed mustache and about a two-day beard. “I don’t know. I’ll just take the long shot and bet him to show. My usual bet,” I replied. Because of the reserved sign, I’d assumed his name was Nate, even though we just started talking a minute ago and technically he was still a stranger. I guessed he saw a lot of strangers sitting there so close to the betting windows. His eyes were friendly and squinty with crow’s feet, but clear and smart; I could tell that they were not drinker’s eyes. “If you want that race, you’ve got to hurry now. If you don’t have a horse, and if I was you, I would bet the 6 horse, win place and show. Hurry now. How much you want to bet?” “Um?” I felt the pressure of a quick decision. |
| “Papa Joe” (continued) |
