| Nate glared at the twenty in my hand. “Hurry, tell him you want the 6 horse, race 7 Yonkers, three by four. Hurry now, that’s a 12 dollar bet. Hurry.” “Ok,” I fumbled with the bet sequence in my head trying to remember Nate's instructions. A few moments before, I had been quietly pondering behaviors in the poker parlor, taking my time with my thoughts, and suddenly I had a handicapper possibly named Nate pushing me to place a three-way bet on a horse race I couldn’t hope to figure out. I’d read in a magazine the previous week that in life, if you are always prepared, you never have to get prepared. I was not prepared. I’d always been a spectator when it came to sport, but right then I felt like a player. Nate had my back, and I was at the player’s window and in the action. I placed the bet just in the nick of time and then took a few steps backwards towards Nate’s reserved spot. “Nate” pulled the chair next to him out from under the table and invited me to sit down in another reserved seat, empty at the moment. It was still early that whoever owned it wouldn’t be around until later, or was perhaps a friend who wouldn’t mind. Anyway, I sat next to Nate to watch the race together, not worrying about trespassing in the reserved seat as his confidence and control of the area was evident. He wore a navy blue windbreaker zipped three quarters of the way up, clean with no writing. I sat quite close to Nate, close enough to smell the heavy smoke deep in his clothes and the mixture of smoke and coffee on his breath. He did have an odor, a few days without a shower, but his clothes were unsoiled. He smiled a lot, nice teeth, and was very excited that there was money riding on the race even though it wasn’t his money. That fact didn’t seem to matter to him, as long as there was action and he was in on it. Seconds before post time he leaned over and said, “I’m Papa Joe, nice to meet ya. What’s your name?” He extended his hand to shake mine, as if he wanted it done before the race started. We were forming a partnership, and names had to be exchanged and hands shaken, so that we could turn our attention back to the race starting in any moment. He saw me glance at the RESERVED FOR NATE card which he quickly turned over with a flick of his wrist, twisting the Scotch tape but leaving it stuck on the white linoleum shelf above our heads. “Oh, so you you’re not Nate?” I asked, quizzing. “No, ,no, I‘m not. I’m not Nate. They call me Papa Joe.” He smiled proudly with a heavy emphasis on “they call me.” “I’m Mike. Nice to meet you, Papa Joe.” |
| “Papa Joe” (continued) |
