| race or if only this had happened or that was done, and on and on and on. “Man, would I have been livin’ large.” The only thing to snap a horse player out of the shoulda-woulda-coulda’s is the start of a new race and the rush as the gates open, the powerful and majestic animals tearing into the dirt, great muscles flexing and straining as jockeys rock and swing and whip over the great creatures with so many hopes riding on them in the form of invisible bets placed in casino back rooms and bookie joints and OTB’s all over the country. Three men came alone to the Trop, and a bond had formed–the newcomer, the old handicapper, and the neighbor. We inched our chairs closer together and huddled around one small TV to plan and pick and celebrate winning, tore up tickets when we lost, and smiled and laughed and yelled at the TV’s as our horses ran in and out of contention. Papa Joe shouted, “Come on, put some horse into it!” to help his picks struggling along the outside or getting boxed in along the rail or hanging in there as the pack closed in on the lead. “PUT SOME HORSE INTO IT” was the cry of the night and I said “PUT SOME HORSE INTO IT” too. Chapter IV You know where to find me. Papa Joe told me that he had owned horses and trotters in the old days. I asked him why they called him Papa Joe, and he laughed and simply told me that they called him that because he was just an old guy, but I sensed there was more to the name then just age. That night I didn’t learn his long story, not feeling the need to know too much more about Papa Joe’s past and what could lead a man to spend his waking hours betting other people’s money on televised horse races in a windowless room way in the back of an Atlantic City casino. My intuition told me that the man probably had a great many colorful stories to tell, probably involving wealth and poverty and happiness and heartbreak and perhaps even crime and punishment; but that night simply was not the night. It was fun and interest and friendship without attachment. Papa Joe could tell that I was preparing to leave as I started gathering up the dollars lying on the table before us, placed there so he could pick at the ones and five and tens and twenties, helping arrange my bets. Towards the end of the night the bets had become rather exotic and too complex for me to follow, so I’d just turned the entire show over to Papa Joe to manage for me. Eventually he had bet the ten dollars and won. This single bet was the only time I saw him go to the teller’s window with his own money. He was quiet about his personal six-dollar win from his bet and seemed much happier when I won. We said goodbye and firmly shook hands. He told me that he could be found right there in this spot, in this chair, anytime, any day of the week, and I believed him. As I took a few steps away towards the poker room I looked back over my shoulder and Papa Joe had also turned to look over his shoulder at me. |
| “Papa Joe” (continued) |