Horse sense is the thing a horse has which keeps it from betting on people.” – W. C. Fields. The guy in a golf cart motored us back to Central Avenue, to the looming horse track across the street. We had parked the car behind a motel nearby after paying the reasonable sum of ten bucks. Behind us, in the space once reserved for golf clubs, sat two older gents who were also hoping for fortune’s smile that day.
Above, I saw two men were coming out of a room on the second floor. They both wore boots, smoked cigars and carried a beer, which I recognized through the clear cups in their hands. They laughed and looked prosperous, seeming unconcerned with the economic problems of their fellow citizens.
We rode and the air, for mid-winter, was warm. The chances for snow were slipping away. People I’d talked to were ready for spring football to begin. Basketball had arrived and conference play had begun, but the football season, which recently came to a defensive end, was still on the minds of most.
We left the cart and passed in front of the bar across the street from the track. It was dark and inviting. The door opened and an old woman came out, draped in a cloud of cigarette smoke. She looked up and stretched a grin, as if to show off the silver that had replaced ivory. I turned away and stepped onto the asphalt road, hoping the cars would obey the law and stop. We crossed and I looked back, but the old woman had gone back inside.
I thought of the old days when there wasn’t a crosswalk law, or maybe there was and everyone just ignored it. In those times, there was a traffic cop who would stop the cars when he felt enough people had congregated to cross. Some couldn’t wait on him, however, and likely dropped inside that same dark and inviting bar.
We made it to the other side, and I was glad to pay my two dollars at the gate and escape the bustle of Central Avenue.
Inside, we bought racing forms and walked to the escalator. The Oyster Bar, off to my right, was about a third full. On one of the tables, a dozen on the half shell glistened. They made me wish I hadn’t quit eating them a few years ago. I had given them up after reading a sign in Bill’s Crab Shack in St. Petersburg, which said, “Eat raw oysters at your own risk.”
I always knew there was a risk, but when you see it on a sign, right above where they are being served, it leaves more of an impression. Still, the thought of a cafeteria tray covered with open shells and meaty mollusks, splashed with lemon juice and Louisiana hot sauce, was tempting. Oh well, the corned beef would have to suffice, and maybe a hotdog, too.
We got off the escalator and searched for the elevator, which would take us to the floor where the Oaklawn Club was located. The elevator doors were shutting when a beefy hand grabbed one of the doors and pushed it back open. Six more people joined us inside. We were packed in and one guy got out and announced he would take the stairs. A woman said, “He needs to walk off those Bloody Marys anyway.” The whole group seemed to have already enjoyed their toddy (or seven), that morning.
After making our way inside the club and locating a beer, I headed to the buffet for the corned beef, then to our table, high above the fast dirt track. It was time to try and pick some winners.
•••
A difference of opinion is what makes horse racing and missionaries. – Will Rogers.
I bet on a horse at ten to one. He didn’t come in ‘til half past five. – Henny Youngman.