Ken Grimwood: Replay

The night with Judy had begun pleasantly enough, but that final scene in the car had left him depressed. He’d forgotten how artificial sex used to be. No, not forgotten; he’d never fully realized it, not when those things were happening to him for the first time. The dishonesty had all been masked by the glow of newly discovered emotion, of naive but irresistible sexual hunger. What had once seemed wondrously erotic now stood revealed in all its essential cheapness, unobscured by the distance of time: a quick hand job in the front seat of a Chevrolet, with bad music in the background.

So what the hell was he going to do now, just play along? Indulge in more heavy petting sessions with a dewy little blonde from another time who’d never heard of the pill? Go back to classes and adolescent bull sessions and spring dances as if they were all new to him? Memorize statistical tables he’d long since forgotten and had never found any use for, so he could pass Sociology 101?

Maybe he didn’t have any goddamned choice, not if this phenomenal, grotesque switch in time turned out to be permanent. Maybe he really would have to go through it, all of it, again—year after painful, predictable year. This alternate reality was becoming more concrete by the moment, ever more entrenched. That other self of his was the falsehood now. He must accept the fact that he was a college freshman, eighteen years old, totally dependent on his parents and his ability to repeat successfully dozens of academic courses that now filled him with disdain and utter boredom.

The TV news was over, and a sports announcer was droning off a list of AA-league baseball scores. Jeff ordered another drink, and as the bartender brought the fresh glass Jeff’s attention suddenly focused with laserlike intensity on every word from the ancient Sylvania.

"… coming into Churchill Downs unbeaten, there are still two eastern colts that might give the California chestnut a run for the money. Trainer Woody Stephens brings Never Bend into the Derby fresh from a handsome victory in the Stepping Stone prep, and with a clean record for '63; Stephens won’t go so far as to predict a victory, but…"

The Kentucky Derby. Why the hell not? If he really had lived through the next twenty-five years, rather than imagining them or dreaming them, one thing was clear: He had a vast store of information that could be useful in the extreme. Nothing technical—he couldn’t design a computer, or anything like that—but he certainly had a working knowledge, a journalist’s knowledge, of the trends and events that would influence society from now to the mid-eighties. He could make a lot of money betting on sports events and presidential elections. Assuming, of course, that he actually possessed a concrete and correct awareness of what would happen over the coming quarter century. As he’d recognized earlier, that was not necessarily a safe assumption.

"… not far off the pace. The horse that just might set that pace is Greentree Stable’s No Robbery, who holds the record, at 1:34, for the fastest mile ever run by a three-year-old in New York … and who won the Wood Memorial one week after setting…"

Shit, who had won the Derby that year? Jeff struggled to remember. The name Never Bend, unlike No Robbery, at least rang a distant bell; but that still didn’t sound right.

"… both have an uphill battle against the team of Willie Shoemaker and the western wonder, Candy Spots. That’s the combination to beat, folks; and though it looks to be an exciting Run for the Roses among these three contenders, the consensus—and it’s a strong one—is that Candy Spots will wear the wreath this Saturday."

That didn’t sound right, either. What horse was it? Northern Dancer? Or maybe Kauai King? Jeff was sure those had both won Derbies; but which years?

"Say, bartender!"

"Same?"

"No, I’m O.K. for now; have you got a paper?"

"Paper?"

"A newspaper, today’s, yesterday’s, it doesn’t matter."

"'The Journal or the Constitution?"

"Whatever. You got the sports pages?"

"Marked up a little bit. Braves coming to town next year, I’ve been following their averages."

"Can I take a quick look?"

"Sure thing." The bartender reached beneath the place where he kept the garnishes and produced a tightly folded sports section.

Jeff flipped past the baseball pages and found a preview of the upcoming race of races in Louisville. He scanned the list of entries: There were the favorites the announcer had mentioned, Candy Spots, Never Bend, No Robbery; then Royal Tower, Lemon Twist … no, no … Gray Pet, Devil It Is … never heard of either of them … Wild Card, Rajah Noor … uh-uh … Bonjour, On My Honor …

Chateaugay.

Chateaugay, at eleven-to-one odds.

He sold the Chevy to a used-car dealer on Briarcliff Road for six hundred dollars. His books, stereo, and record collection brought in another two hundred sixty dollars at a junk shop downtown. In his dorm-room desk he’d found a checkbook and savings book from a bank near campus, and he immediately withdrew all but twenty dollars from each of the two accounts; that gave him another eight hundred and thirty dollars.

Calling his parents was the hardest part. It was obvious how deeply his sudden request for an "emergency" loan worried them, and his father was clearly angered by Jeff’s refusal to explain any further. Still, he came through with a couple of hundred dollars, and Jeff’s mother sent another four hundred from her own savings.

Now he had to place a bet, a large one. But how? He thought briefly of going to Louisville and putting the money down right at the track; but a call to a travel agent told him what he’d already suspected, that the Derby had been sold out for weeks in advance.

There was also the problem of his age. He might look old enough to order a drink at a bar, but making a wager of this size was sure to draw close scrutiny. He needed somebody to front for him.

"A bookie? What the hell do you want to know about bookies for, kid?"

To Jeff’s eyes, Frank Maddock, at twenty-two, was himself a "kid," but in this context the senior, prelaw student was an older, experienced man of the world, and obviously enjoyed playing that role to the hilt.

"I want to make a bet," Jeff said.

Maddock smiled indulgently, lit a cigarillo, and waved for another pitcher of beer.

"What on?"

"The Kentucky Derby."

"Why don’t you just start a pool around your dorm? Probably get lots of guys to come in on it. Be sure to keep it quiet, though."

The senior was treating him with an affable condescension. Jeff smiled inwardly at the young man’s practiced, if unearned, air of worldliness.

"The bet I want to make is fairly large."

"Yeah? Like how much?"

Manuel’s was half empty on a Thursday afternoon, and no one was in earshot. "Twenty-three hundred dollars," Jeff said.

Maddock frowned. "You’re talking about a hell of a lot of money there. I know Candy Spots is pretty much a sure thing, but—"

"Not Candy Spots. One of the other horses."

The older boy laughed as the waiter set a new pitcher of beer on the worn oak table. "Dream on, son. No Robbery isn’t worth that kind of risk, and neither is Never Bend. Not in this race."

"It’s my money, Frank. I was thinking of a seventy-thirty split on the winnings. If I’m right, you could clean up without risking a dime."

Maddock poured them each a fresh mug, tipping the glasses to keep the-foam down. "I could get in a lot of trouble over this, you know. I don’t want to do anything to screw up law school. A kid like you, all that money; how do I know you wouldn’t go screaming to Dean Ward if you lost it?"

Jeff shrugged. "I guess that’s where your part of the gamble comes in. But I’m not that kind of guy, and I don’t plan to lose."