Charles Bukowski - Factotum

"I can tool this thing. We'll make it."

"We can't stop for the red lights."

Manny had a fairly new car and he knew how to switch lanes. "I've played every track in this country."

"Caliente too?"

"Yes, Caliente. The bastards take twenty-five per cent."

"I know."

"It's worse in Germany. In Germany the take is fifty per cent."

"And they still get players?"

"They still get players. The suckers figure all they got to do is find the winner."

"We're bucking sixteen per cent, that's rough enough."

"Rough. But a good player can beat the take."

"Yes. "

"Shit, a red light!"

"Fuck it. Go on through."

"I'm going to hang a right." Manny abruptly switched lanes and cut right at the signal. "Watch out for squad cars."

"Right." Manny could really tool that thing. If he could bet horses like he drove, Manny was a winner.

"You married, Manny?"

"No way."

"Women?"

"Sometimes. But it never lasts."

"What's the problem?"

"A woman is a full-time job. You have to choose your profession."

"I suppose there is an emotional drain."

"Physical too. They want to fuck night and day."

"Get one you like to fuck."

"Yes, but if you drink or gamble they think it's a put-down of their love."

"Get one who likes to drink, gamble and fuck."

"Who wants a woman like that?"

Then we were in the parking lot. Parking was free after the seventh race. Track admission also was free. Not having a program or a racing form was a problem, though. If there were any scratches you couldn't be sure which horse on the tote board was yours.

Manny locked the car. We started running. Manny opened up six lengths on me in the parking lot. We ran through an open gate and down into the tunnel. Manny held his six lengths through the tunnel, which at Hollywood Park is a long one. Coming out of the tunnel and into the track proper, I closed up on Manny until I was only five lengths back. I could see the horses at the gate. We sprinted toward the betting windows.

"My Boy Bobby… what's his number?" I yelled at a man with one leg as we ran past. Before he could answer I could no longer hear him. Manny ran toward the five dollar win window. When I got there he had his ticket. "What's his number?" "8! It's the 8 horse!" I got my $5 down and got the ticket as the bell rang shutting off the mutual machines and starting the horses out of the gate.

Bobby read 4 on the board off a 6 to one morning line. The 3 horse was the 6 to 5 favorite. It was an $8,000 claimer, a mile and one sixteenth. As they came around the first turn the favorite had a three-quarter length lead and Bobby was laying off his shoulder, like an executioner. He was loping loose and easy.

"We should have gone ten," I said. "We're in."

"Yeah, we've hooked the winner. We're in unless some big-ass closer comes out of the pack."

Bobby layed on the favorite's side halfway around the last turn and then made his move sooner than I expected. It was a trick jocks used sometimes. Bobby came around the favorite, dropped down on the rail and made his run right then instead of later. He had three and one half lengths at the top of the stretch. Then out of the pack came the horse we had to beat, the 4 horse, he read 9 to one but he was coming. But Bobby was gliding. He won on a hand ride by two and one half lengths and paid $10.40.

The next day at work we were questioned about our sudden departure. We admitted we had made the last race and also that we were going again that afternoon. Manny had his horse picked and I had mine. Some of the guys asked if we would take bets out for them. I said that I didn't know. At noon Manny and I went to a bar for lunch.

"Hank, we take their bets."

"Those guys don't have any money-all they have is the coffee and chewing gum money their wives give them and we don't have time to mess around with the two dollar windows."

"We don't bet their money, we keep their money."

"Suppose they win?"

"They won't win. They always pick the wrong horse. They have a way of always picking the wrong horse."

"Suppose they bet our horse?"

"Then we know we've got the wrong horse."

"Manny, what are you doing working in auto parts?"

"Resting. My ambition is handicapped by laziness."

We had another beer and went back to the warehouse.

We ran through the tunnel as they were putting them in the gate. We wanted Happy Needles. We were only getting 9 to 5 and I figured we wouldn't win two days running, so I just bet $5. Manny went $10 win. Happy Needles won by a neck, getting up on the outside in the last few strides. We had that win and we also had $32 in bad bets, courtesy of the boys at the warehouse.

Word got around and the boys at other warehouses, where I went to pick up parts, placed their bets with me. Manny was right, there was seldom a payoff. They didn't know how to bet; they bet too short or too long and the price kept hitting in the middle. I bought a good pair of shoes, a new belt and two expensive shirts. The owner of the warehouse didn't look so powerful any more. Manny and I took a little longer with our lunches and came back smoking good cigars. But it was still a rough ride every afternoon to make the last race. The crowd got to know us as we came running out of that tunnel, and every afternoon they were waiting. They cheered and waved racing forms, and the cheers seemed to grow louder as we went past them on the dead run to the betting windows.

The new life didn't sit well with Jan. She was used to her four fucks a day and also used to seeing me poor and humble. After a day at the warehouse, then the wild ride and finally sprinting across the parking lot and down through the tunnel, there wasn't much love left in me. When I came in each evening she'd be well into her wine.

"Mr. Horseplayer," she'd say as I walked in. She'd be all dressed up; high-heels, nylons, legs crossed high, swinging her foot. "Mr. Big Horseplayer. You know, when I first met you I liked the way you walked across a room. You didn't just _walk_ across a room, you walked like you were going to walk through a wall, like you owned everything, like nothing mattered. Now you got a few bucks in your pocket and you're not the same any more. You act like a dental student or a plumber."

"Don't give me any shit about plumbers, Jan."

"You haven't made love to me in two weeks."

"Love takes many forms. Mine has been more subtle."

"You haven't fucked me for two weeks."

"Have patience. In six months we'll be vacationing in Rome, in Paris."

"Look at you! Pouring yourself that good whiskey and letting me sit here drinking this cheap rot-gut wine."

I relaxed in a chair and swirled my whiskey around with the ice cubes. I had on an expensive yellow shirt, very loud, and I had on new pants, green with white pinstripes.

"Mr. Big-Time Horseplayer!"

"I give you soul. I give you wisdom and light and music and a bit of laughter. Also, I am the world's greatest horseplayer."

"Horse shit!"

"No, horseplayer." I drained my whiskey, got up, and made myself another.

The arguments were always the same. I understood it too well now-that great lovers were always men of leisure. I fucked better as a bum than as a puncher of timeclocks.

Jan began her counterattack, which was to argue with me, get me enraged and then run out into the streets, the bars. All she had to do was to sit on a barstool alone and the drinks, the offers would follow. I didn't think that was fair of her, naturally.

Most of the evenings fell into a pattern. She'd argue, grab her purse and be gone out the door. It was effective; we had lived and loved together for too many days. I had to feel it and feel it I did. But I always let her go as I sat helpless in my chair and drank my whiskey and tuned in the radio to a bit of classical music. I knew she was out there, and I knew there would be somebody else. Yet I had to let it happen, I had to let events take their own course.