Bud Smith - F 250

“Did that guy have a plan B?”

“That was probably his problem,” Seth said. “He was going to law school and it didn’t work out, because his plan B was to be a wino who pisses himself every night walking back and forth to Dinosaur Liquor for a fifth of swill.”

“Damn, you got it all figured out.”

He laughed.

My idea at the time was to eventually get bigger and bigger jobs. I wanted to steal my friend Dale from the rock quarry. He was a great heavy machine operator. I wanted to steal Steph from the quarry too. She was their bookkeeper, knew a lot about bidding on material, and was great to look at. We weren’t on good terms at the moment. We’d gone on some dates, and it hadn’t worked out because of me. But I liked her. I could talk to her. Even if it was just endless insults, we could talk. That’s how it was with most people I knew — we’d just sit around and insult each other.

This dream business. Working at rich people’s houses. Getting paid to sweat and get good suntans. Me and Seth would own the business, and Steph and Dale would work for us. Maybe I could even get Trish a job. It’s not like she was in love with her cash register at the Dollar Store or anything.

Seth pointed at a strip mall. “Muchacho, pull in there.”

It was the OTB, off track betting. The lot was nearly full. I’d never been there before. Always just cruised past.

“What are we doing here?”

“Kentucky Derby,” he said. “Man, you live under a rock.”

We parked in the back, fought our way inside. Mullets and jean jackets. Creeps that looked like they had knives on them (if not worse).

Inching forward in line for the window to place our bets, Seth said, “Be good if I scored a little here, ya know, for studio time.” He elbowed me in the gut.

“Thought you were fine with Ethel paying for all of it,” I said. “Now you’re guilty because you banged his girl.”

“She’s got a supernatural pussy. I mean it. And … she called me when I was gone.”

“Denise called you? How? You don’t have a phone.”

“My brother, Mark … I called her from his phone.”

“She called back?” I laughed. Now, I knew a few more things about his older brother Mark: he had a cellphone and he could drink more alcohol than anyone on earth — it didn’t affect him. Seth was a little bit like that, but not truly immortal like Mark.

We studied the racing forms. I didn’t know what to make of it. Horses with strange names like Limehouse, Imperialist, Smarty Jones, Song of the Sword, Tapit, Castledale.

“My money’s on Song of the Sword,” I said.

Seth cracked up, “I’m going with Smarty Jones.”

I dug around in my wallet and found five bucks I wouldn’t mind throwing away. Seth gave the mummified woman at the window his bet: forty bucks down on Smarty Jones.

“Mark gave me a tip about that horse. I take Mark’s tips, ya know?”

“Why’d you let me bet Song of the Sword then, you putz?”

He snickered, “Come on, let’s find a spot at the bar.”

It was tight over there. On one side of the OTB was a trailer park. On the other side was a retirement community. The place was like a hot white light in the dark attracting insects. It hummed with strange energy. Girls who looked like they’d been on the streets their whole life sat with chattering teeth glaring into the Jumbotrons, TVs bigger than their whole lives. Guys in trucker hats rocked on stools, glanced at the tickets in their hands, and hoped beyond hope to ‘hit’ so they could make the mortgage, or rent, or buy back their stereo out of hock … whatever their plight was. This place was a hotbed of tension. No-one was drinking for fun.

I looked all around and began to worry. Was I gonna wind up like them one day? Without a leg to stand on. Clutching at straws. I wasn’t in college like I was supposed to be. I wasn’t doing anything to advance my career. I was in a band that was going nowhere.

Seth wanted to do shots of Jägermeister.

“You kidding me,” I said. “Jägermeister?”

“Come on! Hit it.”

“Fuck that. You can have mine.”

And he did. He threw back both shots. That was the problem with Seth: he never wanted to go to the good places — where the girls were. He was happy drinking at the VFW, at the dive next to Fried Paradise, at Spider Bar, and the perfect example: at OTB. Seth ordered a beer. He didn’t bother me anymore to drink with him. He knew I still wouldn’t.

When our bass player, Charlie, went and snagged Natalie, he said to me, “Charlie’s got herpes, honest to God. Severe stuff.”

That made everything better, somehow.

We were staring at the Jumbotrons too. We couldn’t look away. It was just too bright. The horses were beginning to trot around and get warmed up. It wouldn’t be long now before the race went off.

I scanned the place with worry. What would happen when all those desperate people lost? I mean, they were used to losing by now. So it was no big deal. They’d been doing it their whole lives, right? But somebody was bound to snap. It always happened. As Seth rattled in my ear about Denise and how tight and slippery and yadda yadda she was, I disconnected from his voice. I overlooked the OTB, playing a little game: find the one that would lose their shit and go hog wild when their horse didn’t come in.

“I broke up with Shannon,” he said.

“Oh, I thought you broke up with her a while ago. I can’t keep track.”

“Nah, we patched things up. But I told her last night, before I came down here, I said, ‘We’re through.’”

“Ahhh,” I pointed, “look. See that?” It was a rail-skinny man from the trailer park, bleached hair all fluffed out and haywire, faded jean jacket, and skintight, stonewashed denim pants. He was on his hands and knees, praying — actually praying — to the Jumbotron. The horses were at the gate. Tears streamed down the man’s leathery cheeks. I noticed his shoes were gone.

“Whoa,” Seth said, taking a draw from his beer. We were in awe of our surroundings.

The gun went off. The gates sprung open. The horses burst onto the muddy track. Colors flew everywhere: banners, outfits, streams of paper. Nostrils. Whips. Jockeys bouncing up and down. Everyone out of their seats, yelling “GO ____,” “GO _____,” “PLEASE GOD, LET _____ WIN! I’LL DO ANYTHING!! ANYTHING!!”

Actually heard this one too: “PLEASE SATAN, DARK LORD, GRANT ME THIS DEMONIC WISH! ALLOW _____ TO FINISH FIRST!”

I couldn’t believe the fire that suddenly lit up this dreary, smoke-filled place. People were on their feet, filled with a life I didn’t think they could possess. The horses thundered forward, hooves pumping, spittle flying. A quarter mile in 2 minutes! You’d think that the people in the OTB were running the race themselves given the fury they were whipped into.

I leaned on a carpeted column. I couldn’t relate to any of it. What else was new? I’m usually floating around somewhere in my own head — even in the middle of a party. It’s a problem; I’m never quite “there.” I’d make the worst Buddhist. I’ve never lived in the moment. Not once.

Seth punched my shoulder.

His horse was winning. Smarty Jones by a nose! Smarty Jones by two strides! Smarty Jones crossing the line by 2 ¾ lengths to win!

He grabbed me, squeezed me, squeezed me and bear hugged me up into the air. I felt one of my ribs crack. We fell over on the ground, and as soon as we hit, he was up on his feet — running towards the mummified woman in that pay out window while waving his ticket over his head.

I got dizzy, looking around at people as they ripped their tickets and threw them into the air. Confetti. They angrily sucked back the rest of their drinks, gathered their purses, racing forms, car keys. Pissed, pissed, pissed. So very pissed.