Back in the late-70s I bet the horses with a friend from CBGBs. Bill Yusk came from Kentucky to study philosophy at NYU, but the long-haired scholar spent the autumn racing season at OTB and Aqueduct instead of attending classes on Kant and Marx. One afternoon he came over to my railroad apartment with the goal of enticing me to joining him at OTB on 14th Street. We sat in my kitchen discussing his addiction to the horses.
“I’m studying the dichotomy of winning versus losing. One makes you happy and the other makes you sad, but doesn’t stop you from wanting to be happy.” Bill stroked his long hair. It hadn’t been washed in days.
” A dollar won in a bet is ten times better than a dollar you worked for.” I had an easy job working as the doorman of an uptown punk disco, but laying in bed was easier. My girlfriend was in the bedroom, hoping that we would leave. It was a small apartment without any doors.
“Arbietlos macht frei.” Bill paraphrased the words over the Dachau gates. He hadn’t worked a day in his life. “Here’s my selections for today.”
“I don’t like gambling.” I had spent my 22nd birthday playing Blackjack across Nevada. I ended up broke on the bank of the Truckee River. I learned my lessons once.
“Whatever bet you win will make you stronger.” Bill researched the various racing forms with the diligence of Kierkegaard seeking the winning enlightenment as opposed to the oblivion of losing.
“That’s not Nietzsche.” The German nihilist wasn’t known for his humor.
“No, but he did say, “The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.”
My hillbilly girlfriend came into the room. Her bedroom eyes were begging for my sleep. She hated my working at the nightclub. Our female customers were even easier than lying in bed. “Nietzsche is a bore, but George Raft said, “Part of the $10 million I spent on gambling, part on booze and part on women. The rest I spent foolishly.”
“Foolishness is indeed the sister of wickedness. Sophocles.”
“Enough already.” Alice pointed at the chubby Kentuckian, “Anyone ever say that you resembled Felix Unger’s sloppy roommate.”
Oscar never wore a leather jacket like this.” Bill’s Schott offered instant acceptance at our haunt CBGBs. “Plus I lifted the toilet seat unlike some people.”
“I know.” The young actress constantly nagged me about my bathroom foibles, especially since our apartment had a bathroom in the kitchen and a water closet off the living room. She pointed to the door. “Go. I have to make myself beautiful.”
Bill and I left the apartment and went over to Veselkas, where we poured over the Racing Form.
“I see some winners for you.” He turned around the paper and pointed to encircled names.
“You know my weakness.” I tended to wagered bets on horse with Ring attached to their name.
“What with the ring thing anyway?” Bill demanded in disbelief of my unscientific approach to the Sport of Kings.
“I have no idea.” My fixation was a mystery which I couldn’t shake.
“Then for once listen to Bill.” My friend pleaded on he way to the OTB parlor. “There’s this jockey riding in the Affectionately Handicap.”
“Whose the jockey?” Ron Turcotte, Darrel McHargue, and Chris McCarron were known winners.
“This kid named Stevie Cauthen.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s going to riding a Triple Crown horse this year.”
“Bullshit.” Secretariat had won the Triple Crown in 1973 and Seattle Slew looked like he might repeated with Ron Turcotte.
“Okay, maybe not this year, but today’s he’s a solid winner. How much you have to lose?”
“$20.” I never bet more than the price of a good meal of Dojo’s Restaurant on St. Mark’s. Alice was a vegetarian.
“$20 to win and I got $100 on the nose.”
Twenty minutes later Bill and I clenched my fist in triumph, as Illiterate scored an upset at 5-1. Bill and I celebrated that victory with a wicked evening at CBGBs. Even Alice had a good time.
But most horse junkies only speak about their wins. Losses are relegated to closing time at a bar. Some defeats are better than others and one May morning around 10 Bill buzzed my door.
“Tell him to go away,” My hillbilly girlfriend muttered to tell him to go away. Both of us had slept little the night before, since the Dead Boys had put on a late show at CBGBs and I had drunk at least ten beers. I shambled to the door with the sheet wrapped around my naked body.
“Go away,” I shouted into the speaker of the intercom.
“We have to speak.” Bill’s voice was scrapped raw from cigarettes.
“About what?” I doubted if he had slept.
“I have a horse running in the 1st. A sure thing.” He was delirious and I countered, “There’s no such thing as a sure thing.”
“Come down and I’ll explain.” Bill understood that he wasn’t welcome. Last night he had been at CBGBs too.
“Okay, but I in no mood for bullshit.” I pulled on my jeans and teeshirt, then went downstairs to meet him on the stoep. The street was sopping wet and the pitch black clouds threatened the East Village with heavy rain.
“What’s up?” I rubbed my forehead without relief from the dull throbbing. It might have been twelve beers instead of ten.
“There’s a horse running at Belmont,” Bill panted with a Lucky Strike in his mouth. “She’s called Ring of Rings. I spoke to a trainer at the track. He’s my uncle’s cousin and said the fix was in. It’s a sure thing. No one knows too.”
“Like I said before there’s no such thing as a sure thing.”
“The late Arnold Rothstein would beg to differ. In 1917 Hourless lost a three-horse race to the Kentucky Derby winner, Omar Khayyam, because the crooked jockey dropped his whip. The owner wanted a rematch and Rothstein tried to bet $240,000 on Hourless without any success, then got a phone call saying an anonymous person would accept any wager. Rothstein understood that the fix depended on the jockey and he got the owner to switch riders.”
“And.” The air was thick with moisture.
“Hourglass won the race and Rothstein was a winner. That was a sure thing.” Bill loved the history of racing, but the infamous bookmaker had the backing of the Mafia and no one wins against them.
“How sure is this sure thing?”
“All the jockeys have been payed off and the vet is injecting Ring of Ring with a concoction of cocaine and steroids and vitamins. The track doctor won’t say a word.”
“I don’t know.” I wanted to believe and Bill persisted with his persuasion.
“C’mon, this has has everything you love about a horse. Cocaine and the word ‘ring’.”
Bill had touched on my weaknesses and I checked my wallet. I had $57.
“How does it run in the rain?” Belmont was slow in the mud.
“A winner three out five times.” Bill held up the Racing News.
“That’s good enough for me. I ran upstairs to grab my shoes.
“Where are you going?” Alice asked from the bedroom. She looked like a young Shirley MacLaine seeking love. It wasn’t easy leaving her even for thirty minutes.
“There’s a horse running in the 3rd.”
“Does it have ‘ring’ in its name?” She knew the answer.
“Of course.”
“Those horses never win.” We had been together for over a year.
“Bill says it’s the fix is in.” I had to admit my streak with ‘ring’ horses wasn’t a winning one.
“Great, I’ll remember that when we’re eating mayonnaise sandwiches for dinner.”
“Or lobster at the Oyster Bar.” I had a good feeling about this.
“Yeech.” Alice rolled over in bed to nurse the last vestiges of her hangover. I kissed her on the lips and ran down the stairs two at a time.
“What your girlfriend say?”
“That I was a sucker for horses with ring in their name.”
“She’s not wrong.”
“Women never are.”
Bill and I hurried up to the OTB on 14th Street and entered the betting parlor, as the thick clouds opened up like this was the last day before the launch of Noah’s Ark. The odds were dropping on Ring of Ring from 21-1 to 15-1 to 12-1 in a matter of minutes. The place was packed and we fought our way into a line.
“Looks like this sure thing isn’t a secret anymore.” I pushed two queue-cutters to the rear. This was a mob and most of the horseplayers were furiously smoking cigarettes, while cursing the shifting odds. Nothing was ever good enough for these degenerates. Me too.
“Someone had a big mouth.” Bill was annoyed by the crush and blew smoke in the face of a Latino begging him for $2.
“Probably more than one big mouth too.” If an occasional bettor like me was aware of the fix, then it was public knowledge to serious gamblers. I checked the overhead TV screen. Track condition were horrible. Water pooled at the first turn.
“You sure about how this horse running in the rain.” Odds fell to 9-1.
“It’s in the Bible.” Bill worshipped the Racing Form. “I might be wrong in deciphering its mysteries, but it’s never wrong.”
“Fuck it.” We had a good record together and I wagered $50 to win on Ring of Rings.
“Everyone’s favorite today.” The OTB clerk nodded his head, as if he had secret information on the race. “It’s a sure thing.”
Bill dropped a hundred on the horse and we backed away from the counter to view the race. Everyone in the OTB was begging for the horses to get in the gates before the odds melted to nothing. At post time all eyes were on the TV screens.
“And they’re off.” The OTB announcer screamed after the bell.
The crowd roared, as Ring of Rings led out of the gate.
“This is our day,” Bill shouted with a rasp, but he spoke too soon, for going into the first turn Ring of Ring slipped in the mud and tumbled on her side.
The other jockeys in the race reined in their horses, as if they were waiting for Ring of Ring to rise from the slop. The three year-old mare laid on her side and the gamblers at the OTB groaned with realization of having been once more schooled in the lesson that there is no sure thing.
We collectively tore up our betting chits. Bill and I wandered out of the betting parlor. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining in the west.
“That’s it for me.” I had $7 to my name.
“I’m going to try and resurrect my luck in the next race.” He lit a cigarette and scanned his racing form. “Lucky for you there’s no horse called ‘ring’ in the race.”
“Yeah, lucky me.” My hillbilly girlfriend wasn’t going to be happy about eating mayo sandwiches. I started to leave, but Bill grabbed my arm to pull me back inside the OTB.
“Wait a minute. I want to see, if Ring of Ring is all right.”
“What for” She’s a dog.” I hoped that they rendered her into glue.
“What kind of talk is that? She ran the best race she could in horrible conditions. You barely were able to walk out of CBGBs last night and no one is thinking about putting you down.”
“When you’re right, you’re right.” Ring of Ring deserved better from me and we watched the jockey coax the horse from the deep mud. Once standing the mare shook her mane and then strolled without a limp. Several bettors and we applauded the horse.
“I hate seeing a horse hurt.” Bill took out his Lucky Strikes.
“Yeah, me too.” He was right, although I didn’t feel the same way about people.
Outside Bill lit his cigarette with a shrug and put on dark sunglasses. The day was getting bright on East 14th Street.
“I like War Pony in this race. A two year-old stud ready to make the big time.” Bill pulled out his wallet. He was down to his last twenty dollars.
“Remember there’s no sure thing.”
“But we knew that.”
“Yeah, I guess we did. See you at CBs later.” The Dead Boys were playing the second of their two-night stand.
“I’ll be there.” As a regular I got me and my hillbilly girlfriend in for free. The bartenders were good for a couple of drinks and if I booted the pinball machine with the proper force, quarters spewed out like it was a broken slot machine.
“Good luck with War Pony.” I offered to Bill and walked back toward 10th Street, thinking about getting some food.
$7 bought two breakfasts at Veselka’s on 2nd Avenue, if I didn’t have bacon. Scrambled eggs and toast were a sure cure for a hangover and on a morning like this a sure thing would cover all bets against any odds. Especially since Alice was a vegan.