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 spent most of his afternoon during racing season at OTB and Aquaduct instead of attending his classes on Kant and Marx.
"I'm studying the dichotomy of winning versus losing. One makes you happy and the other makes you sad. A dollar won in a bet is ten twice better than a dollar you worked for. I forget you said that."
"It wasn't Nietzche." The German nihilism wasn't famous for his humor.
A few of my friends questioned my betting on horse with Billy, but my girlfriend commented that the chubby Kentuckian was a clone of Oscar Madison from THE ODD COUPLE.
"Does that mean I'm Felix?" Bill did bear a resemblance to Felix Unger's sloppy roommate, although I doubted if Oscar owned a leather jacket.
"No." She hagged me constantly about not lifting the toilet seat.
Bill was a scholar about the horses. He researched the various the racing formed with the diligence of Kierkegaard pondering existentialism seeking a winning enlightenment as opposed to the oblivion of losing.
I tended to wagered bets on horse with Ring attached to their name.
"What with the ring thing?" Bill asked in disbelief of my unscientific approach to the Sport of Kings.
"I have no idea." My fixation was a mystery which I could shake, although in October 1977 he convinced me to forego my obsession and bet the house on Johnny D in the Washington International. Stevie Cauthen was riding the unknown horse.
"For once listen to Bill." My friend pleaded in the OTB parlor.
"Okay, but only this once." I bet $100 to win and clenched my fist in rare triumph, as Johnny D scored an upset at 25-1. Bill and I celebrated that victory with a wicked weekend at the Plaza Hotel, which would have lasted longer if my hillbilly girlfriend wasn't coming back from West Virginia.
Most horse junkies only speak about their wins. Losses are relegated to closing time at a bar. Some defeats are better than others.
One May morning around 10 Bill buzzed my door. 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.
“Go away,” I shouted into the speaker of the intercom.
“We have to speak.” His voice was scrapped raw from cigarettes.
"About what?" My mouth was crusted dry.
"A horse. 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 my hillbilly girlfriend refused visitors till late in the day. Last night he had been at CBGBs too. We left before him and I was sure that he had yet to go home.
"Okay, but I in no mood for bullshit." I pulled on my jeans and teeshirt and 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 in the 3rd 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.
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 hass has everything you love about a horse. Cocaine and the word ‘ring’.”
Bill had struck 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?” my hillbilly girlfriend asked from the bedroom. She looked like a young Shirley Maclaine looking for love. It wasn't easy leaving her.
“There’s a horse running in the 3rd.”
“Does it have ring something in its name?” She knew the answer.
"Of course."
"Those horses never win."
“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.” She 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 viewe the race. Everyone in the OTB was begging for the horses to get in the gates before the odds melted to nothing. It was post time. All eyes were on the TV screens.
“And they’re off.” The OTB announcer screamed at 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 once more been 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." $50 was a big loss and my hillbilly girlfriend wasn’t going to be happy about the loss. 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.
“Hate seeing a horse hurt.” Bill took out his Lucky Strikes.
“Yeah, me too.” 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 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. My girlfriend had to be hungry for a plate of bacon and eggs and their being the perfect cure for a hangover was a sure thing on which I would cover all bets at any odds.
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