The Captain Is Out to Lunch (4 page)

His voice was on the message machine. I phoned him back and congratulated him for coming in 2nd on a 6-to-1 shot. But he was down.

"The small trainer is finished. This is the end,“ he said.

Well, we'll see what they draw tomorrow. Friday. Probably a thousand more. It's only inter-track wagering, it's the economy. Things are worse than the government or the press will admit. Those who are still alive in the economy are keeping quiet about it. I'd have to guess that the biggest business going is the sale of drugs. Hell, take that away and almost all the young would be unemployed. Me, I'm still making it as a writer but that could be shot through the head overnight. Well, I still have my old age pension: $943.00 a month. They gave me that when I turned 70. But that can die too. Imagine all the old wandering the streets without their pensions. Don't discount it. The national debt can pull us under like a giant octopus. People will be sleeping in the graveyards. At the same time, there is a crust of living rich on top of the rot. Isn't it astonishing? Some people have so damn much money they don't even know how much they have. And I'm talking millions. And look at Hollywood, turning out 60 million dollar movies, as idiotic as the poor fools who go to see them. The rich are still there, they've always found a way to milk the system.

I remember when the racetracks were jammed wtih people, shoulder to shoulder, ass to ass, sweating, screaming, pushing toward the full bars. It was a good time. Have a big day, you'd both be drinking and laughing. We thought those days (and night) would never end. And why should they? Crap games in the parking lots. Fist fights. Bravado and glory. Electricity. Hell, life was good, life was funny. All us guys were men, we'd take no shit from anybody. And, frankly, it felt good. Booze and a roll in the hay. And plenty of bars, full bars. No tv sets. You talked and got into trouble. If you got picked up for being drunk in the streets they only locked you up overnight to dry out. You lost jobs and found other jobs. No use hanging around the same place. What a time. What a life. Crazy things always happening, followed by more crazy things.

Now, it has simmered away. Seven thousand people at a major racetrack on a sunny afternnon. Nobody at the bar. Just the lonely barkeep holding a towel. Where are the people? There are more people than ever but where are they? Standing on a corner, sitting in a room. Bush might get reelected because he won an easy war. But he didn't do crap for the economy. You never even know if your bank will opening in the morning. I don't mean to sing the blues. But you know, in the 1930's at least everybody knew where they were. Now, it's a game of mirrors. And nobody is quite sure what is holding it together. Or who they are really working for. If they are working.

Damn, I've got to get off this. Nobody else seems to be bitching about the state of affairs. Or, if the are, they are in a place where nobody can hear them.

And I sit around writing poems, a novel, I can't help it, I can't do anything else.

I was poor for 60 years. now I am neither rich nor poor.

At the track they are going to start laying off people at the concession stands, the parking lots and in the business office and in maintenance. Purses for races will decline. Smaller fields. Less jocks. A lot less laughter. Capitalism has survived communism. Now, it eats away at itself. Moving toward 2,000 A.D. I'll be dead and out of here. Leaving my little stack of books. Seven thousand at the track. Seven thousand. I can't believe it. The Sierra Madres weep in the smog. When the horses no longer run the sky will fall down, flat, wide, ponderous, crushing everything. Glassware won the 9th, paid $9.00. I had a ten on it.

Computer class was a kick for sore ballls. You pick it up inch by inch and try to get the totality. The problem is that the books say one way and some people say the other. The terminology slowly becomes understandable. The computer only does, it doesn't know. You can confuse it and it can turn on you. It's up to you to get along with it. Still, the computer can go crazy and do odd and strange things. It catches viruses, gets shorts, bombs out, etc. Somehow, tonight, I feel that the less said about the computer, the better.

I wonder whatever happened to that crazy French reporter who interviewed me in Paris so long ago? The one who drank whiskey the way most men drink beer? And he got brighter and more interesting as the bottles emptied. Probably dead. I used to drink 15 hours a day but it was mostly beer and wine. I ought to be dead. I will be dead. Not bad, thinking about that. I've had a weird and wooly existence, much of it awful, total drudgery. But I think it was the way I rammed myself through the shit that made the difference. Looking back now, I think I exhibited a certain amount of cool and class no matter what was happening. I remember how the FBI guys got pissed driving me along in that car. “HEY, THIS GUY'S PRETTY COOL!” one of them yelled angrily. I hadn't asked what I had been picked up for or where we were going. It just didn't matter to me. Just another slice out of the senselessness of life. “NOW WAIT,” I told them. “I'm scared.” That seemed to make them feel better. To me, they were like creatures from outer space. We couldn't relate to each other. But it was strange. I felt nothing. Well, it wasn't exactly strange to me, I mean it was strange in the ordinary sense. I just saw hands and feet and heads. They had their minds made up about something, it was up to them. I wasn't looking for justice and logic. I never have. Maybe that's why I never wrote any social protest stuff. To me, the whole structure would never make sense no matter what they did with it. you really can't make something good out of something that isn't there. Those guys wanted me to show fear, they were used to that. I was just disgusted.

Now here I am going to a computer class. But it's all for the better, to play with words, my only toy. Just musing there tonight. The classical music on the radio is not too good. I think I'll shut down and go sit with the wife and cats for a while. Never push, never force the word. Hell, there's no contest and certainly very little competition. Very little.

Of course, there are some strange types at the racetrack. There's one fellow who's out there almost every day. He never seems to win a race. After each race he screams in dismay about the horse that won. “IT'S A PIECE OF SHIT!” he will scream. And then go on shouting about how the horse never should have won. A good 5 minutes worth. Often the horse will read 5 to 2 and 3 to 1, 7 to 2. Now a horse like that must show something or the odds would be much higher. But to this gentleman it just doesn't make sense. And don't let him lose a photo finish. He really comes on with it then. “FUCK THE GOD IN THE FACE! HE CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!” I have no idea why he isn't barred from the track.

I asked another fellow once, “Listen, how does this guy make it?” I'd seen him talking to him at times.

“He borrows money,” he told me.

“But doesn't he run out of lenders?”

“He finds new ones. You know his favorite expression?”

“No.”

“When does the bank open in the morning?”

I guess he just wants to be at the racetrack, somehow, just to be there. It means something to him even if he continues to lose. It's a place to be. A mad dream. But it's boring there. A groggy place. Everybody thinking that they alone know the angle. Dumb lost egos. I'm one of those. Only it's a hobby for me. I think. I hope. But there is something there, if only in a short time frame, very short, a flash, like when my horse is in the run and then it does it. I see it happening. There is a high, a lift. Life becomes almost sensible when the horses do your bidding. But the spaces in between are very flat. People standing about. Most of them losers. They begin to look dry as dust. They are sucked dry. Yet, you know, when I force myself to stay home I begin to feel very listless, sick, useless. It's strange. The nights are always all right, I type at night. But the days have to gotten rid of. I'm sick too in a way. I am not facing reality. But who the hell wants to?

It reminds me of when I stayed in this Philadelhia bar from 5 a.m. until 2 a.m. It seemed the only place I could be. Often I didn't even remember going to my room and coming back. I seemed always on that bar stool. I was evading the realities, I didn't like them.

Maybe for this fellow the racetrack was like the bar was for me? All right, you tell me something useful. Be a lawyer? A doctor? A congressman? That's crap too. They think it isn't crap but it is. They are locked into a system and they can't get out. And almost everybody is not very good at what hey do. It doesn't matter, they are in the safe cocoon.

It got kind of funny out there one day. I'm speaking of the racetrack again.

The Crazy Screamer was there as usual. But there was another fellow, you could see that there was something wrong with his eyes. They looked angry. He was standing near the Screamer and listening. Then he listened to the Screamer's predictions for the next race. The Screamer was good that way. And evidently Angry Eyes was betting the Screamer's tips.

The day wore on. I was coming out of the men's room and then I saw and heard it. Angry Eyes was yelling at the Screamer, “God-damn you, shut up! I'm going to kill you!” The Screamer turned his back and walked off saying, “Please... Please...” in a very weary and disgusted manner. Angry Eyes followed him: “YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

Security arrived and intercepted Angry Eyes and led him off. Evidently death at the racetrack was not to be condoned.

Poor Screamer. He was quiet the remainder of the day. But he stayed the full card. Gambling, of course can eat you alive.

I had a girlfriend once who said, “You're really in bad shape, you go to both Alcoholics Anonymous and Gamblers Anonymous at the same time.” But she really didn't mind either of those things unless they interfered with bed exercises. Then she hated them.

I remember a friend of mine who was a total gambler. He told me once, “I don't care if I win or lose, I just want to gamble.”

I'm not that way, I've been on Starvation Row too many times. Not having any money at all has the slightest tinge of Romanticism when you are very young.

Anyway, the Screamer was out there again the next day. Same thing: he railed against the results of each race. Think of this. It's a very hard thing to do. I mean, even if you know nothing, you can just take a number, any number, say 3. You can bet 3 for 2 or 3 days and you are bound to finally get a winner. But not this fellow. He is a marvel. He knows all about horses, fractional times, track  variants, pace, class, etc. but he still manages only to pick losers. Think of it. Then forget it or it will drive you crazy.

I picked up $275 today. I started playing the horses late, when I was 35. I've been at them for 36 years and I figure they still owe me $5,000. Should the gods allow me 8 or 9 more ears I die even.

Now that's a goal worth shooting for, don't you think?

Huh?

Burned out. A couple night of drinking this week. Got to admit I don't recover as fast as I used to. Best thing about being tired is that you don't come out (in the writing) with any wild and dizzy proclamations. Not that that is bad unless it becomes habitual. The first thing writing should do is save your own ass. If it does this, then it will be automatically juicy, entertaining.

Writer I know is phoning people telling them that he types 5 hours a night. I imagine that we are supposed to marvel at this. Of course, do I have to tell you? What matters is what he is typing. I wonder if he counts his telephone time as part of this 5 hours of typing?

I can type from one to 4 hours but the 4th hour, somehow, tapers away into almost nothing. Knew a guy once who told me, “We fucked all night.” It's not the same fellow who types 5 hours a night. But they've meet each other. Maybe they ought to take turns, switch off. The guy who typed 5 hours get to fuck all night and the guy who fucked all night gets to type 5 hours. Or maybe they can fuck each other while somebody else types. Not me, please. Have the woman do it. If there is one...

Hmmm.. you know, I am feeling somewhat goofy tonight. I keep thinking of Maxim Gorky. Why? I don't know. Somehow it seems as if Gorky never really existed. Some writers you can believe were there. Like Turgenev or D.H. Lawrence. Hemingway appears to me to half-and-half. He was really there but he wasn't. But Gorky? He did write some strong thigs. Before the Revolution. Then after the Revolution his writing began to pale. He didn't have much to bitch about. It's like the anti-war protesters, they need a war in order to thrive. There are some who make good living protesting against war. And when there isn't a was they don't know what to do. Like during the Gulf War there was group of writers, poets, they had planned a huge anti-war protest, they were ready with their poems and speeches. Suddenly the war was over. And the protest was scheduled for a week later. But they didn't call it off. They went ahead with it anyway. Because they wanted to be on stage. They needed it. It was something like an Indian doing a Rain Dance. I myself am anti-war. I was anti-war long ago when it wasn't even a popular, decent and intellectual thing. But I am suspect of the courage and motivations of many of the professional anti-war protesters. From Gorky to this, what? Let the mind roll, who cares?

Another good day at the track. Don't worry, I'm not winning all the money. I usually bet $10 or $20 to win or when it really looks good to me, I'll go $40.

The racetracks further confuse the people. They have 2 fellows on tv before each race and they talk about who they think will win. They show a net loss on each meet. As do all the public handicapppers, tout sheets and race betting services. Even computers can't figure the nags matter how much info is fed into them. Any time you pay somebody to tell you what to do you are going to be a loser. And this includes your psychiatrist, your psychologist, your broker, your workshop teacher and your etc.

There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure and moving on. Yet most people are stricken with fear. They fear failure so much that they fail. They are too conditioned, too used to being told what to do. It begins with the family, runs through school and goes into the business world.