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Authors: Charles Bukowski,David Stephen Calonne

More Notes of a Dirty Old Man (15 page)

BOOK: More Notes of a Dirty Old Man
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I went the No. 3 horse, Grape Juice, in the fourth, and lost in a three-horse photo. The photos weren’t coming my way this meet. Some meets they give you all the photos; others they take them all away. It’s usually decided for you in the opening days of any meet. Take your cue from there. Also, when you’re going hot you bet heavy and go more often; when you’re cold you go less and bet less. Never fight the tide.
In the fifth my preference was Afirmado with Tom Landry a close second. The last-minute action on the tote swung to Tom Landry and I got down on him at 8/5 but Afirmado breezed by him in the stretch at 7/2. It wasn’t my meet.
The sixth race was the match race. I really wanted Chris Evert to win because Miss Musket was the western horse and I am a rebel by nature. I like to see the crowd murdered, they deserve it. But I also wanted to bet on the winner. I would have to watch the toteboard and do some thinking. All the boys in the local newspapers were picking Miss Musket—inside post, the great Laffit Pincay as jock, and the higher speed ratings. They each carried 121 pounds. Miss Musket was 3/5 on the morning line and Chris Evert 4/5. The betting began. They both opened at 3/5. Then Miss Musket hit 1/2, then 2/5. At 1/2 or 2/5 I knew Musket had it wrapped but I did want to bet Evert. Musket was Florida-bred and Evert was Kentucky-bred, and the Kentucky-breds are usually horses of greater heart.
The betting windows were empty. The crowd didn’t know what to do. A guy leaning up against a girder looked at me and gave me a silly grin: “I wouldn’t bet this kind of race, it’s stupid.” “You’re not forced to bet,” I answered him. An old woman walked up to me: “How can you bet a race like this?” she asked me. “Lady,” I said, “this race is the same as any other race. The track extracts 16 per cent and gives the remainder of the money back to the winning ticket holders. This way it’s more obvious to you. In a 12-horse field you don’t notice the bite, but it’s still there.”
With two minutes to go, Musket rose from 1/2 to 3/5. As they were putting them in the gate, Evert dropped from 4/5 to 3/5. Underlays win 75 per cent of the races at any track. I only had one bet: Evert, 20 win. Before the race some children had come by carrying a long banner on poles: “MISS MUSKET CAN’T MISS!” Although Miss Musket was the favorite in money bet to win, Evert had gotten the late action and was the underlay.
Musket on the inside broke out of the gate with a slight lead, but Evert with a lunge quickly had a length and a half. That move right there showed the power. Musket was supposed to have the lick but Evert had outbroken her clearly. Right there, the race was over. Pincay knew that Jorge Velasquez had a hell of a lot of horse under him. Evert took the rail and had two lengths around the first turn, and right there you noticed that Evert’s legs were longer, her stride longer, easier. Miss Musket seemed to diminish in size, her strides seemed sloppy and confused.
On the backstretch, halfway down, Miss Musket made her last effort, she pulled out and came almost alongside Evert, only you noticed that Velasquez had the hold and that Pincay was praying, his horse was laboring, giving away its stretch run on the backstretch. Then Velasquez let go his hold and Evert began to draw clear: one and one-half lengths, two lengths, four lengths, eight lengths on the turn
. . . it was pure murder. At the top of the stretch Chris Evert had 30 lengths. One-half way down the stretch Evert had 40 lengths and had never seen the whip.
I had never seen such a defeating defeat. No war, no assassination, no treachery of love could match it. Pincay eased his horse. Evert breezed across the finish line 50 lengths in front and had so much run left in her Jorge had trouble keeping her from going down to the curve and going the distance once more. The Californians booed their Miss Musket and their Laffit Pincay as they finally crossed the finish line in a gentle canter. Shit, Pincay wanted to win, he’d just been on the wrong horse. The rider’s share of the purse was 10 per cent, or $35,000. Pincay felt much worse than the $2 bettors.
Evert paid $3.50, which means $34 for $20, or $14 profit. As I came from the collection window, she was waiting. I had seen her at the track for several meets but we had never spoken. She looked frightened, her eyes were a pale blue, a very pale blue. She put her body right in front of me. I had to stop. “You won, didn’t you?” she asked. “Yeh,” I said and then stepped around her. Her and her flat white shoes. With high heels I might have taken her over to the bar for a drink, and then all things flowing, I would have taken her home and eaten her pussy. Her and her flat heels.
I didn’t watch the other races. I had to go home and write about the match race for the
Free Press
. There was never anything about horse racing in the
Free Press
. I found my car in the parking lot and drove slowly back. I knew that that race would go down in history, something to be talked about for a long time—like the Tunney-Dempsey fights, the Dempsey-Firpo fight, the Zale-Graziano fights, the Dempsey-Willard, the battle of Stalingrad, Burton vs. Taylor, but I was glad I had seen it with my own eyes because things have a way of getting turned sometimes, they are not gotten down like they should be gotten down, something enters afterwards that destroys or distorts.
I got home, sat down to the typer and began my journalistic account of the two 3-year-old fillies. The phone rang.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Hello,” she said. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Oh, yes, how you doing?” I asked.
Women have this trick of not saying who they are and they disguise their voices. I got trapped the other night. This one voice sounded like the other and I said, “Oh, did you get your car out of the garage?” And she answered, “Yes, but my oil pan is still dripping all over my pussy.” Then I recognized the voice and I said “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were . . .” “Who?” she asked. “Oh . . . a friend.” So this time I was careful. “I’m doing fine,” she said. “I was thinking of you too,” I said. The conversation went on and then I said something and she laughed and I recognized the laugh. “Say, that was one hell of an afternoon,” I said, “you’ve got a great piano.” “And I didn’t know you could play the drums,” she said. “Yeh,” I said. “And you dance, you dance like you’re wearing a hoola-hoop.” “Yeh,” I said. “Well, I’m just sitting here,” she said, “and I’m alone and I just wrote a poem and I look out the window and I see all the lovers walking arm in arm and I thought of you and I thought, well, he’s probably alone and writing a poem too.” “No, I’m writing about a match race.” “What’s that?” “Two matches race.” “Oh?” “Marion, phone me when you’re in town. I’ve got to get this thing down.” “All right,” she said and hung up. She’ll phone again.
Now, you see, this is the way you write about a match race, future students of journalism take note. And when you answer a telephone, feel your way along. Don’t just presume that the last female you were with is the one who is phoning you now. Learn to eat pussy, take your vitamins, especially E, and when in doubt go for the long-legged filly, Kentucky-bred, wearing the tallest cleats possible.
If you think being a matchmaker is easy you’re wrong. I average 14 hours a day in that office on a straight salary. It’s mostly telephone calls and checking all the fight results, trying to get a couple of good boys in together at the lowest cost possible.
And the heavyweights are the biggest ache of them all. And they make the worst fights. They can’t move and they don’t have any guts. Just give them a fair tag and they quit.
Heavyweight fights are almost always dull and most of them leave a pretty good stink after it’s over, but the fans still demand them. And that’s what makes it hard. There aren’t eight good heavies in the U.S. In fact, there aren’t 30 heavies fighting in the U.S. And those that are only get a fight every year or two.
Here I was trying to find an opponent for Young Sharkey. 12-1-1, 12 k.o.’s. I finally go to Manilla and get Big Baby Herodima. Herodima is 4-6-2 but he weighs 276 pounds and I figure it will be a lot of fun to hear him fall. I phone the papers and tell them it’s a match, write it up. Sharkey and Herodima, coming up in two weeks. I’m finally caught up on my matches. I lean back and feel peaceful for the first time in some days. The phone rings. It’s Gerda. She’s drunk.
“Listen, Gerda, I’ve asked you not to call me at work.”
“Listen, Shithead, you
owe
me something.”
“I don’t owe you a damned thing. I’ve told you it’s over between you and me. I’ve had it.”
“Who is it? Suzy? Are you back with Suzy?”
“No, I’ve dumped her too.”
“Listen, Doug, you just can’t go around dumping women like that at
your
age. Pretty soon there won’t be any left.”
“When that happens it will be the happiest day of my life.” I hung up. The phone rang again.
“Listen, Shithead, I’m not through talking to you. You’re the biggest fraud of the ages. It’s Suzy, isn’t it? You’re back with her again, you
always
go back to her.”
“Not this time. She’s been screwing everything that walks. It’s like sticking your cock in a garbage disposal unit.”
“Listen, Shithead, I want to tell you about my goldfish . . .” I hung up. The phone started to ring. I put on my coat, locked the door and got out of there . . .
When I got home I had a beer and a sandwich, showered and went to bed. I was just about asleep when the phone rang.
“Listen, Shithead—”
“Gerda, please. I’ve told you it’s over, don’t you understand? For Christ’s sake, leave me alone!”
“I can
hear
her breathing!”
“What?”
“I can hear her
breathing
! You’ve got some woman in bed with you eating cheese crackers and olives! She’s got her hand around your balls! I can hear her breathing!”
“You’re crazy, that’s what’s wrong with you, you’re completely crazy.”
“Put her on the phone. I want to talk to her.”
I hung up. The phone rang again. I picked it up, hung up, then lifted the receiver and let it hang from the wire. I went to sleep . . .
At the office the next day I got a call from the Commission saying that Herodima wouldn’t be allowed to fight Young Sharkey, because he couldn’t see out of one eye. I suggested that maybe a guy who weighed 276 pounds only deserved one eye, but they still said no. So there I was. I had to make the top card over again. I got on the phone. I tried to get Hymie Stringer out of Philly but his manager told me Hymie broke his leg when he fell out of a tree trying to untangle a kite for some neighborhood kid. I tried Mexicali. I tried Canada. Nothing. The phone rang.
“Listen, Shithead, I want to tell you about my goldfish. I got up early this morning and went out to the garden. It was about 6:30 and there was this light fog. And there they were floating near the top, mystified by this shroud of leaves that had fallen over them. I thought you’d like to hear.”
“Yes, that’s a nice story. Thanks.”
“Listen, Shithead, was it good, was it
good
last night?”
“Gerda, I’m trying to line up a card. Herodima can only see out of one eye. Stringer fell out of a tree and broke his leg.”
“Did you eat her box? Did you give her the treatment? Did she like it?”
I hung up and went outside and walked around the block twice. When I got back I had some luck. I got Frankie Tanada out of New York. Frankie’s 2-14-3 but he’s been knocked out by the best, been kayoed by 4 former champions. A little class there. I had some trouble with his manager but we finally settled on $1,250.00. I phoned the papers and told them the bout was on. Young Sharkey and Frankie Tanada. The phone rang.
“Listen, Shithead, I’ve got too many goldfish, there’s not enough oxygen. Can I bring you some of my goldfish?”
“No, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Do you still have that woman at your place?”
“What woman?”
“The one I heard breathing. I hope she cleans the ring out of your bathtub like I did. I hope she gets the shit stains out of your crapper like I did. I hope she bites off the end of your cock!” . . .
Tanada got out the next day and began working out right away. I went down and watched him. He didn’t look too bad. I figured he could last 3 or 4 rounds with Young Sharkey. That’s all I could hope for.
BOOK: More Notes of a Dirty Old Man
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