8-1

Traffic was light as an ungoo'd condom as Sonny and I headed into the East End to take in a day of thoroughbred racing. We made it from Steepleton to Dope City in twenty minutes. Its a good thing cops are on vacation and in rehab most of the time. On the car stereo Allison Moorer entertained us. That bitch is fucking great.

Sonny, husband of my mom's oldest and dearest friend, and I talked about the horses. I asked him, "You have been to the races before, haven't you?" Lots of people around here have never been to the track. They sit around smoking dope and listening for Canucks' news.

Sonny answered, "I have been. Used to go with my dad when I was a kid. Dad had box seats back in the '50s and '60s. He was a friend of the track owner. The old motherfucker never missed a race. It has been 43 years since I visited the track."

That sounds like a long time but is less than half the amount of time since Vancouver won the Stanley Cup.

"Let's hope your first visit since Pearson was Prime Minister is a good one. I have not been doing real great this year but I recently went back to my horse racing library and it looks like I have turned off of Canuck Street onto Millionaire Avenue. Plus every time I bring someone new to the track we have a great fucking day. Let's just pretend you have never been here before."

Sonny grumbled, "I can't do any worse here than I do at the casino. I drop a hundred bucks in there every time I go."

We parked the Cadillac and walked into the pub. The bartender pulled us a couple Carlsbergs. We had lunch while we watched the first race on the tv. We both lost. There were eight more races to go. Fuck the first race.

We lost the second and third races too. But Sonny saved himself with a couple exacto bets. Sonny cheered for his horses louder than anybody in the place from the old growth wooden seats of the grandstand. "Go you motherfucking three! Go! Go! Go you motherfucker three!" I like that. People down by the rail turned around after the race was over to try and figure out who the loudmouth motherfucker was. By then Sonny was quietly awaiting the payout figures on the tote board.

We went downstairs, grabbed a couple more beers and proceeded to the walking ring. I liked the look of the horse I had already decided to bet and bet him to win. By now, as often happens with people who join me at the track, Sonny had it figured I was not the one to listen to for the winner. He bet another horse and a longshot in another exacto. My horse was 8-1, jumped to the lead immediately and was never headed. Several more winners followed that one. Sonny got on the wagon and bought me a couple more beers with his winnings.

When you are on at the track you can do nothing wrong. When you are off you might as well move to Lebanon.