The Dream

“One hundred eighty four thousand.” I quietly whisper to myself, staring at the track television monitor over the betting window. Simple mathamatics, really. Eight thousand to win on the four horse, at odds of twenty three to one, came to one hundred eighty four thousand dollars. Contemplating my impending fortune, a Chesire cat grin fills my face. Mortgage gone, credit cards paid, college for Matthew, maybe a second honeymoon with Mary Pat to rekindle that old romantic flames. Of course, we’d have to get remarried. Yes sir Mike Osborne, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, your date with destiniy has arrived.

The call came midweek from Tim Thibodeaux, a trainer I had befriended several months earlier when I got his son off on a minor posession beef. Since then Tim, being the generous soul he was, threw me tips every now and then. They always hit. Sometimes it pays to be cop.

“I gotta horse running at Delta Downs next week, l’ami. She a sure shot.” Tim said over the phone in his deep Cajun accent. “ Be running da nag cheap, but gave her Lasix and slapped da hood on her, now she run like frickin Secretariat! We gonna bump her up in class and get some big’o odds. You need to bet the cookie jar on her, l’ami.”

I had no cookie jar, but I had eight grand doing nothing in my 401K. Hey, when oppurtunity knocks I don’t slam the door in its face.

“Three minutes, three minutes to post time.”

The track announcers voice snaps me back to reality and the task at hand. What in Gods name is taking so long? Craning my neck, looking forward to the head of the line, I see an old man in a worn and furrowed coat hunched over at the window, his racing form spread out before him. He’s been there forever. Why is this happening. Checking the odds. Twenty five to one. Cha-Ching, more for me. Then a wave of anxiety strikes me. What if I get closed out? A quick look around reveals the other lines are ten deep. No place to go.

“Two minutes, two minutes to post time.”

“You old fart, your’re killing me! Just killing me!” I suddenly cry out loud. The pavilion goes quite, heads turn my way , a hundred eyes glaring at me. Did I say the out loud? Embarrassed, I look sheepishly down at my program.

“Oz, that you?” A shrill voice calls out loudly to my right. Feeling the hairs on my neck bristle, I glance over my shoulder, only to be greeted by the toothy grin of one Ronnie Spell two lines over, the diamond in his middle tooth glistening in the pavillion lights. I thought he was dead or at least in prison. Unfortunately for me I was wrong on both counts.

“Well if it ain’t da Wizard of Oz. What you doing here? I thought they banned you from this place.”

Ignoring him, I turn back in line. No movement, the old man still holding court at the betting window. “I’d like to get a bet down on this race and maybe the first race tomorrow!” I yell, not giving a damn who hears me. He doesn’t flinch.

A short , squatty fellow in a pink fedora taps me on the shoulder and says. “Why don’t you leave that man alone.”

“And why don’t you shut the hell up!” I bark. He quickly backs away. Jesus, they’re coming at me from all directions.

“What you got homes?” Ronnie goes on loudly. “You got a hot one don’t you, Oz.”

“You shut up too, punk!” I say, glaring at Ronnie. “I got nothing, OK, nothing!”

“Bullshit! You been over there figetin’ like a ten year old you gots to pee. What you got cooking, boy?”

Rubbing my forehead I turn away from Ronnie. Things are spinning out of control. Suddenly I feel naked and exposed. I want to hide, but there’s no place to go. Why is God doing this to me?

“Oz! How you gonna act. You better not be dissing me. You know I can cause you some mighty bad grief. Now, we truly don’t wanna go thorough that again, do we? Come on Oz, buddy, share da wealth.”

I inhale deeply, knowing Ronnie was right. He could cause me allot of grief. I can never escape the mistakes of my past, it never ends. I know it never will. Looking around , shielding my hand with my program I quickly flash four fingers across my chest.

Ronnie looks down at his program and slowly chuckles. Shaking his head he says, “Same ol’ Oz, always the long shots. You never learn do you?”

Now I flash him my middle finger.

“That’s going to cost you, Oz. Big time.”

He was probably right.

The old man lives. He reaches into his back pocket and pulsl out a weathered leather wallet, the initials P.O. engraved in large print across the front. Slowly removing two weathered dollar bills, he places his bet.

Collecting his single ticket he turns to me and our eyes lock. My legs weaken. I grab a nearby pole to steady myself. I know this man. (EXPAND) Slowly he shuffles away, disappearing into the crowd. My eyes never leave him.

“Hey Mr. Mouth, you gonna bet or what?” Pink fedora man jabs me in the back.

Collecting my thoughts I jump quickly to the window. Leaning as far forward as I can, I quietly whisper. “Eight thousand to win on the four.”

The blue haired lady behind the counter, peers over her rhinestone lined bifocals, purses her lips and starts laughing so hard she snorts. Collecting herself she says, “Thanks Hon’, I needed that.”

Reaching deep into my pants pocket I pull out a roll of hundreds. Slapping it down in front of her, I command. “ Like I said, Agnes. Eight grand, four horse to win.”

“Wow, Crapshoot. You tap into petty cash again?”

“Funny, Agnes.” Leaning deeper into the teller window I get right in her face. “And don’t you ever call me by that name!”

“OK, Oz. Don’t get your knickers out of whack.” She takes the wad of cash and begins counting.

“You don’t have to count it Agnes. I’m a cop for Christ sake.”

“Yeah. But I know you, Hon.”

“One minute. One minute to post and the horses are heading to the starting gate.” The PA blares.

“Agnes, please!”

“Okay, Okay. Just hold your horses.” Agnes snickers at her little pun. Punching some buttons in the machine before her, my financial future comes spilling out in the form of forty win tickets at two hundred dollars a pop.

I quickly snatch the tickets. “Have a nice life, Agnes.”

“You too, Hon.”

Turning to make my escape, I bowl over pink fedora man, spilling beer everywhere.

“Ladies and gentlemen..there he goes, the great and wonderful Wizard of Oz.” Ronnie Spell, laughing loudly, announces to the crowd.

Laugh now, punk. We’ll see who’s laughing in about ten minutes.

Burrowing through the mass of people I reach the exit leading to the track. Suddenly, the old man from the line appears before me, blocking my way. Looking down, I shift from side to side to get around him, but he moves in tandem with me. Looking up our eyes meet.

“Good luck, son.” Is all he says, and then he slowly drifts away into the crowd.

Bursting through the doors leading to the track I am greeted by a cold, driving rain. Fingers of lighting streak across the evening sky. People push by me in a rush to escape the downpour. Alone now, I walk purposely toward the fence, win tickets firmly held in my right hand. A teeth chattering clap of thunder rings across the sky as the last of ten horses is loaded into the starting gate. The moment has arrived.

Brrrng

Suddenly the starter bell rings, the gates fly open and nine of ten throughbreds vault from their post position. Nine jockeys madly, urging their steeds in a dash for the clubhouse turn. Nine out of ten.

My eyes remained glued on post position four. Although the gate is open, the horse is stationary .Quickly, I run towards the starting gate, then stop dead in my tracks as I realize the jockey is pulling tight on the reins, so as to turn the horses head almost backwards. And the starter bell sounds again.

The rain falls harder now. Rubbing my eyes, I lean halfway over the fence to see if there has been some malfunction. Maybe the horse is injured or stuck in the gate. Straining, I see the jockey pull tighter on the reins, then she look at me and smiles an evil smile. I feel the twenty win tickets slowly spill from my hand. But why, Mary Pat? Why? And the bell sounds again.

Turning, I look towards the starters stand. Through the rain I can barely make out the figure of a male child. I move closer to get a better look. “No..No it can’t be!” I scream.

And the bell sounds again.