Story and Photographs by Neville Cole (aint it great to have him back ?)

Martin strode through the open door of the Apache Greyhound Park wearing his lucky African tee shirt (the one given to him by Freeman Mbowe, the Tanzanian Presidental hopeful who bore a striking resemblance to Eddie Murphy), his lucky vintage Hawaiian shirt decorated with 60s era Chryslers that he’d found in a Goodwill in Pacific Beach, his lucky charcoal checked shorts, and his lucky red Chuck Taylor’s. Underneath all this lucky apparel he was wearing his lucky Monster Garage boxers. In fact, the only things he had on that weren’t particularly lucky were his socks; but truth be told he didn’t yet own any lucky socks so for all intents and purposes everything about Martin that morning was lucky. He even stopped at a 7/11 – two of his lucky numbers, not coincidentally – to buy a pack of Lucky cigarettes; although 7/11 didn’t carry Lucky brand cigarettes anymore so he picked up Marlboro Lights instead.

Apache Greyhound Park was pretty busy for a Sunday morning. Even though only a handful of East Coast tracks had started racing most of the locals were already in position. The Mexicans, the Rednecks, the assorted Old Farts and the hard core Doggers were all buried in their racing forms. Martin wondered if the crowd was gathering early for the upcoming Super Bowl celebration or if the New Seasons Christian Fellowship – which meets in the back conference room of the Apache Greyhound Park – had suddenly doubled in faithful; but he didn’t have time to worry about all that, he was on a mission. Today Martin Meeks would finally break the $200 barrier. Martin hadn’t been a betting man for long but he was without a doubt pretty damn lucky. More often than not he almost broke even. One any given day he’d hit an exacta or two. He’d even managed a couple of trifectas and once a superfecta. The only problem was he’d never won more than $187 in any single bet. Today that would change. At least Martin was hoping it would change. He was supposed to host a Super Bowl party in four hours and he barely had enough money in the bank to buy beer.

Martin was worried about all that. He lived by his wits and relied almost completely the whims of fate to guide his path. Every decision Martin ever made was based on one part superstition and two parts intuition – shaken but not stirred. It was a life cocktail that rarely let him down for long. By now it shouldn’t be surprising to anyone that Martin shunned traditional gambling methods. He prided himself on having no idea how to read a racing form. In gambling as in life he preferred to ignore data. In fact, the act of compiling hard evidence in Martin’s world was akin to cheating.

The main reason Martin frequented the Apache Greyhound track was its lucky location; practically within the shadow of the Superstition Mountains. The spectacular façade of Geronimo’s last hideout was always looming just a few miles away. Surely a vortex of good fortune must be close by, Martin reckoned. After all, these mountains are the final resting place of Jacob Waltz and hidden within those peaks, somewhere down a long lost cavern, all of the Lost Dutchman’s riches sit waiting to be discovered.

Martin didn’t trust reason and logic but was devoted to routines. His day at the track always began at the ATM machine. He considered the $2.50 bank fee the machine charged him an offering to the gods of high commerce and trusted it would eventually pay dividends. Just as you always tip the cashier after a win Martin believed in tipping the ATM before the win. Call it karma. Martin’s routine began with a $100 deduction from his checking account; even if, as in this case, he only intended to spend $40 of it. After sliding three twenties into his wallet, Martin fed the remaining two twenties into the cash-betting machine by the bar instead of going to the cashier and immediately printed himself a voucher. Then, voucher in hand, he made his way to the TV wall in the back room. That would place him close to the back North wall. All of his best bets were made at back North wall.

It was a good sign that, even on this busy morning, one seat was still available in the front row. Martin liked to think that the front row was lucky but in the back of his mind he knew he only preferred the front row because his eyesight was failing him and if he sat anywhere else he would have to get up at the end of each race and walk up to the screens to see who won. He was not about to copy Stroke Grannies lead and bring binoculars to the OTB. He’d rather get up and walk than sit in the second row staring at a TV set through binoculars. Of course, Stroke Granny used a walker so she didn’t really have an option. Actually, for her, binoculars were a pretty clever idea. For one thing, they came in pretty handy when there was a photo finish. On more than one occasion the back room crowd turned to Stroke Granny at the end of a race to see which horse’s nose got across the line first. Not that you had to turn to Stroke Granny for anything as she tended to yell out the numbers of the first four horses in each race as a matter of course. Stroke Granny was the self-appointed back room race caller.

Martin scanned the TVs for the next race. Even though he had set his mind on a personal record win; he was well aware that he had been shutout the last three times he came to the park. It was the longest losing streak of his short career. “Maybe what I really need is one small win to break the ice,” Martin told himself.

The very next race of the day was the third at Golden Gate. Golden Gate was one of Martin’s favorites. He was already familiar with a number of the jockeys: Russell Baze, Francisco Duran, Aaron Gryder, Frank Alvarado, Kerwin John, and the longshot specialist Alejandro Gomez. The only problem was the third today was one of those races that Martin usually avoided: a six horse race with two scratches. Four horse left with the 6/1 Excelling as the only horse that could even be considered close to a long shot; but Martin decided to make an easy bet then let his winning’s ride on a shot at breaking the $200 barrier and pretty much the only way to make any money on a four horse race was to go for a trifecta.

Martin put his voucher into the third machine from the left and stared at the entries displayed on his iPhone. His initial goal was to divine the horse most likely to win. His initial selections were based solely on names and numbers. He looked at the names first and one or two special horses would usually present themselves. These became his favorites. With a couple of favorite in mind Martin compared the Equibase odds to the current odds and contemplated the shifts that had taken place over the past 24 hours.

Equibase had #3 Dance Chief 5/1, #4 Excelling 6/1, #5 Unexpected Gift 9/2 and #6 Stormy Surge 2/1. With the two overnight scratches the odds for all the horses had dropped except for Excelling which had held at 6/1. Martin figured a $2 keyed trifacta on a four horse race was about as close to a sure thing as he be bothered betting. He ended up with three keyed trifectas: the favorite 6 over 4 and 5, the long shot 4 over 5 and 6, and 3 over 5 and 6. As long as #5 Unexpected Gift didn’t win he had reasonable shot at breaking even.

Bets made, Martin retired to the patio for a pre-race smoke. This was another of his recent obsessions and one he was already ready to quit. For 47 years, Martin easily resisted an addiction to cigarettes; but ever since he started frequenting casinos and OTBs, a pre-race smoke had become part of his routine. He would change that routine very soon, but not today.

As usual, the only guy on the patio was Sweat Pants Guy. Sweat Pants Guy was a hard core Dogger. Martin didn’t believe that people who played the dogs were actually ever called Doggers; but that’s what he liked to call them. It just made sense.

Similarly, Sweat Pants Guy was called Sweat Pants Guy because he always wore an old pair of black sweat pants pulled up high over his beer belly. He also always wore a tucked-in white tee shirt featuring some kind of wilderness scene – a wolf in the snow, a fish jumping out of a stream, or band of horses running across the desert – but Tucked-In Tee Shirt guy didn’t have much pizzazz. Then again, Sweat Pant Guy did always have an old beat up baseball cap perched on top of his noggin; but geez, Beat Up Baseball Cap Guy could describe 99% percent of the residents of Apache Junction.

Martin preferred to register people by their outward appearance rather than having to ask for and memorize a bunch of useless names. In fact, when people told Martin their names he ignored and promptly forgot them until he figured it would be totally embarrassing to admit that he didn’t know who they were. Fortunately for Martin most people seemed quite satisfied to be acknowledged with a smile and a “Hey, how you doing?” Of course, there becomes a point when people would start to worry Martin had Alzheimer’s if he still couldn’t remember their names. That’s when he would be forced to eavesdrop on the unnamed person’s conversations to see if the other people ever referred to the unnamed person by name. In rare circumstances when this clever ruse didn’t work, Martin would resign himself to engaging someone “in the know” and quietly whispering something like: “This is really embarrassing but what is that guy (or girls) name again?” Then he would admit in a half-joking way that he was “really terrible with names” and that he “really needed to get better at remembering names” but still half the time he would forget the name again in a matter of hours unless that new person had somehow managed to become a true friend.

Not surprisingly, Martin had few true friends. Sweat Pants Guy was a long, long way from being a true friend. Martin couldn’t see Sweat Pants Guy ever being anything but Sweat Pants Guy: the blind slob who bet on practically every dog race across the country every single day of his life.

Sweat Pants Guy bet often but not much. Rarely did he put down more than a dollar or two on any race; relying on exotics – pick 3s, pick 6s and superfectas – to boost his winnings. Sweat Pants Guy also never sat down. He paced and smoked between races and during races positioned himself two or three feet from the screen alternately yelling encouragement and obscenities. Sweat Pants Guy was the Bill Parcells of the OTB; he never called a dog by name referring to them only by number.

Martin was highly entertained by Sweat Pants Guy but the two rarely shared more than a word or two of conversation. Maybe it was because Martin played the ponies and Sweat Pants Guy was a Dogger. But really, what is there to talk about with a near total stranger? Certainly not what they planned to bet! That was Martin’s biggest superstition. He never shared his bets with anyone until the after the race. Martin thought placing a bet was like voting: an inalienable right every adult was free to exercise without any obligation of disclosure.

Martin was seated at the table closest to screen as the horses burst from the gates at Golden Gate. Taking the lead right away was Unexpected Gift followed by Excelling, Stormy Surge and Dance Chief already trailing by a few lengths. This wasn’t perfect by any means but the long shot in second gave Martin hope. Martin isn’t a big yeller. He sat quietly puffing through the first couple of furlongs. Then, at the last turn things started to fall in place. “Go 6!” Martin urged as Stormy Surge made (dare I say it?) a Stormy Surge past Unexpected Gift down the straight. It was looking like Martin’s first win in two weeks. The camera followed 6 and 5 to the line then there was a brief pause. Several seconds passed until 4 appeared on screen closely matched by 3. “Goddamnit!” Martin bellowed, “Where did 3 come from?” Of course, it was for naught, as right at the line Dance Chief edged out the long shot and Martin’s shoe-in trifecta was history. The losing streak was still alive.

“What’d you have?” asked Sweat Pants Guy.

“6 over 5, 4” Martin answered.

“Aw, shit…” replied Sweat Pants Guy.

Martin wandered off to stare at the abandoned dog track that was at one time the pride of Apache Junction. Martin imagined for a moment Apache Greyhound Park in its 70s heyday. The manicured red dirt track, colorful flower boxes lining the club entrance, a sparkling new grandstand, and flocks and flocks of snowbirds decked out in orange and yellow polyester dresses and lime green leisure suits. Those were heady days indeed; the likes of which will never be seen in these parts again.

Martin shook his head. He had two, maybe three, chances to get his personal record and what does he do? Waste $12 on three useless trifectas. But, like some strangers name, the pep talk didn’t register for long and with just a few minutes to post at Gulfstream, Martin rushed in a $4 boxed 5/1 exacta and a $10 win/place bet on the long shot #2. Before he even walked away from the machine, he couldn’t remember the names of the horses he picked. He was picking odds again, instead of following his routine. He clearly hadn’t let the names speak to him and made his picks based only on which choices might get him that personal best. He had to cover his bases. The only way out was to pull another twenty from his wallet and pick another race before the one at Gulfstream started. In the fifth at Fairgrounds the name Hobson’s Choice was the one that stood out. Martin compared the odds, 24 hours ago Hobson’s Choice was a 20\1 long shot, now she was 12\1. Martin always liked late money so brimming with confidence Martin punched in $20 on 2 to win.

There was still 3 minutes to post at Gulfstream so Martin stepped out again for another smoke. He tried to puff as quickly as he could but by the time he got back to the TV wall the horses were already crossing the line. He saw 5 out front and, could it be? Was that a 1 to place? Martin stepped forward but before the question even had time to fully form in his mind the unofficial results 5/4/1 were posted. “Shit!” Martin blurted. “I always pick 4. Why did I not pick 4?” Then as if to answer himself he added “It’s my fault, I should have been here at post time.” Then he told himself: “I have to quit smoking, it’s ruining my luck.” By the time he sat down again it was post time at Fairgrounds.

The one thing about sitting by the back wall of TVs at Apache Greyhound Park on a Sunday morning is you have to listen to the rock and roll gospel blasting out from The Church of New Seasons.

“Jesus Christ!” said Old Pony Tail. “How long are they going to play that crap? It’s been going on for hours already. I’m 71 years old I don’t have to listen to that churchy bullshit anymore.” Old Pony Tail turned to Martin and grinned: “The one good thing about being 71 years old is that you don’t have to put up with churchy bullshit if you don’t want to.”

“You don’t look 71. I would have guessed you were in your early 60s” Martin replied quite honestly.

“I’ll be 72 in a few weeks and I feel like 80,” Old Pony Tail laughed.

“Is it better to feel older than you look or look older than you feel?” Martin asked almost rhetorically.

“Well shit,” Old Pony Tail said quickly. “That’s easy. I’d rather look as old as dirt and still feel good any old day.”

“People think I’m fifty-eight…” Martin noted.

“How old are you?” said Old Pony Tail leaning in for a closer gander.

“Forty-eight but I feel like I’m thirty.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky,” said Old Pony Tail staring back at the TV.

Martin looked up just in time to see Hobson’s Choice just beat out the favorite at the line.

“Finally,” he said.

“Did you have money on 2?” asked old pony tail guy.

“Twenty bucks,” said Martin breaking into a grin as the official results appeared on screen.

“Nice win, buddy!” Old Pony Tail said raising his hand to Martin for a high five.

“It’s about time” said Martin as he slapped Old Pony Tail some skin. “Now I can splurge on a few Super Bowl party supplies.” With that Martin headed straight to the cashier to pick up his winnings. The last thing he heard was old pony tail guy sharing one final word of advice:

“Hey buddy. Pick up one of those shrimp rings at the supermarket! They’re a great party starter.”

“What happened?” screamed Stroke Granny after Martin left the building. “Did he win, or something?”

“He had 20 bucks on 2 at 12\1!”

“Lucky bastard…” Stroke Granny muttered as she scanned the wall of TVs with her binoculars.

“Tell me about it,” said Old Pony Tail guy…and he didn’t even offer to buy me a beer!

“You know, something,” said Stroke Granny. “Something I learned a long time ago. When you get lucky, you got to spread your good fortune around a bit. That shit will come back to bite you in the ass. Karma is one nasty bitch!”

It wouldn’t be long before Martin would learn that Stroke Granny knew a thing or two about karma.