boomboomsroom

In the spring of 1983 I was 23 years old, one year out of college, clean-shaven after my bearded line up episode, and one year into the work world.  I knew so much.  I knew so little.  The south Louisiana outside sales territory that I gleefully covered was growing nicely.  Selling Duracell batteries to 23 different classes of trade offered a great work education, modest money(though it seemed like a lot then), and a bit of freedom and fun.  Some days beckoned to bring more freedom and fun than others.

On a particularly sunny Friday I decided that a half day of work and a half day of play was just what was needed to begin my decadent slide into the weekend.  But, as I went from one sales call to the next in the early AM one hour outside of New Orleans, I wondered what the half day play part of the equation should be.

I stopped to get a newspaper and a soda.  As I read the sports page the proverbial light bulb turned on.  My favorite over raced racehorse was running in the second race at the oldest race track in America, the New Orleans Fair Grounds.  Post time for race one was 1:15.

As thoughts of beers, cigars, horses, and gambling swirled through my head I knew that I needed an accomplice to share the winnings, swill, and smoke.  Hmm.  The pay phone swallowed my dime and the call went out.  On the other side of the line was one Joseph Roy Miller, aka Joey, aka Jojo.  Joey and I were high school buddies prior, four-year college roommates then, and are best friends to this day.

Ring. Ring.  Joey was finishing his studies at University of New Orleans at that point.  After school he worked at a laboratory to pay for it as well.  “JoJo, Dump Truck is running in the second race today.  He’s always in the money. I’ll pick you up in front of the Life Sciences building in an hour.”  “No, No!” said JoJo.  “I’ve got a Microbiology class at noon and have to work after that.”

Anyone in sales knows that “no” means “yes.”  “I’ll pick you up by 12:30 latest,” I said as I hung up the phone before he could respond.  There were but two problems with this.  And, they soon reared their ugly heads.  The first was that my last appointment of the morning, day, and week wanted to talk too much and buy too little.   I was now late.  The second problem is that I had no way of alerting Joseph of the tardiness.  Cell phones, like Al Gore’s internet, were not yet invented.

The company car, a beauty of an olive-green Chevy Malibu, rolled onto campus.  There stood furious Joey.  “Get in, we are going to be late,” I offered in a self depreciating attempt to defuse the fuse.  He said a few PG-13 or worse things back to me.  It sounded like he didn’t appreciate standing there while missing class and also calling in sick for work, only for me to be 30 minutes late.

I attempted to shift the conversation to the ponies and the day.  “I’ll get the parking, the programs, the tip sheets, and the first cold Dixie beers.” “Big deal,” he smashed back.  “We are going to miss the second race too.”  “We’ll still make it,” I confidently responded.   The Malibu may have run through a few orange (somewhere between yellow and red) lights getting there.  Once parked we race-walked to the bowels of the grandstand.  He was still filling my ear with hatred.  The more he howled the more I laughed.  “Two programs please.”  “Ah, Dump Truck is the five horse today.”

With the first race long gone, we heard the track announcer loud and clear as we stepped through the turnstile. “The horses have reached the starting gate.”  Jeez.  This is a last call of sorts for placing bets.  One quick glance at the lines and we knew getting down on Dump Truck would be dicey.  I jumped in one line, and he in the very next.  I got to the window and wagered a huge, for then, $10/10/10 win, place and show bet on the 5 horse.  “They’re all in line.”  That means “and they’re off” is soon to follow.  Joseph got his w/p/s bet ticket a scant few seconds before the ring, signaling the gate opening, echoed across the grounds.

We hustled outside and joined the rail birds track side.  It was a dollar to gain entry to stand.  It was two bucks to sit in the outdoor grandstand.  It was a steep three dollars to sit inside.  We stood.

The race announcer chirped about the horse’s positions as they roared past us at the start.  Nary a mention of the old and over worked Dump Truck was heard.  We saw the five on the jockey’s silks trailing the field.  The race is long we said.   He’ll make up ground we assured each other.  He continued to languish in dead last at each quarter pole.

As they turned for home on the longest stretch run in America the five horse was saving so much ground we couldn’t even see him.  The announcer clearly had given up on him too.  Still no mention of the old boy.  “And down the stretch they come,” he bellowed.  And there suddenly, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, was the five climbing past his competition one by one.   “A sixteenth of a mile to go.”  We were hopeful.  The five blew past the second place horse as it cruised by us and hit the wire.  “WINNER, the five.”

As we waited for the tote board to make it official we high-fived in joy.  We also wondered aloud how he came from nowhere, won the race, and yet we never heard his name.  It was weird, fun, and soon to be financially rewarding we hoped.

“The results of the third race are official.  The winner is the five horse, Royal Flush.”  Royal Flush pays $12 to win(on a two dollar bet).”  Royal Flush?  Royal Flush???  We looked at each other and pulled the bet tickets from our pockets.

And there it was.  We had missed the second race.  We had raced in to bet what we thought was the second race.  It was, however, the third race that we had blindly bet on.  We won.  We won over $120 each!  Huge!  We bet the five horse in the third race and had no idea about his chances.  Dump Truck had gone off in the second.  Dump Truck was hosed down and back in the barn eating some hay 20 minutes before we bounced blindly to the betting booth.

“As we cashed our tickets laughing out loud before LOL was even LOL, we went over to the board where the previous race finishes were posted.  And, there it was.  Dump Truck finished a distant fourth, and out of the money, in the second race.  I mentioned to Joey it was obviously better to be late than never.  He mentioned to me that my arm was going to hurt after he punched me.  “Want another Dixie, Joey?”  Cigars never tasted nor smelled better than they did on that afternoon.

What’s the moral of the story?  Easy.  It’s better to be lucky later than good never.  And, it’s fun to have great memories with a great friend.