by Michael Lerner
“I’m in pain. My back hurts, my side hurts, and my teeth hurt,” said Mom.
“Here. I have something for you,” said Dad. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper the size of a cracker.
He unfolded the piece of paper and shoved it in front of Mom’s face. She looked at it, snorted angrily, turned around and stormed out of the den.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Look.”
My eyes automatically strayed to the offered target. Written in dark print was the following: SUFFER.
“That’s what I do, everyday. That’s my answer when someone says they’re in pain. Suffer,” said Dad, as he refolded and pocketed the note.
Dad turned back to the television set. Or should I say, television sets. Dad has three of them in a row: A pair of thirteen inch TVs sprawled on the red bricks in front of the fireplace, and a big screen Zenith on a stand to the left. We rarely use the middle set. It has to be plugged in each time, because the on/off switch is broken. That requires one of us to crawl down on the floor to find a vacant wall plug. Not only that, but after the set is on for a while, if you move around the room too much it loses its vertical hold. Then someone has to get up and fiddle with the knobs to get a clear picture. The small set on the right is hooked up to TVG, the horse racing channel. Dad can make bets on the races through the equipment attached to that set, as he did while I feigned interest.
“I hate TVG! Everybody’s got their own agenda,” said Dad.
Dad shouts that out at least once a day, usually after losing a few races. The idea of putting horse racing on television and allowing patrons to bet from home was a good one. Unfortunately, as Dad says, that brilliant concept fell into the hands of incompetents that are totally out of touch with their customers. Horse racing degenerates and serious gamblers like Dad want to watch one race after another with little or no interruption.
What does TVG show instead of continuous horse racing?
“They’re touts. Nothing but stinking touts!” Dad said.
That was Dad’s response to what was airing on TVG at the moment – what airs on TVG far too often. Talking heads. Studio hosts. Personalities. Or as Dad calls them, touts. If TVG went out of business tomorrow, the TVG hosts would probably end up as local weathermen. They yammer away, adding nothing of value.
“They laugh and make jokes while serious gamblers are betting their hard-earned money!” Dad said.
After a brief pause long enough to blink three times, he mumbled, “If the favorite is three to one, anyone can win.” I did not respond, because it was not clear whether he was talking to me or going over mental notes in preparation for making a bet.
The betting menus flew by on the small set as Dad rapidly paged through them. He won’t go near a computer, says he is too old to start up with them. But he fiddles with the TVG menus like a pro. Dad was watching the post parade on the big set at the same time that he made bets on the little set. As the horses slowly trotted one in front of the other across the screen, he said, “You see that!”
I did not see ‘that’, so I waited patiently for further amplification on what ‘that’ might be. Dad does not respond well to nagging questions. He must be allowed to answer in his own time.
“That horse took a crap on the track! Never bet on a horse that just took a crap on the track!”
He pounded away furiously on the special yellow remote control that allows access to the betting menu system. I watched as odds whizzed by on the little set, then as he made bets. Finally he pressed the send button and waited impatiently.
“Why the hell does it take so long to send a bet?”
“It’s the modem,” I said, as always the tech snob. “It’s crappy, old fashioned technology.”
On this occasion, the bets were recorded just in time. The race was about to begin.
“The horses have reached the starting gate, it is now post time.” said the track announcer. Then: “They’re at the post. And they’re off! For the lead, on the inside is Lone Star Deputy, followed by Elusive Lady. Moving for the turn, on the outside…” I lost track after that. My attention span tends to shorten rapidly when I am stuck watching a horse race. It is Dad’s favorite hobby, but I have never been able to get into it.
I numbly watched as the horses headed for the quarter pole. My eyes watered as I zoned out. After a moment, I rubbed my eyes to break the spell and fought to stifle a yawn.
The horses rounded the turn and were headed for home.
“And down the stretch they come!” said the track announcer, exploding with excitement.
This was always a major transition point, because it meant Dad would be out of touch with the reality around him for the next several moments until the horses crossed the finish line. His focus at this time is unbreakable. I have often thought the house could burn down around him and he would not notice while the horses were coming down the stretch.
Almost on cue, he began chanting, “Come on with that six! Come on with that six! Stay out there six! Stay out there six! And eleven! Come on eleven! Stay second eleven! Stay second eleven! No! Not the eight! Anything but the eight! No! No! Finish Line! FINISH LINE!”
There is always a quiet pause for the final moment as the horses cross inexorably from the stretch run to the finish line. A moment when I am usually distracted and have no idea which horse won the race; the horses flash past the finish line so quickly that it is hard to tell who won. Dad has eagle eyes and always knows. He prides himself in being able to discern the winner in a photo finish.
There can be only two possible reactions after the pregnant pause at the end of a race. It gives birth to joy or the dregs of despair. This time, it was an unhappy ending.
“No! NO!!!”
He picked up his racing form and racing program, threw them on the floor and yelled profanities for about a minute. It is always the same profanities, in the same order, and with much vehemence. Almost like Dad’s personal post race soliloquy.
Finally, he took a deep breath and seemed to return to normal. He glared at me with a bitter look in his eyes and grumbled, “I hate Hollywood Park! I’ve lost every race there!”
That was my cue. I recited Dad’s Mantra of the Bitter: “I hate that place and everyone in it. I hate everyone that’s ever been in it. I hate everyone that’ll ever be in it. And their friends and relatives. And their friends and relatives!”
That, of course, elicited a smile.
“Don’t tell your mom I lost,” he said.
“What was that Howard?” Mom asked, as she seemed to materialize out of thin air. Mom had the uncanny talent of turning up at the worst possible moment.
“That’s Humble Howard to you,” he said.
“You lost?”
Dad left the question dangling. He is a lawyer, a defense attorney, and is well trained in the arts of diversion. Then the phone was ringing, as it often does right after a horse race. Dad quickly picked it up, raising his hand in a signal for Mom to hold. After listening for a moment, he announced, “Ah! It’s the Mensa Man!”
“I’m glad he didn’t call during the race,” said Dad, with his hand over the mouthpiece, whispering to me. “I never win when I’m talking to him during a race.”
“What—” said Mom.
Dad quickly put his ear back to the receiver and tuned Mom out.
Mensa Man is one of Dad’s oldest friends. He has an off-beat sense of humor, and tells a lot of horribly bad jokes, usually involving sheep. Mensa Man is also a lawyer. Conversations with Mensa Man are often like being on the witness stand. He once asked me where all the squirrels go in the winter. I quickly answered that they take their nuts and hide in trees. “The truffula trees?” he wanted to know. Mensa Man then demanded to know how the squirrels can all fit in the trees. Without hesitation, I responded that there are little holes in the trees that they climb into. He seemed to accept that. With Mensa Man, the quickness of the response is often more important than its correctness. If I hesitate in answering, I can expect a barrage of tougher questions as he senses the witness is cracking under pressure. Of course, I had no idea how accurate the information was, but the questions were asked and they must be answered without delay when Mensa Man calls. His nickname was a gift from Dad, because Mensa Man is the only person Dad knows that is actually in the brainy organization, Mensa. Dad is always quick to point out that on a survey, 9% of Mensa members did not know who Samuel Clemens was. But I digress.
“I’m pissed. I had the six!” said Dad in his booming voice.
A pause.
“I don’t care. Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser!”
A pause.
“Kentucky. Kentucky is the best team in the country. Everyone else is playing for second. Everyone else is irrelevant.”
A pause.
“What will happen if the Red Sox and the Cubs meet in the World Series? I’m sorry, but I don’t answer ‘what ifs’.”
A pause.
“Anyway, you know I hate team sports. All I care about is 1 and 1-A.”
A pause.
“I don’t think there’s anyone else in the country besides me who has won the Pick Six twenty-two times betting sixteen dollars or less on each winning ticket.”
A longer pause.
“Listen. (pause) No. (pause) No. (pause) No. Now listen! I have to go. (long pause) No. No! Goodbye. (pause) Goodbye. (pause) Goodbye, Mensa Man!”
Finally, Dad slammed down the handset.
“He’s impossible to get off the phone! I thought I’d never get rid of him!”
I laughed. Dad gets impatient with Mensa Man sometimes, because Mensa Man always has a lot of questions and comments.
Mom had long since wandered off. She had waited a few moments as Dad conversed with Mensa Man, but eventually her nerves got the best of her and she gave it up.
Dad picked his program and racing form up off the floor and tucked them under his arm. He turned to face me, and in his best deadpan voice, bellowed, “I’m going to the poo-poo parlor!” With that he rose from his chair and stormed out of the den, headed for the room with no windows.
THE END