I bet carefully on each race, two dollars on the favorite. After running up to the annoyed teller five times to collect my $3.80 with a smile on my face, I thought I was a pro. I imagined being one of the experts in the New York Post, telling people to bet on horses named, "Rosie’s Dream" or "I Ain’t Got Nobody."

The seventh race came up. I looked in the program and saw a horse named "Dixie’s Flag". I bet an exacta on my namesake and another horse, and sure enough, the two horses thundered ahead to the finish, leaving the others in the dust. This time, the teller had no right to give me a sarcastic smile; I won $14.30!

The next Saturday, Roger invited me to the Meadowlands to see the pacers. He explained that the jockeys sat in carriages, and the horses pulled them. "They’re not as fast as the thoroughbreds, Dixie." Why not? I’m a pro now, I thought. A horse is a horse.

We met at the Port Authority, along with Jason, Stacy and Darren. While in line for the bus, a really loud man started yelling at a pigeon. He looked like Dean Martin, only tanner, older and wrinklier. He had on shorts, with thin tan legs poking out until his black socks covered them. His shirt was unbuttoned down to his belly button, and gold chains gleamed in his chest hair. The Tan Man was yelling at the pigeon, "Come here, ya idiot!," while throwing crackers at it. As we got on the bus, Tan man was still running after the pigeon. "Have a cracker, stupid bird!" I was half hoping he would miss the bus, and half hoping he wouldn’t. Sure enough, he got on, and sat next to us.

The bus was filled with hard-core gamblers, talking about every race of the week. The bus driver never drove to the track before, so fifteen gamblers were sitting up front, directing the driver. "Do you believe this driver?" screamed Tan Man. Startled by his loud voice, we looked at him by accident. He took this opportunity to talk to us. "You like Frank Sinatra?"

I was afraid to tell this man I was a big fan.

"He’s a bum, I tell ya!’ I saw him at the Paramount in the forties, and you know what I did? You know what I did? I t’rew tomatoes at him!"

The whole bus turned around and stared at this screaming man. He was talking blasphemy only a week after Ol’ Blue Eyes passed away.

"He was a draft dodger, that bum! He was a no good bum!"

His voice was reaching a fevered pitch.

"I’ll give that bum one t’ing. He married the most beautiful woman in the world!"

"A-Ava?," I asked.

"You’re damn right, Ava!" he screamed. "I don’t know why she married that bum when she could’ve had me!"

I turned away, thinking of him pining over Ava for some forty-odd years.

I stuck my head in the racing form.

We arrived, and I placed my first bet with Frank, the teller. He was nice, and he was sure happy to have a young girl in line. I vowed that I would bet with him only, since he didn’t laugh at my measly bet. I looked around, and suddenly wished I didn’t have a skirt on. The place was filled with men wearing dirty construction clothes, with names like Pauly and Vito stitched on the pockets. People were fighting to get to the tellers and bet their life savings on every race at every track.

We sat in the bleachers and I was disappointed as the horses and carriages came around the track. They were about as fast as turtles compared to the thoroughbreds. The winner was a 15-1 shot. I crumpled my ticket and went back to bet on race number 2. The line was long, and I tried to ignore the ogling eyes checking out the slit in my skirt. I kept my eyes on the shirt of the guy in front of me. It said, "Mr. Mike’s Plumbing." I must’ve stood there five minutes as Mr. Mike dropped twenties like he had millions of them. The line behind me started getting angry as time was running out; the cursing was making me blush. The guy behind me screamed, "C’mon, Mr. Mike!" and I felt a hand grab my arm. I turned around and saw the hairiest man on Earth. He wore a Mr. Mike sweatshirt as well. He was about sixty and I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the tufts of hair poking from his fat chest and neck. He had the numbers 2, 3, and 9 written on his hand, and was screaming at Stacy and me to bet on these numbers. We didn’t.

The second race started and I clutched my ticket. Stupid, slow horses. Another long shot won. My friend Jason went to collect $60.

I was becoming agitated; I figured I’d have a couple of twenties in my pocket by now. When I got up to bet, Hairy Man asked me to say three numbers off the top of my head. I did, and bet on another horse, confident that it would win. The winners posted, and I made Hairy Man some money. Jason collected $74.00; I crumpled my losing ticket.

I went to get a beer and Hairy Man ran up to Stacy and me and bought us each a beer. I guess I gave him a good tip. He was drunk and walked up to me, a little too close into my personal space. "You remind me of my wife, when she was younger," he slurred, his rank breath making me squint. "You’rrrre butiful" he said, while his eyes took on a sleazy gleam. I ran back to the bleachers.

White trash families were everywhere. Jersey chicks were walking back and forth, trying to snag one of these men (God knows why). A woman was wearing bandals (boots with the toe and heel cut out) and biker shorts, trying hard to shake her cellulite ass. One couple brought their mentally challenged kid to the track, and ignored him as he rolled around on the dirt. Hairy Man tried to talk to me every time I walked near the tellers. And worst of all, I was losing every race. I looked over at Jason, Darren and Roger, who were all smiling and holding their wads of cash.

I’ve got to win, I thought. I started breathing heavily as I gripped the racing program so hard that my knuckles were white. After each race, the pile of crumpled tickets at my feet got bigger. I felt horrible. My addictive personality was shining through again, only this time it was more serious than my love for pinball or cigarettes (in a manner of speaking). The dent in my purse was noticeable.

What the hell was I doing here on a Saturday night, taking a bus from Port Authority to go to fucking Jersey?! Why am I taking shit from people like Hairy Man? Soon, I’d start going to the OTB on Park Avenue during my lunch break, becoming friends with men named Tony and Pablo. I’d come to the Meadowlands every Saturday wearing bandals and acid-washed jeans, trying to attract the guy with the biggest wad of cash and beer belly to match.

I looked at my losses, and was grateful that I was only out twenty bucks. I still had my rings on, and I didn’t drag a man into a bathroom for a groping session in exchange for a few measly bucks. The Belmont Stakes were a week away, and I knew I would be home, reading in bed instead, and it wouldn’t be the racing form in my hands.