SLOTS AT SANTA ANITA

While I sit at my computer, doping entries in the Daily Racing Form, I have a brainstorm.  It's certainly unexpected.  So good, our Governor should be made aware.  A dynamic way to make the State money. I'm excited about  this.  

A few minutes, write a letter, and have it lost in some interns cubicle?  No way.  Better to take the  direct approach.  Face to Face, but ten hours to drive to Sacramento?  Gas is expensive.

No other solution.  I log on. Getting the governor's phone number could be tricky.  I find a website, www.WikiPoliticsGovBrownPersonalPhone.com.  I thumb my SmartPhone.  It rings.

"Huh...ah...Yes, Hello?"

"Hello?  Like to talk with the Governor, Jerry Brown.  I got this great idea.  He should hear this."

"This is the Governor."

"Governor Brown?" I say.  "No way.  I got through?  Wholly smoke.  This is awesome."

"Haven't got all day, sir. And how did you get my cell, anyway? "  His voice rises.  "Modesto, we gotta get a new cell number, one of those burner phones.  Got everybody calling me."

"Only take a minute, Governor.  I can call you Governor, right?"

"What?  I haven't got time for this. But, please call me Your Honorable Governor.   I was doing my campaign fund raising.  I have to drum up $20 grand a day, every day,  so I can buy all those TV spots.   Hey, being Governor's not as easy as it looks, you know."

"So, here it is," I say.  "Add slot machines to all the state's horse racing venues, like they did back East.  West Virginia Racing survived by the addition of slots."

"I'm speaking with?   You did vote for me last election, right?"

"This is Belair, Brentwood Belair.  Sports writer.  And I voted..."

"Hey, I know you," he says.  "I've read your stuff.  Boy, you were sure out in left field.  49ers winning the Super Bowl?  It was close against the Giants, but having Terrell Owens catching the final pass?  Where'd you come up with that?"

"Okay, I can't be spot on every time."

"Okay, so about Horse Racing.  We know all about it, but we can't.  Racinos.  Granted, they make a lot of money back East.   Tracks going into bankruptcy, install slots, and they recover in less than a year."

"That's right." I say,  "Same track, slots bring in $100 million annually, horses  net maybe $5 million.  Quite a difference.  I've checked it out.   Look at all that extra money for education, like your father with his  Junior College System."

"Seems the perfect solution," says the Governor.  "But perfect doesn't always follow reality. It's like trickle-down economics. Great in theory, poor in execution."

"I hear you, your Honorable..."

"We realize that our Native American citizens would rather have slot customers coming through their doors, rather than going to the track.  They of course let us know their appreciation around election time, with their contributions.   Just part of doing business in 21 Century America.  You can understand that?" 

"But of course, Your Honorable..."

"And,  those horse racing owner types, tend to vote republican.  So, the question is:   Are we rewarding rich race horse owners by propping up a slowly dying sport?"

"Well, you could say..."

"Okay, good," he says. "So, here's how it works.  Adding slots to the race tracks like Santa Anita, Del Mar, Hollywood Park, would certainly bring additional money to the horse racing community.  This allows the smaller tracks to increase their purses, thereby drawing better horses.  Larger tracks say, hey, we're not looking for that kind of competition."

"Makes sense, but..." I say.

"Now, we have a Pact with the Indian Nations here in California, all 61 of them.  To control the explosion of slots on Reservation, we have limits.  Our deal with them, no slots at race tracks, and they  don't have to release information on their slot machine payback percentages.  That's the trade off."

"Makes sense, but..." I say.

"So, like I was saying before, I was working my contributor list.  It never ends.  So when I get a few bucks coming in from my loyal friends in Las Vegas, I like to make them happy.  Hold down the total number of slots in California, and no table games anywhere, except maybe poker.  They're good with that."

"Makes sense, but..."

"Now if you will, good Idea, but we've studied  that revenue stream.  Thanks,  Mr. Belair for your civic concern.  If in the future you have any other ideas, please don't hesitate to put it in writing, and mail it to me here in Sacramento. We'll  get you a full report."

"Well, your Honorable..." I say.

"Thanks, Mr. Belair."   He shouts, "Modesto, you got that new cell? I can't be taking calls from every..." and the phone goes dead.

Hey, the Governor reads my column.  How cool is that?  Okay, lunch time. I have to tell somebody.
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A VISIT WITH A $10,000 CLAIMER

"So, follow us ladies," says Hampton.  "We're going to the stables.  See the horse we claimed.  Unresponsive."

"That name," says Newport.  "Something we have to eventually change.  Ladies, you'll be up close to a real race horse."

"Believe it or not we didn't have enough money to buy the Washington Redskins, so instead we got involved in the Sport of Kings.  We bought us a $10,000 claimer.  I'm excited."

"Horse stables?" says Ginger. 

"We're walking all the way, over there." asks Pepper.  She looks down at the short man next to her.

He puts out his hand.  "I'm Rank. That's what they called me when I was a trainer, and it had nothing to do with my odor." 

He laughs.

"Rank.  It means very difficult to deal with. I'd take some pretty fractious horses, horses that just didn't obey, and I made them winners.  So the name just stuck."

The five walk past the track, beyond the far stretch, to where they stable the horses.

"So we're having breakfast," says Ginger.  "We're relaxing, and you call us.  We're going to Santa Anita.  Want to go?  What are we going to say?  Of Course.  Fly over, box seats, maybe lobster lunch, make a bet or two, watch your horse run, then fly back."

"We thought you ladies would like to go." says Hampton.  "Maybe we won't call next time.  We really like you two, but you and Pepper aren't the only two escorts in Vegas, you know."

She clutches Hampton's arm.  "Hampton, don't be like that, come on.  I'm just saying, didn't expect this, spending time in the stables. This is kind of a walk."

Sweat forms on Pepper's forehead.  Ginger wraps her sweater around her waist. Over dirt and gravel, and ten minutes, they reach the stable area.

"This is it," says Rank. "There's probably 2,000 horses in here.  We'll find Unresponsive right over here.  Come on."

Pepper looks down at her high heels, and lifts her leg.  "Is this mud, or OhMyGod..no...nooooo..."

She looks at Ginger, and then at the other three.

"Part of owning a horse," says Hampton. "You're going to get some horse poop.  Comes with the territory, my dear."

Rank smiles toward Pepper.  "Ma'am. We have boots you can change into. Wait right here,  I'll get two pair."  He jogs off.

Pepper looks at Ginger.  "Something. Anything. This isn't funny.  These are $250 shoes. Ruined.  This isn't happening."

Horses from all through the stable turn and look at the two ladies.  Pepper hops on one foot, while she dangles her gunky shoe from her finger.

"Wasps,"  says Ginger, and jumps back. She waves her hand violently in the air.  "Wasps, don't sting me, don't sting me. Please."

Rank jogs around the corner, holding four well used boots.  "They're okay," he says.  "They're supposed to be here. They feed on fly larva. It's a natural way to get rid of flies."

"You're kidding?" says Ginger.  Her body stiffens. "Wasps instead of flies, brilliant." 

"Don't worry.  They don't sting. It's better than spraying tons of pesticide, or fly traps or putting up Sticky Strips.  With them the flies just keep coming back."  He smiles.  "He's right up here, everybody."  He points.

They get to the stall.  A horse watches them arrive. His name plate: Unresponsive.

"Hi, Unresponsive." says Rank. "Are you ready to meet your new owners?"

"Who named you, my friend," says Newport.  "Somebody with a sense of humor. You look fast to me."  

"But, yeah," says Hampton. "We need a new name.  You're a thoroughbred, so I'm thinking..."  

He touches the nose of Unresponsive. "Something like, Swifty, or Immediate, or maybe FastAndLoose?"  He rubs the horse's nose.

Pepper jerks back. "Boy, it really smells in there. So gross.  How about Stench, or GodAwfulSmell.  You got any kind to spray for this?"   She makes a gagging sound and holds her nose. 

"Stinky," says Ginger. "Hey, Stinky."

Unresponsive blinks and stares at Ginger.

"You two have to get into the spirit of this." says Hampton.  "This is all part of being a horse owner.  All you've seen are pictures of horses in the winner's circle.  Can't have it both ways ladies."

"How about Momentum?" says Newport. "That's a good name."

A horse in a close stall whinnies.

The girls jump back, then duck down.  "No way," says Ginger. "I got to get out of here. It smells so bad, and all these tiny knatty thing buzzing around, and these boots?  Hampton, sweetheart,  I can't be seen in these."

"And they hurt my feet," says Pepper.  "Can we just go back to the Box Seats, or somewhere.  No offense horse, but I can't be in here much more."

Unresponsive whinnies and nudges Pepper hard in the back.  She pitches forward, and falls onto the muddy/strawy/poopy ground.  "Son of a bi..."

She stares up at Unresponsive. Their eyes meet. Unresponsive whinnies again and paws his straw.

"I hate you, horse," says Pepper.  Her breath is heavy.  

"Time to go," says Newport.  "Unresponsive, you're running in the Eighth race today. Rest up, my friend. Remember, we can easily put you in another claiming race,"  He helps up Pepper.  "He must just be off his feed."

"I like this horse," says Hampton. He laughs, and pats Unresponsive on the nose. "You keep your name.  Supposed to be bad luck to change it anyway."  He looks at the two ladies and laughs again.  "But it's time..."

Ginger and Pepper hold onto each other, and trudge toward the open end of the stables.  Pepper hobbles in those large boots, while Ginger waves at the tiny wasps in her face.  Both lurch forward toward the fresh air.  Newport helps, his arms around both of their waists.

Hampton turns to Rank.  "I like this horse. How good is he really."

"Bet him to show, you'll have more fun with him. He's not a bad horse at all.  And don't change the name.  With a name like Unresponsive he'll have some very good odds. Who wants to bet on a horse named Unresponsive." 

Hampton shakes Rank's hand, then turns and waves to the horse.

Unresponsive bows his head, whinnies, and paws the straw.

Other horses watch the fraidy-cat humans leave their stables. They whinnie loudly, look at each other, and shake their heads.



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