The Bland Man

Who is the Bland Man?

He is an enigma. A mystery. A man beyond conventional understanding. Or he's just really butt ugly, I can't tell. He's a customer--that much is sure--but he appears at many branches. There are several customers who are multi-branchers, even cross-borough multi-branchers, but usually they stick to two or three--one near home, one near work, one near their mistress and/or drug dealer. But the Bland Man appears all over the city, with no rhyme or reason.

He's probably not one man, to be honest. He's probably a few similar-looking guys who all stick to their respective OTBs, and I just can't tell the difference. But that's the problem. He's just too damn bland to know for certain. And I mean bland. He's a 50-something white guy short on average height, with no face. Like The Question or Madonna in Dick Tracy. No face. Like he's got pantyhose or a latex glove stretched over his features. His skin is pulled completely tight, his eyes are small and unnoticeable. I really don't know how else to describe it. Bland. He defies adjectives.

Almost everyday The Bland Man comes to my window to bet, no matter what part of the city I'm working in. Lately, I've put together a mental list of theories explaining his existence. Maybe they're quintuplets. Gambling is genetic, isn't it? Maybe there's some sort of secret cloning conspiracy going on in New York. Maybe the Bland Man is trapped in a time loop, like on Lost, with several warp vectors aligning with the locations of our fine OTB branches. Maybe only I can see him, he only exists in my head. My own personal Tyler Durden that I got really jipped on. Or perhaps he's the Ghost of OTB Present.

The Bland Man has different incarnations, albeit subtle, which complicates the issue further. Sometimes he's timid, or weasely. Sometimes he's a dick. Sometimes he wears a ponytail. I guess that's a dick thing to do, too, though. This phenomenon leads to my strongest theory: split-personality. The Bland Man lives multiple lives without even knowing it--as an asshole near Borough Hall who loves to gamble, or a passive-aggressive pussy in SoHo who loves to gamble, or as a drunk in Bay Ridge... who loves to gamble. Scary stuff.

Ash Wednesday bonus: Last Wednesday the Catholics got ash on their foreheads to publicly admit their inherit sins. One Mexican customer didn't bother though, which is somewhat surprising considering how devout Sunset Park Latinos can get. I guess this offended one of our pious church-going betting clerks though, who threatened to put a cigarette out on the guy's forehead if he didn't go straight to church and get it done himself. Keep the faith.