Off-Track

The Jesus Pizza

2010-01-28T16:15:00.004-05:00

A few Sundays ago, my sister ordered a pizza and we took it over to my Grandma's for lunch. We got it from the place down the street, where we've been ordering from basically our entire lives. While chewing on garlic knots and flipping between postseason NFL and Asian cooking shows, the neon yellow flier scotch taped to the pizza box caught my attention.

Written in all caps was an essay penned by the owner of the pizzeria, let's call him, for argument's sake, Mike. So this pizza guy, Joe, I mean, Mike, wrote this essay and gave it out with all his a'pizzapies. And, like the side of a cereal box, I was compelled to read the entire thing while eating. Right off the bat Mike told me that "the first child born to me is ME." In bold. And italics. He told me that my inner child needed protection, and love, and that I was responsible for it. In fact, responsibility was a major theme of the pizza menu. I am also responsible for being abused, and for any diseases or tragedies that may fall my way. Fair enough. Mike told me, It is my life, I need to Love Myself, and then on Judgment Day, I will answer to God and...

That's when I realized my well-done half-pepperoni had come with a sermon. That's when Mike told me he planned for his 20 plus year institution to feed my soul as well as my body. I opened the flier, and there was an even longer, more personal essay, this one two pages, though thankfully he went easy on the capital letters. It was about how he watched his father-in-law rot and die in a hospital bed, and how that opened his eyes to the world of Born Again Christianity. At the end of the essay was his personal cell phone number, for questions and comments, obviously just an excuse to do more preaching. On the back were coupons for free soda with purchase of a chicken parm dinner or garden salad, good only 230-430PM, Sunday through Thursday, expires 2/28/2010, limit 2 per customer. Plus tax.

I'm not going to give people crap about their beliefs; usually, I don't even know what the hell I believe myself most of the time. And it's his business, he started it from the ground up and he has every right in the world to do with it what he pleases. If I owned a pizzeria I'd probably be handing out essays too, though they'd be more about why Hulk wasn't a bad movie and why Reservoir Dogs is better than Pulp Fiction. But, still, it was a little off-putting, seeing Jesus with my extra cheese. He took a risk, though in our neighborhood, I doubt too many are going to be that offended. Also, the nearest competition is Rey's, Staten Island's answer to the famous, original, correctly spelled franchise. So I doubt Mike has much to worry about. Especially on Judgment Day.

So what does this have to do with OTB? Well, really, I just couldn't believe what I was reading and didn't know where else to tell as many people as possible, but luckily there is a connection. The day before I saw the flier, the day before Mike actually made my sister sit down and read it while he watched her while the pizza was baking, I actually saw Mike at work. Betting on horses. And it wasn't the first time. Or the eleventh. I think I've made it clear that not every customer is a low-life degenerate. But still. It makes me wonder why someone who has found inner peace, has accepted his station in life and put everything in God's hands, would feel the need to make a few extra bucks on the side with the Number 3 horse at Freehold. Maybe I'm over analyzing. Maybe I just don't get it. Maybe he's winning every single race and I need to reconnect my inner child with Jesus ASAP. Or maybe I should just let it be. Where else am I gonna order out from, Rey's?

The Meat Thief

2009-08-29T15:12:00.005-04:00

The Meat Thief is a customer from one of the Staten Island branches. He's a benign white guy in his 60s, maybe even his 70s, his hair's all white and he's got a distinguished mustache. He looks like someone who might get pissed because you're taking too long at a golf course. And he steals meat.

If you've never been to Staten Island, you'll know you're there when you see a gigantic supermarket on every other corner, like they were Starbucks. Yeah, most suburbs are the same, but the Island puts everywhere else to shame. I think it's like four supermarkets per capita or something, I haven't checked since the last census. Anyway, there's a lot of supermarkets, and around this OTB there's several in walking distance. The Meat Thief goes to these supermarkets, and steals meat, and then sells it to people at half price, making a pretty decent profit for himself. This isn't a once in a blue moon type of a deal either, it's practically every day.

Obviously a large source of his clientele can be found at the OTB, but he also makes a good deal from us, the clerks. Don't judge, times are tough. We've actually become such good customers that he's upped his service, I mean the guy really knows how to run a business. He's gotten comfortable enough at his post-retirement profession that he actually takes grocery lists his customers write out as if they were just going shopping themselves. He'll go up and down the aisles, list in hand, picking the shelves for the right products. I think he uses those canvas bags that save the environment, and just doesn't take everything out at check-out, but I haven't bothered to ask. Frankly, the mystery is part of the appeal, at least for me.

Those aren't the only upgrades in service the Meat Thief's been innovating. He'll go to specific places known for their choice cuts, personally-tailored from the customer's list. He's also been expanding into non-food items, like razor blades, deodorant, and school supplies. And, perhaps best of all, he gives recipes and cooking tips with the meat, free of charge. That's salesmanship.

Now, yes, stealing is wrong, it's even one of the Ten. But society's pretty messed up these days and it's becoming a struggle just to get by. And it's an even bigger struggle to get some cheap filet mignon, so give us a fucking break. Obviously saying the supermarkets are giant soulless corporations that won't miss a handful of stolen meats is just rationalizing, but, let's face it, supermarkets are just giant soulless corporations that probably won't miss a handful of stolen meats. The Meat Thief is a revolutionary; at OTB, he's our Che Guevara.

At least he was. Thing is, the Meat Thief's been missing the last two weeks. He might be on summer vacation with the grandkids, but he's a friendly, chatty guy, and it seems odd he wouldn't have mentioned this earlier. A lot of the folks at the OTB seem to think he finally got caught red-meat-handed, and is rotting in some cell somewhere, like a guido Nelson Mandela. Maybe this was how it was destined to be from the start, and we just chose to deny the fundamental truths of the situation. But he also had a bad heart, so maybe he's just dead.

The Fourth

2009-07-07T12:24:00.004-04:00

I hope you all had a fun Fourth of July. I didn't.

Originally I was going to work a short shift near my home, then head out to a barbecue, but at the last minute I was called to do a double shift in the city. This sort of thing happens. OTB is actually open 362 days a year, the only three excluded being Christmas, Easter, and of course, Palm Sunday. On the bottom of the totem pole, I'm expected to work all major holidays, and even those with seniority find it hard to get out of it. The reasoning behind this is that since everyone else has off, they're free to come and bet, and we'll actually be busier than normal. So far, this has yet to be proven in one way or the other. Some holidays it's completely dead, some holidays it's about the same, and some days it is actually a little busier. Once in a while a lot busier.

The worst was Thanksgiving when I had to work on 38th street... literally on the Macy's parade route. It took me a half hour to navigate through the crowd, illegally duck under police barricades, and talk my way past a few mounted officers so I could get access to the building. I wasn't surprised when I got there that two dozen customers were already inside, seemingly unfazed by the mass of people and obstacles blocking them from the race at Penn National. To top it off, I had to sit in front of a load-bearing pillar, blocking my otherwise perfect second-story view of the parade. All morning I would see only glimpses of Garfield's ear or Spongebob's Squarepants, possibly the biggest float tease of all time.

For the day half of my double shift this weekend, I was put in the high rollers' room, their own personal bet-puncher. It was just four of them, but they spent, won and lost more than everyone else downstairs combined, and tipped me more than I've made maybe all year. They had their own fancy room upstairs, and were allowed to have food delivered in, kind enough to give me their leftover fries and Haagen Dazs. They only played one or two tracks, and barely seemed like they enjoyed themselves, though they definitely weren't half-assing it. They had the tracks on speed-dial on their cells, calling the numbers to find out which jockeys had switched horses and other details that to most people (even bettors) wouldn't matter. One of the guys had a Puerto Rican girl who was definitely younger than me, maybe too young, who didn't speak a word of English. I don't think she was a hooker, I think it was more of a sugar-daddy relationship. She drank a six pack of coronas by herself (the guys didn't drink while they bet) and every once in a while when prompted would say "Uno" or "Ocho" and the guys would tell her those were terrible horses and that she didn't know how to bet. (Uno and Ocho ended up winning those races, the guys losing a few thousand altogether.) Another weird thing I noticed, sitting with my machine right in front of the bathroom, was that she took like three huge shits throughout the afternoon. Not sure what that was about. Don't really want to know.

So for the first time maybe ever, I didn't see a single firework the entire day. And, as expected, the night shift was dead and I didn't even need to be there. But that's how we do holidays at OTB, basically like how we do everything else: Lonely and miserable, with the occasional fat tip.

The only other lowlight of the weekend was this customer I've never seen before. He was in his fifties or sixties, your typical Staten Island Italian-American guy. He was nice enough, bullshitting about stuff he had absolutely no expertise in, throwing a few HowYouDoin's in for good measure. But for some reason he was wearing a sleeveless fishnet see-through shirt--yeah, that kind--and cutoff jeans that really, really cut off. It was quite possibly the most disturbing juxtaposition anyone could ever imagine. I don 't know if he wore them thinking that was the style, or was just trying to keep cool in the heat, or was given them as a gift by some cruel, cruel grandchild, but in any case, there were also what looked to be claw marks scratched through the back, and no answer will ever be as satisfactory as it needs to be.

Bad Day

2009-06-08T21:49:00.005-04:00

I've been busy.

Last week, I had a bad day. In the traditional sense of the term, where you wake up Irish, a son of Murphy, unwavering in your adherence to his Law. Tragedies, not so much. Just several tiny catastrophes, rocks just big enough to leave ripples, bouncing off each other and distorting your reflection in so many ways you can't even recognize yourself. A bad day. That's all.

This included my drawer being short fifty bucks, which is deducted from your paycheck. This typically means a customer was overpaid and didn't bother letting you know. Thanks guy.

I also accidentally locked my manager in the basement, forgot to go on break and complimented a co-worker on her weight loss only to find out that she's mad stressed and wasn't trying to lose weight and now she's all offended. Other little things, barely worth typing.

I'm not going to bother going into details. I just wanted to share my misery in the hopes that it spreads and earns some company. The tragedies I can handle. Maybe they're part of God's master plan, maybe they all do have silver linings. But the little things--the stubbed toes, the scratchy throats, the managers locked in the basement--how could they possibly fit into that Plan, what could their silver linings possibly be, what lessons could possibly be learned? They're just there to fucking annoy the shit out of you and that's what pisses me off the most. Fuck bad days.

REPRINT: So you want to bet at OTB...

2009-05-21T13:01:00.003-04:00

[In honor of my one year anniversary of writing this blog, the upcoming big race, and the fact that I'm too busy to write anything new leads to this reprint from last May]

The Belmont Stakes is coming up (Saturday, June 7) and Big Brown could become the first Triple Crown winner in decades, [actually now it's June 6 and Big Brown is dead... or not racing, one or the other...] so horse racing has been thrust in the spotlight even more so than the usual May. The Triple Crown (the Kentucky Derby, the Preekness and the Belmont Stakes) and to a lesser extent October's Breeders' Cup are the biggest races in the sport and they bring in hundreds of millions in bets. A lot of these bets, if not most, are from normal people like you and me, people who can't even be called casual bettors.

The one thing I don't wanna do with this blog is scare anyone away from coming to an OTB. In fact, I recommend it. Like I've said earlier, it's a human safari and there's an interesting culture to be observed. And while I wouldn't recommend getting out of the car and kicking a lion in the sack, I would recommend participating in this culture, even if just once. So this is for anyone thinking about going and betting the Belmont Stakes, and for anyone who isn't and should be.

And they can seem scary. Anything unfamiliar can really, but it doesn't help that there's outbursts of screaming and cursing and more angry Asians than the climax of The Deer Hunter. Usually it's more subdued, a constant rumbling of under-the-breath swears, kind of like putting all those angry pedestrians from Grand Theft Auto into one small room. And if you come on Derby day it's gonna be a lot more crowded than usual, with the regulars getting frustrated at the long lines. If you've got a regular behind you, he's going to sigh audibly, turn around and roll his eyes at whoever is paying attention to him (no one), sigh again but this time more of a grunt, and finally go 'Oh come on!' or 'We gonna bet here or what?' Ignore this. While the company sucks up to and wants to please these regulars for their constant income, you casual bettors give us most of our profit. Plus, he's just a lonely asshole and there's probably three hours to the big race anyway. He's not your problem, and don't let him deter you from betting.

And when I say betting, I mean like five bucks. Twenty most. Don't go crazy. You don't know what you're doing, first of all. Horse racing is one of the hardest things to gamble on--despite those carefully crafted odds, it's a crapshoot and you're probably not going to win much, especially in the long run. The thrill isn't winning it's hoping you're going to win in that intense two minutes of racing (that's why the sport has lasted so long--imagine compacting all the thrills of the Super Bowl into 100 seconds.) Some of you will stay after the race and bet a few more. Usually you're the winners of the big race and you think you're an undiscovered prodigy and are about to win thousands more. Usually you lose everything you won and then some and then go back to doing whatever you usually do on Saturday night.

Don't be afraid of us, the clerks, either. Derby days are exciting for us. We like to dress a little nicer than usual and we bring in big sandwiches and lasagna. It's refreshing to see new faces and new customers who don't hate us yet, and it's fun to talk down to you and feel special that we know so much more about something (anything) than you do. So usually we'll be on our best behavior, and very nice and helpful (despite it being one of the most intense and stressful work days for us.) It may seem a little complicated--all the different bets and combinations--but it's really pretty simple and you'd get the hang of it if you did it more than one afternoon. But we will walk you through it and make sure you get what you want and lose the way you're supposed to. Just don't come to the window and say "This is my first time." It's annoying. We know it is, we can see you coming a mile away. And I know you're just saying it so we don't think you're an idiot, but you all say it, every single one of you, to the point where my eye twitches when I hear you say it. Don't say it. It's been a long day.

Oh, and don't ask how much the bets come to. This is an interesting phenomenon. In almost every other commercial transaction, the customer will see how much they owe on the register screen, but the clerk will say it out loud anyway. Maybe because we have to do it a thousand times a shift, we don't do it. The register tells you how much you owe, but we never tell you out loud. The regulars know this and just look at the screen and pay (usually they've calculated it in their heads already.) But most new customers will just stare at me with a blank face, a twenty or a hundred dollar bill in their hand. It takes me a few seconds to realize this isn't a contest. You're waiting for me to tell you how much. It's right there on the screen, just read it. It's been a long day.

Three in a Week

2009-04-30T11:51:00.001-04:00

another new article, about the NHL:

http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=301:nhl-playoff-ratings&catid=52:nhl&Itemid=113

Punch-Out Plug

2009-04-27T11:38:00.001-04:00

My latest entry in the Sports on a Stick Punch-Out feature, found here:

http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=299

Madden Retires

2009-04-21T10:54:00.001-04:00

Here's a guy who links to his other articles:

http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=298:madden-retires&catid=44:player-news&Itemid=109

Staten Island

2009-04-16T12:14:00.004-04:00

Disclaimer: I was born and raised on Staten Island and just like black people can call each other 'nigga' I can call other Staten Islanders 'big dumb retards.' Because they are. I'll be the first to defend the many hidden pleasures of the misunderstood borough, but I won't deny that many of those unfortunate stereotypes non-Islanders have about us are, in fact, completely true. Do you know how the NYPD punishes a wayward officer? By transferring them to Staten Island. (Unless they live on Staten Island, in which case they're sent to the Bronx. True, too.)

Currently, there are three OTB branches left on the southernmost county of New York. As late as last year, there was four; the Hylan Plaza branch, one of our nicest facilities and a mainstay of that particular stripmall with it's neon horse heads since before I can remember, was shut down because it couldn't renew its lease. The Bay St. branch closed a few years earlier, creating a diaspora of poor Jamaican immigrants who love to gamble, and the ill-fated La Sabia restaurant teletheater couldn't reconcile its classy atmosphere with the average, not-so-classy, customer.

The many disappointed regulars of the Hylan Plaza branch wandered to the three remaining sites on Statty Isle--Amboy Road, Richmond Ave., and Forest Ave. Each has its own distinct personality, but the three all share very common characteristics that separate them from the herd. No business can last as long as it has on Staten Island without becoming, in essence, a Staten Island business.

First thing I notice as an employee is that the branches are decidedly more casual. Whether it's because they're less crowded than the Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens and Bronx branches is up for debate. Possibly it's because the employees and management are more casual, which I'm guessing is because of the distance from OTB headquarters in Times Square, and the fact that most co-workers are actually from Staten Island and have a stress-free travel experience, unlike everyone else who travel all over the city to get from their home to their branch. Staten Island is the promised land for many workers--you have to have crazy seniority to earn one of its precious few spots permanently. But, yeah, casual--there's less fights with the customers, less fights between the customers, slightly less drama between the co-workers, and less murders and robberies and what have you.

Unlike the rest of the city branches, ninety-percent of the customers are white. Mostly Irish or Italian guys, like poorly written characters on The Sopranos. The only significant minority is the Chinese, usually on break from the token take-outs sharing strip mall space with the OTBs. This is actually a good thing for me, not because I'm a xenophobe and hate minorities, but because they mostly speak English with clear accents. Well, obviously they have thick Staten Island accents, but at least they're descipherable, which, through bulletproof glass, is a Godsend. It's ridiculous how much I've learned to translate from the other-boro branches, whether it be Spanish, Chinese, or mostly broken-hybrid-thick-accent "English." Less translating means less mistakes means less stress and less shortages for the betting clerk. So, at least white people got that going for them, which is nice.

Few other random Staten Island quirks I've noticed:

-Some guys actually whistle the Godfather theme. All day long. Like it's a real song.
-Everyone has a cigar in their mouth, even this old guy who is a dead ringer for George Burns. Keep in mind there's no smoking allowed in the branches anymore, nor do they ever step outside to smoke the damn things. They just keep them in their mouths, getting soggy and soft.
-Customers call the Aqueduct, Belmont and Saratoga tracks "New York" as in gimme the 2 horse in New York. Granted, all these tracks are in the state of New York, but nowhere else but S.I. do customers refer to the tracks that way. That's like calling Disneyworld "Florida." Why? Why only here? These are the questions that keep me up at night.
-There's posters of cats all over the walls of the break rooms and bathrooms in the workers' area. Like lions and pumas and stuff, no labels, just posters of the cats. This isn't a strictly Staten Island thing, I've noticed it in Brooklyn, and come to think of it, in the 7th and 8th grade I had a bus driver obsessed with tigers. What the WTF?
-This isn't a Staten Island quirk, but I saw it in a Staten Island branch. You know those "Hey Kids, No Hope in Dope!" bumper stickers you see all over? (Well, you see all over if you live in ghetto neighborhoods?) Someone tore it in half and stuck it to the wall, where it remains: "Hey Kids, No Hope." How uplifting.

There's a lot more I can say about the pecularities of the Staten Island OTBs, and maybe one day I will, but for now I'll end with a vignette about one of my finer compatriots:
I saw a high roller last week lose 15 grand in about ninety minutes, which by far isn't the worst I've seen on the job. He was drunk off his ass and really obnoxious. Thing is, this was one of his better days. Once, he was coked up beyond repair, spilling powder all over the men's room floor. He could barely walk, he pissed himself, tried to stumble to his car in the parking lot. (He's since stopped driving, now he'll turn to random customers and offer them four hundred bucks or whatever to drive him home, or sometimes just call a car service like a normal human being.) A customer witnessed this embarassing display and expressed his shock, but we explained it was the norm. Then he told us that the guy was his kids' little league coach, and that they had a game in two hours.

Come visit us, the ferry's free.

Synergy (i.e. Shameless Plug)

2009-04-12T15:11:00.002-04:00

The latest from my sketch group, Pete & the Peters:

http://www.funnyordie.com/peters/playlists/287931

Dirty Squirrel vs. Fake Guard Lady

2009-04-01T18:14:00.004-04:00

First off, a prologue: It's been three years to the week that I've been working at the OTB. It's scary how fast the time's gone by and how ridiculous it seems that I planned to only work there for six months or so. A co-worker congratulated me by telling me that we'd probably die together. Prologue over.

Dirty Squirrel is one of the least liked--no, most hated--customers from Branch 119, which is a pretty tough title to defend. He's a tiny, old, ugly, and yes, dirty, Mexican man with thick black eyeglasses. Whenever anyone describes him or meets him, the word "nasty" is usually brought up. He's a huge asshole, causing trouble with every clerk at every occasion, as well as with many customers on many occasions. He loves attention and is constantly trying to get it at any cost.

Fake Guard Lady is called Fake Guard Lady because no one's thought of a better nickname for her yet. 'Lady' makes sense because she is in all likelihood a woman. She has wiry red head and a Homer Simpson figure. 'Guard' is an educated guess based not just on her personality, but the blazer she wears. She might be a doorman, but she's probably a security guard for some office building nearby. She's loud, loves to bet, and is probably psycho, medically speaking. You can pretty much tell something's off--there aren't too many physical details I can provide to support this argument. She pays with cash from her bra, literally opening up her blouse and sticking her hand under her bra, grabbing a wad of bills, paying me, waiting for the change, putting the change back in her bra cup, then buttoning up her blouse before leaving the window. It's utterly macabre.

She also gets right in front of a TV during a race and starts screaming at the top of her lungs. By the last turn of the race, it sounds like she's orgasming. Even more disturbing is the crowd of male customers surrounding her, obviously turned on, gawking at her and awkwardly getting closer to her as the race progresses.

One night recently, the Dirty Squirrel (he's like Batman, you can call him Dirty Squirrel or The Dirty Squirrel, either way is fine) started a fight with another, unnicknamed black customer. This other guy was known to steal tickets and do other shady things, so he wasn't exactly innocent. The fight got a little out of hand, and punches were thrown. The black guy then tried to pick up a full trash can to hurl at the Squirrel, but it was too heavy for him, and he fell on his ass.

That's when the Fake Guard Lady intervened. She couldn't help herself, apparently, protecting the people is in her DNA. Also, she's bossy. So she jumps in between them, holding them back, yelling at them and telling them to calm down. Our security guard would've done it, but he and the rest of the company's guards were laid off over a month ago. The customers, apparently though, didn't know this, and the Lady actually broke up the fight because the black guy and the Dirty Squirrel thought she worked for OTB. (Hence the title 'Fake.') These guys were too drunk or stoned to realize that she was making bets and getting off in front of the Meadowlands TV five minutes earlier, and we didn't feel like telling them because, frankly, she was a pretty decent guard. And since they thought she was with us, they thought she could kick them out of the branch, and God forbid they go a night without losing their money.

But about twenty minutes later, the black customer returned, now wielding a large stick. How or where, in the middle of Manhattan, he found a giant branch is beyond me, but I try not to let myself get surprised at the job anymore. Once again, the Guard Lady tried to break it up. Dirty Squirrel's inner asshole overcame his fear of authority though, and this time he wouldn't back down. Since she had no real authority, Dirty Squirrel just kept screaming. Eventually, the guy with the stick was kicked out by the manager, but the Squirrel was allowed to stay, annoying the hell out of everyone for yet another night. The Guard Lady was told to mind her own business, and went back to giving me the dry heaves with her bra-money. Dirty Squirrel won the battle. Assholes always win.

Sports on a Stick Post

2009-03-13T17:17:00.002-04:00

I got a new featured article, found here:

http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=282

Checks it out.

The Bland Man

2009-03-02T16:57:00.004-05:00

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.

No, Man

2009-02-22T15:33:00.004-05:00

This has absolutely nothing to do with OTB except that I saw it on my way to work, but I have no idea where else I could mention what I saw and express how it makes me feel. It's actually a little dated, because I forgot about it until just now:

So going to work Manhattan-bound on the R train I saw a movie poster on the wall of the Bay Ridge Ave terminal through the train car windows. It was for Jim Carrey's latest comedy, Yes Man, and had a picture of Jim smiling and the title and such. Fortunately, the train stopped long enough for me to catch all the great graffiti on the torn poster, written in black sharpie.

Under the title, it read: "No, Man!" And then: "Fuck your happy face!"
Then, under that, possibly by a different artist, it said: "Go fuck yourself you piece of shit!"
and "Die!"
and finally, "FEEL Pain!"

Does that sum up the lingering dread and misery and anger and hopelessness we as a people are feeling as the economy and country fall apart around us? I don't know, but it was still pretty fucking funny.

Another Plug

2009-02-13T13:22:00.001-05:00

http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=253:detroit-red-wings-send-cyborg-back-in-time-to-kill-alexander-ovechkin&catid=52:nhl&Itemid=113

.....is where you can find my new article on www.sportsonastick.com

Second Shameless Plug

2009-02-01T15:21:00.001-05:00

Got another article published:

http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=237:steroids-accused-of-using-lebron-james&catid=50:nba-player-news&Itemid=112

Check out my Cooper Manning story and other great ones at www.sportsonastick.com

Enjoy.

Shameless Plug

2009-01-30T12:53:00.003-05:00

There's a great satirical sports website out there (think The Onion) called www.sportsonastick.com

I just got an article published:

http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=234:cooper-manning-finds-hundred-dollar-bill-on-street&catid=49:nfl-team-news&Itemid=109

Check it out if you want.

Year of the Ox

2009-01-26T20:26:00.003-05:00

The Ox is the sign of the virtue of fortitude. Men and women born in the year of the Ox tend to be logical, intelligent and patient. They are positive and caring people, who believe that hard work is the righteous path to make one's way through life, and are rarely driven by greed.

This should have nothing to do with OTB.

But, every twelve years, this year included, they become inextricably linked, inseparable. Today began the first of fifteen days of celebration for the Chinese New Year. And the Chinese love to gamble.

This isn't racist. Well, maybe it is, but it's not Michael Richards racist. The customers of OTB come from every race, and maybe there's just a lot of Chinese because there's a lot of Chinese people in general. A good chunk of the workforce, my co-workers, are Chinese-American as well. So when the New Year rings in, OTB likes to party. It's arguably the biggest holiday of our calendar, beating out Christmas and rivaling only the Triple Crown races. They go all out in some branches--the ones in Chinatown, obviously, but a few others in Brooklyn and Queens where the Asian population is strong. Decorations and lights on the walls, oranges and candy in each window for good luck. The company even sets aside a little money to give to customers and employees, in the traditional red envelopes, so the new year starts right. (Apparently I'm worth two-dollars of luck, I didn't earn a fifty-dollar envelope. I think I can't make the luck last 'til at least August, though, if I'm careful.) It kind of feels like a bar-mitzvah, with any chair-lifting being purely coincidental.

Today I was fortunate enough to work in Chatham Square, the heart of Chinatown and the center of OTB's celebration. I was part of a bonus staff to handle the surplus of customers. The mood was very upbeat, even among most of the customers (both their surplus and smiles probably had a little to do with the red envelopes.) Even the racing programs were free. We had gourmet Chinese food in the back which I'm afraid to admit I wasn't brave enough to eat. I did chow down way too many little Chinese candies, though, some fruity-butterscotchy things, that ended up setting some firecrackers of their own off in my stomach.

We had plenty of guests going in and out all day, too. Retired employees, workers from other branches, executives from uptown, even some little kids and grandkids. The JBC even dressed up in a snazzy shirt and vest, which, while looking great in it, probably regretted the decision once he got down to scrubbing the urinals.

It's the closest an OTB branch comes to being an official community center-- I noticed some people weren't even there to bet, they were just there to share in the fun. By far, the highlight of the day were the dragon visits. You've all seen them, the paper-mache or whatever dragons with oversized heads and being controlled by one or a few or several people under them. Throughout the day they'd veer off the parade path and come right into the branch, making laps and then dancing to live drumbeats in the middle of the room, between the TVs and the odds charts and the customers--usually, a dangerous place to be. No one seemed to care, though. For once, the races weren't top priority. They were co-top priority. Customers joined in with some managers and some of us clerks in rubbing the dragons' heads for good luck. I wanted to post some cell phone video I took but I'm an idiot and I have zero clue how to get anything on my computer. Bluetooth, maybe? That's a thing, right? Am I saying that right? Bluetooth?

A great celebration, sure, but not a miracle. Many parts of the day were exactly the same as any other. Machines broke. Some customers were still dicks. Others were completely oblivious to there even being a holiday, seemingly indifferent to the giant multicolored dragon cutting in front of the line. (In their defense, on any given day, there could be a lot weirder shit going down.) But for the most part, it was a momentary break from the mundane and downright misery of working a real job and not a dream job to pay the bills. It's refreshing and even a little jarring to see an OTB branch become a positive, joyous room. OTB employees will enjoy every minute of New Year's they can, because the rest of the year--whether it's Ox or Tiger or Boar or Rat--is probably going to suck.

George His Mother Is 84 Years Old

2009-01-12T21:42:00.005-05:00

Working at the Brooklyn Borough Hall branch today, I had the pleasure of meeting George, a customer I've never seen before. I'm not sure if he's new to the game or if we've just been star-crossed until now, but here we are. George is white, healthy looking and relatively clean, and seems to be in his mid to late 50s. Like your typical OTB regular, he has at least one mental disorder, though I can't exactly say which ones. Maybe OCD, I don't know, we didn't really get a chance to do some Rorschachs. He's hyperactive, constantly walking around the branch at a brisk pace, and is extremely talkative. It's pretty annoying but fortunately, he's also really friendly and nonaggressive, which is a huge plus when it comes to customers (and other clerks.)

What made George stand out from the other bettors, even the mentally unstable and possibly-obsessive-compulsives, was that he'd reintroduce himself to me every time he made a bet. This also could be more annoying than it sounds, but he had the habit of adding a little bit of information with each reintroduction, keeping it interesting. Kind of like Memento, except not at all.

As soon as I opened my window he speed walked (sped walked?) up to me and asked me my name. A lot of clerks never give out their names, many women just give fakes. Usually I'm too lazy to lie but this time I didn't mind anyhow; he seemed friendly enough at the get-go to let him know what my parents tagged me. He replied: "I'm George my mother is 84 years old." I didn't forget any commas or ellipses, he just never pauses during his sentences.

About ten minutes later he cashed his winning ticket and asked me: "Jack, right?" Yes. "I'm George my mother is 84 years old, I have twenty-one nieces and nephews." Alright. I paid him, and he just stared at me awkwardly. Was that part of his introduction or had he commenced a topic of conversation in which I had not yet participated? After a couple of uneasy beats, I went back to my Spanish flashcards. He sped away.

Five minutes later: "I'm George my mother is 84 years old, I have twenty-one nieces and nephews, I'm Jewish German Mexican and Italian."

He added a refrain the next time, almost making it melodic: "I'm George my mother is 84 years old, I have twenty-one nieces and nephews, I'm Jewish German Mexican and Italian, I have twenty-one nieces and nephews, I grew up in Bed-Stuy in the projects." I don't think the order was random, I think what he was implying was that he had a lot of nieces and nephews because his family loved to multiply and hence the diverse DNA. Maybe.

"I'm George my mother is 84 years old, I have twenty-one nieces and nephews, I'm Jewish German Mexican and Italian, I grew up in Bed-Stuy in the projects, eighteen years ago a woman threw a pot of boiling water onto my back." He then tried to lift his shirt to show me the scars but stopped. That last line seemed a lot more dramatic than the other ones, but to him it was just another personal tidbit, one whose elaboration he never intended on giving.

He also was talking to the two ladies I was working with, and told one that he loved her and wanted to marry her and make babies with her. It was so innocent that it was barely sexual harassment but our manager rebuked him and he got scared and hid in the back by the vending machine for about a half hour before coming back to us (a half hour is probably like six months George time.)

The fun ended pretty early though, about two hours into the shift, after he made one final bet. He was eleven cents short and painfully tried to ask me to spot him the money, which I did with no hesitation. He lost the bet and then came to me and apologized, like I was going to break his thumbs for not paying me back the change. I said it was okay, he apologized again, I went back to my Spanish flashcards, and when I looked up again, George His Mother is 84 Years Old was gone. Maybe for good. Maybe not. He has 21 nieces and nephews.

And a Happy New Year

2008-12-28T21:10:00.005-05:00

I'll make this quick. I've got a little post-Christmas annex post that involves, in no means a coincidence, what happened at work the day after Christmas. I'll keep names out of it, because I have a feeling what I'll be describing is potentially illegal.

Anyway, some branches are friendlier with the customers, and some clerks are very friendly with the customers. Most of these friendly clerks are veterans, some have been with the company for over 30 years. Some of these clerks live in the same area as their own branch, usually because they've got the seniority to handpick where they want to work. The customers are their neighbors, their butchers and baby-furniture store owners. There's a certain rapport there that grows out of those relationships, adding another dimension to the clerk-customer dynamic. (This does complicate things for the rest of us, like when I curse out my co-worker's golfing buddy right in front of the guy.)

Some of these relationships are so strong that, during the holidays, gifts and cards are exchanged. One guy, who's an OTB vet and local resident, even buys cards for some customers' wives and families. In return, he gets cards loaded with cash. Big fat tips, basically, even if the card-givers aren't winning any races.

I happened to be sitting next to this clerk for the December 26 day shift. It didn't take long for him to start complaining that a lot of the customers weren't as generous this Christmas. Not only were the cards light, but a lot of them didn't even bother with gifts. He never mentioned if he knows about the worldwide recession currently ruining millions of lives, but he seems like a smart guy, and I'm sure he does, but apparently none of that matters. He didn't get his Christmas tips. And there will be hell to pay.

I usually drown out other co-workers to begin with, and this guy likes to talk even while I'm dealing with customers, which doesn't help, so I didn't really catch all that he was spewing at me. But the gist was, a lot of people "forgot about him" and now his "List" is getting a lot more names added to it. He's going to remember everyone who didn't remember him this yuletide season, and each and every one of them was going on The List, even the ones that have been his so-called friends for the past three decades. Again, I missed crucial chunks of this subdued rant, but I think it was implied that even other OTB co-workers somehow made The List. Everytime he mentioned The List, he'd motion to it, taped on the inside wall of his booth, but I never got to see it, fearing that if he caught me looking at it, I'd make The List.

What The List is exactly, I don't know. Who, specifically, is on The List, I don't know. But what happens to the people on The List... I also don't know. And that's what makes an otherwise ordinary list become The List, and that's why I thought it was interesting enough to merit a blog post. December 26 is many things to many people. Some celebrate Kwanzaa. Others enjoy Boxing Day. A lot of folks would just like to relax after a month of stressful holiday preparation. But in OTB, we have The List. And God help you if you're on it.

Tip your mail-carrier. And your OTB clerk. Happy New Year.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-18T23:21:00.004-05:00

In the spirit of the season, here's a short vignette of what happened on a night shift earlier this week:

You may have noticed that a lot of basic cable networks like to use December as a dumping ground for all their syndicated films and crappy made-for-TV movies, typically assigning these marathons a random number. (See: 25 Days of Christmas, 15 Days of Christmas, 7 Days of Christmas, 1 Day of Christmas, etc.) I just wish these network execs would learn that the only way you're going to earn my viewership is by playing A Christmas Story twelve times in a row, but I digress.

So one night I go into the back area on my break to scarf down some street halal. On the tiny TV is another sappy made-for-TV Christmas movie starring C-listers and former B-listers. The manager is sitting at the desk, doing paperwork, using the Hallmark Channel more for ambiance than anything. I'm sitting at the table, completely ignoring the movie, working on a crossword c.o. Willie Shortz. Also seated at the table is a JBC who will go unnamed.

NOTE: This post and what follows specifically is in no way meant to deride or insult the position of janitor or anybody holding said position. Rather, this is to point out one man's complete stupidity, a man who happens to be a janitor.

Or JBC, rather. Junior Building Custodian. But, yeah, janitor. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Seriously.

So about an hour into the Hallmark crap-of-the-week, this JBC, who resembles a shaved three-toed sloth, give or take a toe, remarks: "Can someone explain to me what the fuck is going on?" I'm paraphrasing, but he does curse a lot.

I'm not really invested in the whole scenario but my manager's reaction was priceless. She puts the pen down and looks at him, bewildered. "Peter Falk's an angel. He's trying to get this couple back together before Christmas. What's not to get?"

"Oh." And we all go back to what we were doing, the manager picking up her pen, me taking another forkful of halal, the JBC's eyes moving back to the television screen, his synapses firing at an incredible rate, desperately trying to comprehend the plot that some overpaid screenwriter punched out sitting on the john. A script fine-tuned in such a way so that it would be easily digested by even an Alzheimer's-inflicted grandmother. A movie, that to this particular JBC, was 2001 a fucking Space Odyssey.

Maybe you had to be there, but the look on the manger's face really did capture the absurdity of the moment. It showed me, at the very least, that stupidity is not some general concept that can be tossed about, but a habitual state of being with many subtlies and nuances. I mean, come on, it was the Hallmark Channel.

Oh, also, this has nothing to do with Christmas but a few weeks ago this very same JBC was watching a rerun of Numbers (with Judd Hirsch and the guy from Northern Exposure) on the very same TV. Some dude got shot like 39 times with a machine gun, then the JBC went to the bathroom or something. He came back and asked us "So did that guy die?"

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

119

2008-12-08T20:10:00.005-05:00

Branch 119 is the quintessential, definitive OTB parlor. It's one of the biggest, one of the busiest, one of the loudest, smelliest, angriest, disgusting, exciting places to place a place bet. If you really wanted to grasp the concept of everything I've been spewing forth up to this point, 119 is the one to visit. It's not a coincidence this branch stands out from the rest--like most things in life, there's a complicated, dialectic web of reasons for its organized insanity.

First off, it's got branch 219, a teletheater, directly above it. The teletheaters are the few, "classy" joints designed specifically for higher-paying customers. Typically, there's a five dollar cover charge, a bar and/or restaurant hopelessly prepared for consumers just looking for a good meal and no gambling whatsoever, a wall of television screens for easy multi-track viewing, full track prices (no OTB commission removed from winnings) and carpets. The place is a little cleaner, and most employees wear a uniformed vest, and in theory, are more pleasant to the customers. These customers are higher-paying on the average, some blowing thousands at a time on a single horse, but there's also regular Joe the Plumber's who pay the five bucks to avoid the grudge and grime of a typical branch.

Anyway, having 219 right above 119 means that any wealthier, quieter, classier, and/or nicer customers are weeded out, all taking the stairs around the corner rather than patronizing the lower floor. That gives 119 the distinct advantage of having pure losers, with some nice dirt poor customers sprinkled in, robbing me of the occasional moments of not wanting to kill myself that most other branches provide.

Secondly and perhaps just as importantly, 119 is a block from Times Square, one of the most densely populated spots in the entire galaxy. That means a lot more customers than usual. It also means a lot more dirtbag customers than usual, given Times Square's ability to attract dirtbags and all. It also means the occasional tourist who should've stuck to the brochure and gets in way over his or sometimes her head (for some reason most of these tourists have Southern accents and many have cowboy hats.) Physically, 119 is one of the biggest branches in the city, with a ton of machines, more than twice the usual number of available clerks and two managers. Yet, it's never empty.

Maybe because of Times Square or maybe not, 119 also boasts one of the biggest homeless populations. Unlike the other branches though, the homeless here don't just take up three seats to make a bed/toilet. These bums bet, and they bet big. I'll watch them through the doors, standing out on seventh avenue with a rapidly-deteriorating coffee cup, collecting change from passerbys. Within the hour, they've got maybe a hundred bucks in dingy coins, and they're spending every last Monticello on a horse at Monticello.

These Vietnam Vets and their friends contribute to one of 119's most defining characteristics: the stink. As soon as you walk in, it hits you like an aluminum bat made of ass. It's mostly B.O. but there's plenty of urine, feces, puke, and other stuff I don't even wanna contemplate mixed in there. The fact that these guys are packed in there all day and all night rubbing against one another intentionally or not just adds to the nauseating atmosphere. Almost as bad as the stink are the weapons of anti-stink, the arsenal of Lysol cans at the full-timers' windows. These are fired multiple times an hour, often right in the customer's face, giving most of us a terrible headache that smells faintly of lilacs.

All this makes working there a huge chore; it's a given that your shift will be nonstop, your end total will show you've punched well over 1000 bets and cashed over 150 tickets. We'd cash more if the customers weren't so stupid. Like anywhere else, their impatience, ignorance and sheer idiocy will cause them to rip up or throw out winning tickets. There's a dedicated team of customers who make their money solely on others' mistakes, diving deep into our receptacles until you see only their legs, rummaging through the goblets of phlegm, emptied Old E's and chewed up Orbits. One guy supposedly makes around a thousand dollars a day from the winning tickets he finds discarded.

And while 119 does everything big, it's still at heart just another OTB, with its own slew of characters. There's the Russian, this short man with a deep thick voice and slow, spelled-out Siberian accent, who calls you Boss every sentence, looks and sounds utterly miserable, but really is a pretty nice guy. There's the Grandma from SoHo, who dresses and acts very upper-middle-class like. She spends the days in the quiet branch by Houston St. but when that closes at seven she inexplicably comes up to 119 to finish out the night's races. She's more of a television in the weeds than a diamond in the rough.

There's Igor, this little old man who looks exactly like his namesake from the old Frankenstein films. You can't help how you look, but he tops it off with a timid Eastern European accent that I can only assume is Transylvanian. His nickname isn't Igor, he literally is the guy. There's also Flopsweat, the ugliest man I've ever seen in my life, who has a giant bald head with weird skin-colored lumps all over. He's also got a ridiculous amount of flopsweat, even in the depths of February, though they're hard to distinguish from the lumps. In the ugliest branch in the state, he's definitely top candidate for ugliest man in the branch. There's Pizzaman, a flamboyant three-toothed Black man who buys a couple pizzas every night and then sells the slices to the customers for a small profit. He's nice enough to offer us slices on the house, but the day I accept open food from a 119 customer is the day I contract some form of Hepatitis. Besides the standout characters, many of whom I've left out, you've also got the broadest rainbow in the system, with dozens of blacks, whites, chinese, koreans, latinos, native americans, arabs, indians, pacific islanders, gays, bis, transvestites and transsexuals. If Times Square is the melting pot of the melting pots, 119 is the melting pot of the melting pot of the melting pot. With discount pizza.

119 might sound like the biggest hellhole of them all, but it's far from my least favorite places to work. It certainly has its perks. Time flies, since you work nonstop. Also, the staff there are really cool and down-to-earth, and staff conversation is a huge tool in speeding up that clock. By sheer statistics, the larger amount of customers means a larger amount of tips for me, which is also good for me. I could go into greater detail about the branch if I wanted to, but I don't, so I won't, and this is where I stop typing.

Eddie

2008-10-26T12:55:00.007-04:00

Eddie's a longtime customer from Bay Ridge. He's got a slow, clear way of speaking, layered with a thick Brooklyn accent. "Gimme da TWO. On top of da FOUR. On top of da SIX TREE." At first, I didn't like him-- I had grouped him with the other scumbag Bay Ridge goons. Eventually I realized he was harmless and just wanted to bet; we even built up a little act where I would repeat all his bets in an exaggerated Brooklyn accent and he would repeat it again as if to acknowledge the way he spoke while declaring he was proud of it.

I also thought the guy was on drugs, considering how slow he spoke and the fact that he's so scrawny, even for a short little guy like him. I was mistaken-- apparently Eddie's got cancer, one of the bad ones, and a few years back stopped taking any medication for it because they were making him sicker than the tumor. (Or he couldn't afford it, he'll never tell.) He's had it for nine years but lately it's been getting worse. Not that he's told us, you can just see it. His skin is green. His white hair has lost its luster. He's even scrawnier and weaker than before. It's bad stuff.
It's weird to watch a man slowly die. The bulletproof glass between us serves as like a frame. He comes in one week, I see him, he comes in the next week, he's a little bit worse, etc. Everybody knows it's coming and there's nothing we can do, and because there's a line of other customers behind him, you can't even dwell on it. You'd think he'd want to use his remaining time to do some exciting stuff, or at least spend it with his family. He's a regular but he's not there constantly like most regulars, so maybe he does do this stuff. But on the other hand, betting to him is exciting, is fun, and as sick as it sounds, OTB is part of his family. So maybe he's going out the way he wants to go out.

I write about Eddie in present tense not to be melodramatic, but because I had been planning this article for a couple months now and just never got around it. This is basically what it would have been. The truth is, though, Eddie died a couple days ago. The cancer finally got to him. The clerks at his branch and some of the customers were saddened by the news. One clerk, who hadn't even worked in the branch or seen Eddie for ten years, bawled her eyes out.
I look down on a lot of these people because of how they live their lives but the fact of the matter is they're still people, with the same amount of neurons and thoughts and impulses charging through their brains as you or me. It's really a shame that with all the things in nature that could kill us, we still come up with a billion other ways to do it to each other or to ourselves. Life is ridiculously precious, even inside an OTB parlor, even to people who just refuse to treat it as such. But if a betting clerk can cry over the death of a customer, maybe there's hope for us after all.

Circle of Complaints

2008-09-10T23:28:00.005-04:00

There are two things that come out of a bettor's mouth: bets and complaints. And smoke and pieces of food, if you want to get technical. Many of the complaints, naturally, relate to horse racing. Jockeys who held their ponies back too long, horses that wouldn't let their jockeys ride them, tracks who messed with the odds, etc. Even when they win, they'll complain and tell you they're still down a thousand dollars for the day (this is the diplomatic way of telling us we ain't getting tipped anytime soon.)

But a lot of the complaints are about us. And it wasn't long before I noticed, sitting there for seven hours, staring at the food-speckled bullet-proof glass, that when they weren't complaining to me, my co-workers were. In fact, there's a complex pattern I picked up after a couple of months that I like to call the Circle of Complaints.

The customers complain to me about everything: the horses, the races, the jockeys, the other customers and the clerks. The clerks complain to me about the customers. The clerks also complain about the managers. The managers, when my other co-workers are on break, complain to me about the clerks. The JBCs (custodians), while waiting for the bus with me, also complain about the managers. The customers complain about the JBCs, not picking up the tickets they purposely throw on the floor right beside the trashcan and not refilling the bathroom soap they usually bathe with. The customers also complain about the managers, who complain to me about the JBCs for complaining too much. The managers also complain about the customers when the JBCs aren't complaining about the clerks, the clerks to me about other clerks, and customers about me to my face. The circle does travel behind my back as well, as evidenced by the abrupt ends of conversations and awkward looks I receive when I get back from my break. Finally, I complain about all of the above to you, here, on this blog, as well as complain to my clerks, managers, JBCs and customers about the customers, JBCs, managers, and clerks. I also throw in complaints about the Knicks, girls, capitalism and Greek food. So it's not really a circle of complaints but more of a round squiggle you draw over and over and over on your counter while everyone complains to you about everyone else. I need new pens.

We're a frustrated society and when you put frustrated, bored co-workers in a small room filled with a crowd of frustrated, losing gamblers... complaints are gonna be there. Sometimes, though, they just make good conversation and pass the time, so I don't resent the Circle. After all, it's what separates us from the animals. And, the plants, I guess, because they also do not complain.

Ghost

2008-08-04T01:34:00.004-04:00

Ghost is one of the good ones. One of the great ones. If all customers were as nice as him, the job would be so much easier and so less interesting.

To be honest, I have no idea how he got his nickname. I've asked a few times, gotten unsatisfactory answers that I don't remember, and then went back to my crossword puzzle. How best to describe Ghost? Hm. Well, do you remember the guy from the rooftop in Blade Runner? No, not that guy, the other one, the Chinese one. Yeah, him. Ghost looks exactly like that creepy Chinese guy from Blade Runner. Only all in denim. Denim jeans, denim jacket, very tight fitting.

Random Ghost fact: on my first day ever out of training, he gave me my first and only tip for the day--ten bucks--which spoiled me and made me think most customers would tip me ten dollars at least once a day. Later that week I saw him on the R train and avoided eye contact.

Ghost is ridiculously friendly, always chatting and making jokes in his Broken English. He never gets upset, even when he loses or you screw up his bet. He's not perfect though--no customers ever are or ever will be. He usually waits 'til the race is about to go off and the horses are in the gate before he bets. You'll hear him coming because he runs across the branch, stomping hard like he's playing red-light-green-light. He'll stop short in front of your window and then shoots partial wheels (partial wheels are complicated bets involving many horses and potential race outcomes) at a rapid-fire rate in his Broken English. Usually I get it in time and he jumps up or pretends to faint or something ridiculous. Sometimes I don't and he does the exact same motions. My point is, since he is one of the good ones, and I like him, it's more pressure for me because I honestly don't want to disappoint him and screw up his bet or shut him out. I'm more emotionally invested in the transaction than I would be with some stranger. Or some dickwad regular. So it's tricky. Not really, but still.

Another con is the guy loves Sudokus, which are on the same page as the Metro Crossword. I usually do both. But when he sees me reading the paper, he asks if he can have the Sudoku and I reluctantly give it to him, indirectly including the crossword, and leaving me without post-newspaper entertainment... but I do it, because he's Ghost. Although sometimes I lie and hide it but only when I'm really bored. "No Metro?!" he'll exclaim. "No Metro," I'll reply. Sorry, Ghost.

Tin Can Louie

2008-07-12T00:15:00.006-04:00

This is and will most likely remain my classiest story to date, so it only makes sense that I use British English spelling rather than American if I want to do the post justice. So here now is the not-so-humourous tale of how Louie got his nickname 'Tin Can Louie':

Decades ago, in the centre of Staten Island, Willowbrook State School was built to house a couple thousand mentally retarded people. The officials and employees treated these retards awfully, overcrowding them, sexually abusing them, and kicking their arses. These offenses continued until 1972 when Geraldo Rivera came to the mentally ill's defense. Once the world saw the unfavourable behaviour occuring at Willowbrook, it only took another fifteen years before the place was shut down.

The government wasn't sure what to do with all these now-homeless challenged people so it offered money to any locals who would take them in--like foster parents. While some genuinely wanted to help these mistreated citizens, others wanted those government checks. In many instances, the government would give monthly checks to families who would house these retards but just minimally enough to keep the money. At eight AM they'd kick the retards out into the neighbourhood, give them two bucks for lunch, and wouldn't let them back in until eight PM. They wanted to see them as little as possible, and would spend as little of that government money on them as possible. Bloody hell.

So what would these retarded refugees do during the day? Obviously, that's where OTB comes in. No cover charge, heating and/or air conditioning, a dozen TVs, and plenty of people to talk to. These guys barely knew what horse racing was, but they quickly learned, or pretended to learn. A few of the customers with consciences gave these Willowbrooks a buck or two to bet. A lot of OTB employees would do the same, or have the Willowbrooks get them a coffee with a five-dollar bill and let them keep the change. But this wasn't enough to sustain them all day every day. This is where the story gets its class:

One of the Willowbrook refugees was a thirty or forty something woman with the mind of a seven year old. She loved to watch the ponies, and like anyone else, got an even bigger thrill seeing a race when she had a few bucks riding on it. The problem was, of course, where to get the bucks to ride. It didn't take long for her to learn that she could get the bucks by letting guys ride her, and so she and a random customer would walk a few metres to the parking lot and bump nasties for a few George Washingtons and the occasional Abraham Lincoln. She earned quite a few shillings this way--like many Willowbrook patients, she had most of her front teeth removed so she couldn't bite the orderlies, and this was an obvious plus to customers looking to use her mouth for other purposes. So to review, customers from our branch would take turns shagging Willow in their respective autos or in the loo--knowing full well she had the mind of a child--give her a few bucks, she'd come back in, make a few bets (or sometimes use the money for food or medicine), then go out with another customer to make a few more bucks so she could bet another race. Eventually, her foster caretakers would allow her back in the house where she'd get some sleep and come back to OTB when she's kicked out the next morning.

Oh, right, Tin Can Louie. Yeah, so Louie was one of our customers and was pretty broke himself so one time he paid Willow for a blowjob with a bag of soda cans from the trash. You know, so she could go to the supermarket next door and claim the 5 cent deposits and make her money.

And that's how Louie got that honourable nickname.

Unhappy Meals

2008-06-25T00:17:00.002-04:00

Maybe because they try to put OTBs in commercial areas, but there's always a ton of fast food joints around us. Especially Subways. Is it because there's Subways everywhere anyway, or is it some vast backdoor conspiracy between the New York Gaming Commission and Jared Fogel? (It's because there's Subways everywhere anyway.) However, Subway is more of a solo eating experience than a family one, as opposed to the more traditional fast food eateries--McDonalds, Burger King, etc. So Subway doesn't really apply to the trend I've noticed among certain OTB patrons:

A lot of customers come and bet when they get off work rather than going straight home. Every once in a while I'll notice a customer with a very large bag of fast food--he's picked up dinner for his family. Rather than go straight home to his hungry children and tired housewife, he stops by and makes a few bets. And by a few bets I mean many bets and by stops by I mean hangs out. And I just watch these Dinner Dads gambling and losing, that greasy bag dangling from their hands, sometimes squeezed under their arms while they wrangle with their wallet and their tickets and their racing forms. And I watch them, and I pity them, and I feel bad for their hungry children wondering why it's taking Daddy so long to pick up some damn Big Macs.

It just amazes me. One of the primary duties of being a father is putting food on the table, and these guys are putting food in front of my window instead. And that's doubly annoying. If I'm hungry, I've got to smell that sweet, sweet vegetable oil they cook the fries in and it makes me even hungrier. If I'm full, I've got to smell that disgusting "vegetable oil" they saturate the fries in and it makes me want to throw up.

And that food's not going anywhere. If Dinner Dad loses, he's gotta keep playing til he wins his money back. If he wins, he can't leave in the middle of a hot streak, that'd be ridiculous. So the hot streak continues while the nuggets get cold. When Dad finally does get home, there might not be much left, considering how many fries he's picked away at while waiting for post time and how many snack wraps he's sold to other customers. It's not cute like those commercials where Dad ate the fries on the way home. It's sad like those commercials where Dad stopped to gamble for two hours, and those commercials don't even exist because it's a ridiculous scenario that you wouldn't think actually occurs. Sorry, kids.

I wish this was the only example of how gambling conflicts with good parenting. More examples to come.

P.S. There was this customer at work tonight who had this windblazer that was devoted to cats. It wasn't a sports or franchise or brand name--it just said CATS in a small, simple font over the right breast with a blob representing what I can only assume was a cat. I guess that's better than the Chinese guy with the cap that says SAN DIEGO CHARGES. The R isn't missing, the word 'CHARGES' fits perfectly above the rim. I know bootleg clothes are cheaper and I don't wanna pay a lot for brand names either, but come on, the Chargers? This is New York. At least find a bootleg GINTS or ANKEES hat.

State of the Union

2008-06-17T14:45:00.002-04:00

In case you haven't heard, OTB was about to be closed but then wasn't. The politics and mechanisms behind all this is kind of complicated, so I'm not really going to go into it. Instead, I'm posting a letter I wrote to newspaper editors that was (not surprisingly) never published. It was written a couple days before we knew our fate and I've left it unedited:

You’ve probably skipped or skimmed any recent articles about the New York City Off-Track Betting Corporation (NYC OTB), the horse-racing gambling institution with branches all over the city. I probably would’ve too if I hadn’t been working at OTB for over two years now. The company is set to close after Sunday, June 15, and its 1500 employees—myself included—will be out of a job. For you skippers and skimmers, here’s a quick rundown of the situation: people come to bet on horse races occurring throughout the day all over the world from one location—an OTB branch. Like any gambling institution, the company makes hundreds of millions of dollars a year. However, these profits are shared between the state and local governments as well as NYRA, the New York Racing Association. The formula in place takes the gross earnings for the year rather than our actual net profit, leaving the company with less and less every year until this year, where we finally are giving out more than we make, putting us in the red. Mayor Bloomberg, with good reason, refuses to bail us out with taxpayers’ money, and so next week you’ll have to drive to the track if you want to place a bet.

Here’s why we should stay open: OTB was created almost forty years ago to reduce the influence of illegal bookies and organized crime and it’s done a pretty decent job of that. As soon as we close, those bookies are going to return immediately. People aren’t going to stop gambling just because the government isn’t allowing it anymore. Keeping OTB open would prevent an uprise in broken thumbs and bullet-ridden kneecaps. And with the failing economy and rising food, electric, water and gas costs, the government should be doing all it can to prevent 1500 New Yorkers from losing their jobs. Even a small ripple effect can do a lot of damage these days.

Here’s how we fix this: First, just to keep us open, State legislators and Union leaders are pushing to restructure the formula: let the governments take percentages of our net profit, not our gross gains. In the long term, all Statewide OTBs should be consolidated into a single agency and merged with NYRA to increase efficiency. Finally, Lotto machines should be included in the branches to broaden our customer base and increase the productivity of the company.

It’s hard for people to sympathize with a gambling institution, especially since most people don’t know anybody who works at one. But, especially these days, when anyone loses their job when they don’t need to, efforts should be made to prevent it.

Jack Picone
jackpicone@gmail.com

The State did eventually take us over, but it'll be a few months before we see any changes and what this means for the company. Everyone got to keep their jobs, which is very nice, and I'll still be in daily contact with the homeless degenerates I love to write about so much. Unless the State decides to fire me. Please don't fire me, State.

Sleeper

2008-05-30T18:02:00.003-04:00

I hate Sleeper. He's a middle-aged-going-on-senior homeless man who sleeps in people's doorways and under cars and stuff. One time in the deli across the street I opened the fridge to take out a Vitamin Water and I saw him sleeping on the other side. I got nothing against homeless people--in fact I'm pretty passionate about the issue--but this guy's just a dickwad. Home or no home.

He's been kicked out of the branch by security like a dozen times. There's a No-Trespass order on him. He harasses customers and employees. But he won't go away. I think he's trying to get arrested. Jail's no different than sleeping in the stairwell only it's got better food and some company.

He usually makes bets for other customers too lazy to walk the ten feet to my window. They pay him a few bucks out of their winnings. He steals my tips when they ask him to tip me, but I don't say anything because it's weird asking a guy to tip you. Damn Sleeper. Also, he steals from them when he gets the chance. He's always asking me for quarters, too. That's annoying.
There's a lot of customers I get along with and a lot I don't. A lot of the ones I don't usually have some redeeming qualities. Not Sleeper, though, he's just a homeless dickwad and he makes the job that much more miserable.

You may ask why we put up with customers like this, especially the ones who aren't legally supposed to be there. It's not for their patronage--in Sleeper's case we're much better off without him. But I learned early on it's easier to just take their bets and their money in the ten seconds it takes than to argue with them for ten minutes and then listen to them curse you out for the rest of the shift. It's not exactly turning the other cheek--it's more, rolling your eyes and then taking your frustrations out on a blog nobody reads.

P.S. Late last night I saw a customer picking his nose--really going at it, like up to the knuckle. Later on, when someone asked him how he always wins so much, he said it was luck. "I can't pick horses. I can't even pick my nose." I hope you appreciate the irony as much as I did.

So you want to bet at OTB...

2008-05-27T15:44:00.004-04:00

The Belmont Stakes is coming up (Saturday, June 7) and Big Brown could become the first Triple Crown winner in decades, so horse racing has been thrust in the spotlight even more so than the usual May. The Triple Crown (the Kentucky Derby, the Preekness and the Belmont Stakes) and to a lesser extent October's Breeders' Cup are the biggest races in the sport and they bring in hundreds of millions in bets. A lot of these bets, if not most, are from normal people like you and me, people who can't even be called casual bettors.

The one thing I don't wanna do with this blog is scare anyone away from coming to an OTB. In fact, I recommend it. Like I've said earlier, it's a human safari and there's an interesting culture to be observed. And while I wouldn't recommend getting out of the car and kicking a lion in the sack, I would recommend participating in this culture, even if just once. So this is for anyone thinking about going and betting the Belmont Stakes, and for anyone who isn't and should be.

And they can seem scary. Anything unfamiliar can really, but it doesn't help that there's outbursts of screaming and cursing and more angry Asians than the climax of The Deer Hunter. Usually it's more subdued, a constant rumbling of under-the-breath swears, kind of like putting all those angry pedestrians from Grand Theft Auto into one small room. And if you come on Derby day it's gonna be a lot more crowded than usual, with the regulars getting frustrated at the long lines. If you've got a regular behind you, he's going to sigh audibly, turn around and roll his eyes at whoever is paying attention to him (no one), sigh again but this time more of a grunt, and finally go 'Oh come on!' or 'We gonna bet here or what?' Ignore this. While the company sucks up to and wants to please these regulars for their constant income, you casual bettors give us most of our profit. Plus, he's just a lonely asshole and there's probably three hours to the big race anyway. He's not your problem, and don't let him deter you from betting.

And when I say betting, I mean like five bucks. Twenty most. Don't go crazy. You don't know what you're doing, first of all. Horse racing is one of the hardest things to gamble on--despite those carefully crafted odds, it's a crapshoot and you're probably not going to win much, especially in the long run. The thrill isn't winning it's hoping you're going to win in that intense two minutes of racing (that's why the sport has lasted so long--imagine compacting all the thrills of the Super Bowl into 100 seconds.) Some of you will stay after the race and bet a few more. Usually you're the winners of the big race and you think you're an undiscovered prodigy and are about to win thousands more. Usually you lose everything you won and then some and then go back to doing whatever you usually do on Saturday night.

Don't be afraid of us, the clerks, either. Derby days are exciting for us. We like to dress a little nicer than usual and we bring in big sandwiches and lasagna. It's refreshing to see new faces and new customers who don't hate us yet, and it's fun to talk down to you and feel special that we know so much more about something (anything) than you do. So usually we'll be on our best behavior, and very nice and helpful (despite it being one of the most intense and stressful work days for us.) It may seem a little complicated--all the different bets and combinations--but it's really pretty simple and you'd get the hang of it if you did it more than one afternoon. But we will walk you through it and make sure you get what you want and lose the way you're supposed to. Just don't come to the window and say "This is my first time." It's annoying. We know it is, we can see you coming a mile away. And I know you're just saying it so we don't think you're an idiot, but you all say it, every single one of you, to the point where my eye twitches when I hear you say it. Don't say it. It's been a long day.

Oh, and don't ask how much the bets come to. This is an interesting phenomenon. In almost every other commercial transaction, the customer will see how much they owe on the register screen, but the clerk will say it out loud anyway. Maybe because we have to do it a thousand times a shift, we don't do it. The register tells you how much you owe, but we never tell you out loud. The regulars know this and just look at the screen and pay (usually they've calculated it in their heads already.) But most new customers will just stare at me with a blank face, a twenty or a hundred dollar bill in their hand. It takes me a few seconds to realize this isn't a contest. You're waiting for me to tell you how much. It's right there on the screen, just read it. It's been a long day.

'Celebrities'

2008-05-14T15:27:00.003-04:00

Work at an OTB long enough and eventually someone there's gonna mention one of the celebrities who bets at their window. Usually within the first two to three minutes of working at an OTB, actually. Then after about two to three seconds of conversation, you're disappointed by how your co-worker defines 'celebrity.'

Sure, a few A-listers have graced us with their presence but for the most part they'd rather go to the tracks themselves in a private box with champagne and gold-plated binoculars. I apologize if I've gotten carried away.

But the celebrities who are regulars at NYC's branches aren't typically as high-profile. We've got a few supporting Sopranos castmembers, a legendary stand-up from the Chappelle show, a famous and controversial sometimes-Hollywood-writer-director, and more stand-ups but this time Jews from the Catskills. I haven't met all of them, but from what I've gathered, most of them are dicks. Maybe not the Black comic--he might just be racist--he seems to be a gentlemen to the women of his own race and just a dick to me, but I guess that's okay considering what the men and women of my own race have done. But generally speaking, their assholes. Which isn't surprising--they're just regular people, who love horse-racing like Ben Affleck loves baseball and Spike Lee loves basketball, and as we've established most horse-racing fans are assholes. So it really has nothing to do with their professions.

I'm exaggerating a little, but just a little. However, it's our reactions that are more interesting. The employees' that is. They may not be A-list but they're still more famous than we are, and they're all we've got until the ghost of Seabiscuit walks through the double doors. One guy I know keeps one of the actor's account information taped on the inside of his window--just there to look at, like an autograph. His account information. And it doesn't even say his name, it says his character's name. I guess thats slightly less creepy than a lock of hair. Or slightly more.

Even I've locked up. When I come across some of these fantastic and renowned writers, I'd love to talk shop with them and tell them I've won awards and ask for advice. But they don't want to be bothered, they just wanna get their bets in before post time. At least that's what I tell myself. It's probably more my fault I can't treat them like a typical customer (i.e: like crap.) At least I don't memorize their account information, though, right? Right?

Maybe in the long run it's because they're special, even if only by a little, and by coming to where we work and using us to get what they want, that makes us feel a little special. And when you work a mundane city job day in and day out and deal with customers and a general public who don't appreciate you and even look down on you, it's nice to feel special once in a while.

The Good Ones

2008-05-08T15:52:00.003-04:00

We don't hate all the customers. There's a lot of decent people who just have gambling problems. (Just kidding of course, every ticket has a number for Gamblers' Anonymous on it just in case they realize how they've ruined their lives mid-race.) Instead of playing the Lotto everyday, they do this.

Decent is the word, here. Not normal. I don't think you can be normal and stay in an OTB parlor for more than a few minutes. Just like I don't think you can be normal and work at an OTB parlor for more than a few minutes. It's like being an astronaut, only less glamorous. No normal person is gonna shoot himself into the dark unknown at thousands of miles per hour. No normal person is going to sit at a window all day while being cursed at, spat on, cursed at in Spanish and spat on again.

Here's a couple of the good ones:

Well, good relatively. He's a nice enough guy, I think he's a cop but don't quote me on that. Very nice to me and some of my co-workers. Asks politely, tips, doesn't get mad if you screw up a bet. But the man hates Chinese people. In New York, but especially in my district of Brooklyn and downtown Manhattan, a lot of the OTB family is Chinese. Customers and employees. So this guy stands out. While this maybe-cop is decent enough to me and the Jew employees and the Puerto Ricans, he's a total asshole to the Chinese guys. Curses at them, yells at them, blames them for losing. Jury's still out on how he treats Black employees.

Another decent customer I met early on in my career. He came up to the window and was very quiet and soft-spoken. Rare in the OTB. "Hey, how's it going, friend? Yeah, that's good, that's good. Say, could I get a five dollar exacta on the 4 2? Thanks a lot, man, really appreciate it." He'd walk off to watch the race on one of our many flatscreen TVs. I'm thinking, if only all the customers could be like that. The race starts. Suddenly, I hear, from the very same guy, "Come on you motherf***ers!!! Ride that sh**! Ride that sh**! Your mother's a hairy cu**! Ride that motherf***king sh** you c**ksucker!!!!!!!!
What can I say? People love this sport.

The third guy was a young, pleasant Black businessman by the World Trade Center. Never cursed, never yelled. But one time his penis was hanging out of his fly. The whole thing. For like a half hour. He must've known, felt a draft or something. So there's decent guy number three, with his junk for all the world to see.

Mumbles

2008-05-06T15:19:00.003-04:00

Mumbles is one of the customers from Brooklyn. He's in his fifties or sixties. I mean, he could be in his forties or thirties, with alcohol aging him an extra decade or two, but I doubt it. Though, I wouldn't be surprised. Mumbles falls into a small but significant category of bettors--the drunks.

As in the man is always drunk. Daytime, nightime. Sundays, whatever. Pissed drunk. I'm not sure if his distinct way of incoherent speech is reinforced by a disease or stroke or lisp or whatever but I definitely know the drinking is a huge part of it.

Can't understand a word he says. He's always mumbling and he's always shaking. Can't call him Shaker though, that's someone else. So he's Mumbles. And I never know what the hell he is betting.

He is an angry drunk, as well. Not the 'I love you, man' variety. More like the 'I hate you man, and I'm going to kill you, and sue your company.' Literally. The last few weeks now he's been telling me and the other clerks to expect subpoenas anytime soon. His lawsuit? He's suing the company for calling security and ejecting him from the branch. He was ejected because he was, that's right, drunk, and the disorderly that usually goes with it. We're not holding our breaths for the subpoenas. If we're holding our breaths at all, it's because that smell of whiskey is getting to us.

Once I had just punched in and was counting my money to start the night shift. He flipped out on me because I couldn't take his bet, saying I was too lazy to work. This was like five seconds into starting my shift. The rest of the night, he stood on the other side of the glass, cursing me out and screaming at me and telling the other customers, over and over again, that I was a 'communist' and a 'disgrace to this country.' He really let me have it. For four hours. Didn't let up for even a bit.

The next day we were fine, he even tipped me a few bucks. You'll see that this is a recurring theme in the customer-employee relationship. Instant forgiveness. Though in Mumbles' case, the brain cells in charge of remembering that Monday probably didn't make it to Tuesday. But for the rest, they forgive out of necessity.

The customers aren't just the lifeblood of the corporation-- they're the lifeblood of the culture. But maybe more poignant is this relationship between the customers and us, the employees. In many ways, it's like an unhappy marriage. The hostility between us is thick. There is passive-aggressiveness, and aggressive-aggressiveness. There is constant bickering, frequent arguing, and occasional fighting. There is accusations of communism. But at the end of the day, we're still there for each other. We need their money. They need us to push the buttons on the machine.

Introduction

2008-05-06T03:34:00.001-04:00

First things first: I've never really read a blog before let alone write one, please excuse any crudeness in my evolving style. And I don't need to be condescending or elitist there--I've never read blogs for a specific reason. I find individual lives extremely interesting, and with my addictive nature my life would be consumed with absorbing as many personal rants, anecdotes and musings as I could until my eyes dried out and my pixels burned out. This... fascination... with individual lives is why I took so unexpectedly to my job--not my addictive nature, though that's another story. As a writer, and just as an observer of the human condition, the OTB is a school like no other.

What is Off-Track Betting? Everyday there are literally hundreds of horse races going off all over the globe, and every race is being bet on. You could go to the track and pick a winner and make some scratch, but that's one track, and it's usually a drive out. The OTB is exactly what it says-- a location where you can make some bets and watch the races on TV. They're everywhere, and not all affiliated.

What do I do at the OTB? I take your bets, punching them into a computer and handing you a ticket just like I would with a lottery machine. I work for the New York City Off-Track Betting Corporation. I'm what they call a Per Diem (Latin: by the day.) I fill in for people on vacation or calling in sick, hopping shift to shift, branch to branch, across the five boroughs. However, I usually keep within Brooklyn and downtown Manhattan.

I've been there just over two years though to most of my co-workers I'm a rookie. Most of them have been there since the 80s if not the 70s. It says something about this job that people are so reluctant to retire.

This blog has one main purpose and that is offer a window inside a culture that, although right out in the open, is pretty much in the shadows. Most people don't dare step into an OTB parlor, and they don't know what they're missing. It's a regular human safari. Usually, more like a zoo.

I got a notice in the mail today, informing me that in six weeks the NYC OTB will be shut down and me and my fifteen hundred co-workers will be laid off. The reasons and politics behind this are complicated and eventually I will touch on them, but this isn't about that. It's about the days past, not the dark ones coming. To show you something you probably wouldn't have seen otherwise. Isn't that what most blogs, what most writing in general is for? I'd like to give my fellow co-workers as well as my loyal and diverse customers a voice. Even if not one person reads this (the OTB co-workers and loyal and diverse customers not being a Blog demographic) I will feel better knowing these words exist somewhere, even if hidden deep within the intangible regions of the world wide web.

One final note: if you know me, my defense of such an institution might be contrary to my passionate ideals and convictions. But what is life if not a serious of contradictions?

Welcome to my job, and right now my life. It's pretty off-track, and I hope that's what makes it interesting.