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.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Fourth
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.
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.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Bad Day
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.
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.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
REPRINT: So you want to bet at OTB...
[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.
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.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Punch-Out Plug
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
http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=299
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Madden Retires
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
http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=298:madden-retires&catid=44:player-news&Itemid=109
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Staten Island
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.
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.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Synergy (i.e. Shameless Plug)
The latest from my sketch group, Pete & the Peters:
http://www.funnyordie.com/peters/playlists/287931
http://www.funnyordie.com/peters/playlists/287931
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Dirty Squirrel vs. Fake Guard Lady
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.
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.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Sports on a Stick Post
I got a new featured article, found here:
http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=282
Checks it out.
http://www.sportsonastick.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=282
Checks it out.
Monday, March 2, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
No, Man
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.
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.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Second Shameless Plug
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.
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.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Shameless Plug
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.
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.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Year of the Ox
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.
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.
Monday, January 12, 2009
George His Mother Is 84 Years Old
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.
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.
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