OFF TRACK

Timing is everything.

Hank Hawkins glanced upward as the fluorescent tubing flickered and buzzed, instant darkness flourishing for a few seconds before light again brightened the spot where he sat.  His shorts, the long-inseam jobs that fell below his knees, were draped atop his deck shoes, cotton folds of khaki cloth resting around his ankles as though taking a nap.  Sweat beads stood tall on his forehead, matching the pools on his forearms.  The lower back of his midnight blue T-shirt clung to his body like Velcro.   Every few seconds he tugged the back of his shirt away from his skin but the shirt had a mind of its own and immediately returned to the clinging action. Under each of his arms, a wide circle of darker midnight blue was spreading like spilled milk broadcasting to anyone within range that the milk was spoiled. 

For the previous two minutes his breath had exploded in short heavy spurts, but his breathing was steadier now, finally settling down.  He was thankful no one had walked into the men’s room smelling the frightening mess caused, he thought, by two fish tacos he had gulped down at Jose’s Taco Bar about thirty minutes earlier.  When he had chomped down on his first taco, the taste hit him with surprise, the mahi-mahi having the flavor and texture of something he had never tasted before.  But damn, he was starving so he chomped down again.  Couple minutes later he was done and out the door, back in his Jeep Wrangler. Couple minutes after that, the first rumblings started in his gut urging him to find a restroom.  Luckily the Route 17 exit off I-64 was just ahead putting  him seconds away from the Colonial Downs off track betting facility on Military Highway, a spot he knew intimately, having spent many a day and night there playing the ponies with his buddy, Soupy Jefferson.  He had rushed in, thrown down his dollar, and made a beeline to the non-smoking john just inside, off to the left.

            He flushed then shook his head and sucked in a slow deep breath, still sitting, praying that another stomach attack wouldn’t gurgle forth.  No way was he getting up, not yet. He’d bide his time for a few more minutes, make sure.  Sitting there bored, he read the various messages scratched on the inside of the stall door, chuckling at some and shaking his head at others.  Nasty didn’t begin to describe the crudeness.  Vulgar was what it was, plain and simple.

Hank swept the back of his right hand across his brow, tossing sweat into the air as the sounds of race calls seeped through the walls from the main floor.  Voices were bellowing, guys and gals screaming in support of horses and jockeys who couldn’t hear a word they shouted.  He wasn’t out there in the big room screaming for a horse he had dropped two bucks on, but he could feel the action, the excitement.

The light sputtered again, went out, darkness now hovering over him in the one- stall men’s room.  But he could still see, the fluorescents on the other side of the door casting brightness where a short and a tall urinal along with one sink awaited customers. 

            He sucked in a deep breath and decided it was finally safe to get up, but when he heard two male voices walk in, he didn’t give away his position.  He sat and waited, the darkness hiding him from the visitors.  It made no difference to him who was behind the voices but he leaned forward and, for some unknown reason, peeped through the crack between the door and the side of the stall.  He recognized one of the guys, Ron Moran, the athletic director of Chickahominy College, a school whose campus stood just minutes from his house and down the road from the Colonial Downs track in New Kent County.  He’d never seen the other guy but he was a big sucker, about two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe six four, ball-headed, and mean-looking as a shark.  Moran had him by the shirt, dragging his butt through the door.

Moran said, glancing at the stall door, “Damn, something crawled up somebody’s ass and died.”