A Bluegrass Homecoming (pt. 2)

"The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
Because here they come"

-Florance and The Machine, Dog Days Are Over




The house was empty when I came to. Awaking from my stupor I had the feeling that I was late for something. Late indeed. I'd over slept and missed my ride to Keeneland. Great. Once again I was on my own. Cursing myself for being such an idiot I got up, went to the bathroom and took a long look in the mirror.

My hair was a mess, sticking up in back. The rest was a bed head mash of half-ass curls. My breath tasted like sour onions. I smelled like an ashtray soaked in beer. And people say drinking isn't glamorous. While brushing my teeth I went over my options. Pregaming solo, hoping to run into someone I knew or plan B. Trying to make nice and crash a total strangers tailgate. Either way I would end up looking pathetic and lonely. Thankfully I heard the back door open and close so someone was still around. I stuck my head underneath the faucet and took a long drink. Brian and his girlfriend Stephanie greeted me in the kitchen.

"Well, well. Good morning fella or should I say good afternoon," he said grinning. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the air mattress this mourning. You look like death."

"Funny. I feel like I'm dying," I said. "Why didn't you leave with the others?"

"Those crazy sons of bitches got up at 8 a.m. We wanted to sleep in. Grab a quickie before we headed out, know what I mean?" he said winking at Steph. She offered a brief, sly smile and looked away. "Better to do it with no one around. Your passed out ass didn't count."

We each took our turn showering and primping. As I've already said, things are different in The South. Everyone and every event is a little bit more formal. At least until people get a few adult beverages down. A true Southern Gentlemen wears dress shirts, ties, even suites to Keeneland. The extra fratty wear Croakies (elastic sunglass straps) and J. Crew dress pants with mini lobsters/Hula Girls/Palm Tress monogrammed all over. Too chachy for my taste. Slacks, good shoes and a nice polo are bear minimum. The three of us were all dressed to the hilt. In our Sunday best for a chance to sin at the race track.

Now I know what most of you are thinking. Who the hell wants to dress up if they don't have to? Normally I'd agree. Anything other then a wedding or job interview I'm probably wearing jeans but there's a nice suite that lives a hermit's life in my closet; he never gets out. Let's face it, almost everyone looks better in formal cloths anyway. Like we're all really adults or something. Passing as upstanding members of civilized society and such. I'm not one to break tradition either, so when in Rome. Besides, no one wants to be the one asshole in the group who is totally under-dressed.

There was only one way to deciding who would drive. Roshambo. One chance, for all the money. Damn! I was the wheelman. We climbed into the truck and huffed an adderall each to kick the hang over blues. When used recreationally it is basically a poor man's cocaine. Similar high (although not nearly as intense) with less of the down. It had us feeling fresh and energized. After a quick stop for supplies we were in the precession of cars waiting to get in.

Much to our displeasure they had closed off our old fraternity tailgate to paying visitors. This caused our group to be scattered all over creation in the free parking. It was past one o'clock so they were already inside the gates anyway. By some amazing stroke of luck a security guard waved us into paid parking without charge. We were a 100 yards from the entrance to the track as opposed to several miles. The three of us weren't asking any questions. I eased the massive ass end of the F150 into a spot and we got down to business.

After polishing off a 12-pack of Bud Lights, a pint of vodka Redbulls and a few bowl packs it was time to head in to the track. Just past the turnstiles was the Paddock where they parade the soon to be racing thoroughbreds for betters to inspect. Stable boys, usually of Hispanic decent, lead the half ton beast around the ring. All muscle, sharp angles and fragile legs. Being so close, watching every fiber tighten with the delicate but deliberate steps, I'm always struck by how powerful these creatures really are. If it had the mind to it could toss the stable boy like a rag doll, jump the fence and bowl its way through the crowd. No one could stop it without the help of a firearm. Thankfully none of the horses I saw felt that itch.

The inside of the grand stand is a people watcher's dream that spans the gamut of economic social classes. On one hand you have the filthy rich. The old money. Horse owners/breeders. High roller handicappers. Movers and shakers in the world of racing. All reaping mass profits in the horse capital of the world (Lexington, KY). It's easy to identify these people. They wear freshly pressed Brooks Brothers suites and bow ties imported from Paris. One of their ensembles is worth more then my entire wardrobe. Walking, talking, Cuban cigar smoking decadents. They enjoy heavy starch on their immaculate white collars.

On the other hand you have the broke. The downtrodden. Life time losers. Degenerate gamblers searching the ground or trash for a misplaced winning ticket. Their uniforms are less obvious. Of course some come in crummy cloths, unkempt, looking the part but don't make the mistake of lumping lower level horse people into the same group. They're dirty from working the grounds, training the animals, not by choice. They're usually trying to use their "inside knowledge" to gain a slight edge. Others still pass as the elite. Spending what little they have keeping up apprentices. Fooling people into thinking they're big shots. An untrained eye thinks these schmucks (who are the worst of the whole lot if you ask me) are actually the upper class. However upon closer inspection you can point them out. They're usually the ones bragging about their hot tip or the big bet they just won. Real winners don't share tips. It hurts their odds. They also rarely tell anyone they're up big. Anyone who has a wad of the houses money doesn't want anyone to know they're carrying it.

The rest of us are somewhere in-between. At the track to spend a little money and have fun betting on a sport no one can truly grasp. Every time I'm there I overhear conversations about so and so's horse likes running on the grass. The number three horse likes the rail or only wins on Sundays. All bullshit really. If you asked the creature yourself and it could talk it'd probably just ask for a carrot or more hay, possibly a hot young Philly. They don't give a damn whether you win or lose. The true champions probably know it's a race but the rest are clueless.

I got in line for the best Bloodymary in town while Brian took a moment to inspect the race forum. He was a decent handicapper, growing up in Louisville, home of the Kentucky Derby. After he mumbled some gibberish about "boxing" this and "exactaing" that I made a bet that was a smaller mutation of his. Basically I picked three horses for $12. They could finish in any order so long as they were the top three. Of course one of the fuckers got fourth, just my luck. Back to the bar.

Brain placed another bet and ended the day up $50. The kid almost always walks away with some of Keeneland's money. It helps to be from down the road as apposed to being from out of state. No one talks horses where I'm from. We were just about to call it a day when I casually looked at the line-up for the next race. The number seven horse caught my eye. He was a three year old named Bonnaroo. Just what a closet hippie and Roo veteran needed to see. I asked Stephanie to hold my drink and I placed my $10 bet on the number seven horse to win (at 3-1). The bugle called them to post. One by one they were loaded into the starting gate. The bell rang. The gates opened and they were off! A stampede of hoofs and pure fluid muscle in motion. He lead wire to wire. My adrenalin spiked as they came into the the home stretch. I hooped and hollered with the crowd, urging, willing my pony to the finish. The beautiful bastard made me $30 richer. Damn it felt good to win.

After recouping my previous loss and covering my tab, I was more than satisfied. Any day at the track is a good day but a winner is a winner! Bragging rights account for a lot and I had a sufficient drinking story for the next month. We cashed in our winnings and walked back to the truck still buzzed on a natural high from our respective pay days.

**************************************************

Everyone rendezvous at Hojo's place and made plans for the evening. Some had tickets to the game, some didn't but everyone wanted to head back towards campus. Brian, Steph, Devin and I decided to grab a bite and pints at Pazzos which was just how I remembered it. Great pizza, cold beer and terrible service. We sat for thirty minutes before we even got a drink. Some people we knew were already seated. We decided to join brother James group. He had his entire clan in from Cincinnati. Sisters, brothers, mom, dad and everyone's significant other. Brian came back form the bathroom to find our party of four had swelled to twenty. There was some confusion about where we should sit but in the end we got free pie out of the deal, so we sucked it up.

Bellies full, we were all ready for the second tailgate of the day. Students call it the double-dip; all-day at Keeneland followed by kicking of your night at Commonwealth Stadium. There is no doubt UK is a basketball school but seeing the sea of blue along Alumni Drive one had to wonder if the tide was turning in favor of football. Standard "C-A-T-S" cheers reverberated through out the stadium parking lot. I saw a more daring group beer bonging bourbon. We talked with friends and I ran into some old coworkers. Token "how ya been?" conversations began to make my head spin but thank God we were on a tight schedule. I'd scored Devin's extra ticket and lucky for us his brother is a local big wig so the seats were amazing. Right on the fifty yard-line, about six rows up, behind the home team. We left our friends and headed out to get the tickets.

"Just don't embarrass me," Devin's brother said after giving us the goods. We were feeling quite drunk after some pulls on a Makers bottle and apparently it showed. "Some of my bosses will be sitting right next to you guys."

Pot always seems to level out my drunk. A quick one hitter and all was right in the world. Unless of course I'm too far gone. Then I enjoy cold sweats, the spins and ultimately my face in the toilet bowl. I try not to think about it. Without incident we filed through security and stumbled to our seats. They were almost too good. We were so close it was difficult to see over the freakishly tall players. It was the closest I had ever been to a game during the heat of battle. We'll battle might be generous to Kentucky. Georgia was doing all the fighting. They handed us a 28-10 beat down by half time. So much for home coming. Too disgusted to stay we left before the third quarter. They'd make it respectable by the end but barely. Basketballs supremacy would reign in Lexington for the foreseeable future.

Before kickoff we had all agreed to meet at the only bar everyone HAS to go to when in from out of town; World Famous Two Keys Tavern. If my time spent blacking out in college could be quantified in one place this would be it. If I could tabulate how much money I'd spent there chasing the dream I'd probably cry. Other then some renovations, the atmosphere was exactly the same. A clusterfuck of coeds begging for booze, taking up every square inch of space inside and out. The girls were all blond bouffant beauties, younger then I remembered or I was just older. More of the latter I'm sure.

Devin and I packed ourselves in where we could and pounded shots. I went out for a smoke and that was the last time I saw him. Some shitty cover band was blaring so loud inside I couldn't hear people talking right next to me outside. I was bumping into someone every three seconds, spilling my whiskey and coke in the process. Staying there was pure madness. A total waste of time. I saw a group of my people making their way out so I followed suit.

There were about ten of us heading downtown. The Captain (See Bonnaroo 2010 posts), other frat bros and a group of girls. They were Kapas who used to live next door to our fraternity house. We hadn't seen each other in years and chatted as we walked. Before I knew what had happened The Captain and Bill had bailed. Both were in far worse shape than myself. Cap was unable to speak coherent sentences and he had a seven hour drive back to North Carolina in the morning. Calling it a night early was probably the best thing for him.

Sticking with the survivors, I entered The Penguin, a dueling piano bar that had just recently opened. We reveled, danced and drank. All smiles and good times. An hour in, I was approaching the point of no return so I took a step back for some fresh air. One of the girls, Erin, joined me. I had always had a slight crush on her and had the mind to kindle a flame that was never lite way back when. We shared a cigarette and summarized the last four years of our lives. She was working on her PHD at Northern Texas (Mean Green!) hoping to become an English professor. I gave her my song and dance, zoning out in spite of myself. Lost at sea in her green eyes. I imagined the feel of her feminine shaped mouth against mine, intrigued by her lips which were always in a slight joker smile. I went for it.

"Ummmm what are you doing?" she said when I leaned in. "Jacob I can't make out with you. There's this guy back home. He's watching my dog. I just feel bad. Otherwise I would."

It was awkward for a moment but we went back in and had a shot to forget the mistake that almost was. I took mine down slowly, letting it burn in the back of my throat hoping it would wash away my embarrassment. I felt like an ass.

"Sorry that was weird," she said. I told her not to worry, creeps like me can't help ourselves. She laughed and we danced to another number just as the the lights of last call sparked to life.

Leaving, we were all a total wreck. I gave Erin a leg up onto one of the random horse sculptures in front of Rupp Arena. I took some pictures with her camera. Her posing on the plastic beast, me the photographer, both of us laughing hysterically the whole time. The last of us took off in a cab with the police swarming just behind us. The next day we found out there had been a stabbing not a block from where we'd been standing. Close call.

A hang over is all we'd have to worry about. I lay on the couch and recapped my failed make-out attempt. The timing was off but better to go down swinging then always wonder. Even striking out, it had been an amazing return to the Bluegrass. I even managed a meal at all my favorite haunts. Breakfast at Ramsey's the following morning brought me full circle. The perfect pre-drive meal (minus fried chicken livers) before the long journey home.


-J.R.