ow you do, Jones, but you're just not doing a man's job back there anymore." He let me go. Of course, I knew that I would get my unemployment compensation. But I thought it was small of him to let me go like that... I stayed home with Sarah. Which made it worse---she fed me. It got so I couldn't reach the refrigerator door anymore. And then she put me on a small silver chain. Soon I was two feet tall. I had to use a potty chair to shit. But she still let me have my beer, as promised. "Ah, my little pet," she said, "you're so small and cute!" "I'm not a duck, I'm a man!" "Oh my little sweet man-y-man!" She picked me up and kissed me with her red lips... Sarah got me down to being 6 inches tall. She carried me to the store in her purse. I could look out at the people through the little air holes she had poked in her purse. I will say one thing for the woman. She still allowed me to have my beer. I drank it by the thimble. A quart would last me a month. In the old days it was gone in 45 minutes. I was resigned. I knew that if she wished to do so she could make me vanish entirely. Better 6 inches than nothing. Even a little life becomes very dear when you near the end of life. So, I amused Sarah. It was all I could do. She made me little clothes and shoes and put me on top of the radio and turned on the music and said, "Dance, little one! Dance, my dunce! Dance, my fool!" Well, I couldn't collect my unemployment compensation so I danced on top of the radio while she clapped her hands and laughed. You know, spiders frightened me terribly and flies were the size of giant eagles, and if a cat ever caught me it would torture me like a small mouse. But life was still dear to me. I danced and sang and hung on. No matter how little a man has he will find that he will always settle for less. When I shit on the rug I would get spanked. Sarah put little pieces of paper around and I shit on them. And I ripped off little pieces of that paper to wipe my butt with. It felt like cardboard. I got hemorrhoids. Couldn't sleep nights. Feelings of inferiority, of being trapped. Paranoia? Anyhow, I felt good when I sang and danced and Sarah let me have my beer. She kept me at an exact six inches for some reason. What the reason was, it was beyond me. As almost everything else was beyond me. I made up songs for Sarah, that's what I called them: Songs for Sarah: "o, I'm just a little snot, that's all right until I get hot, then there's nothing to stick it in except the fucking head of a pin! Sarah would clap her hands and laugh. "if ya wanna be an admir in the queen's navy just be a clark for the fuckin' nark, grow 6 inches tall and when the Queen goes to pee you can peek up inter drippin' pussy..." And Sarah would clap her hands and laugh. Well, that was all right. It had to be... But one night something very disgusting happened. I was singing and dancing and Sarah was on the bed, naked, clapping her hands, drinking wine and laughing. I was putting on a good show. One of my best. But, as always, the top of the radio got hot and started burning my feet. I couldn't stand it anymore. "Look, baby," I said, "I've had it. Take me down. Gimme a beer. No wine. You drink that cheapass wine. Gimme a thimble of that good beer." "Sure, sweetie," she said, "you put on a wonderful show tonight. If Manny and Lincoln had acted as nice as you, they'd be here tonight. But they didn't sing or dance, the brooded. And worst of all, they objected to the Final Act." "And what was the Final Act?" I asked. "Now, sweetie, just drink your beer and relax. I want you to enjoy the Final Act. You are evidently a much more talented person than Manny or Lincoln. I do believe that we can have the Culmination of the Opposites." "O, hell yes," I said, draining my beer. "Now give me a refill. And just what is the Culmination of the Opposites?" "Enjoy your beer, little sweetie, you'll know soon enough." I finished my beer and then the disgusting thing happened, a most disgusting thing. Sarah picked me up and placed me down between her legs, which she spread open just a bit. Then I was facing a forest of hair. I hardened my back and neck muscles, sensing what was to come. I was jammed into darkness and stench. I heard Sarah moan. Then Sarah began to move me slowly back and forth. As I said, the stench was unbearable, and it was difficult to breathe, but somehow there was air in there---various side- pockets and drafts of oxygen. Now and then my head, the top of my head bumped The Man in the Boat and then Sarah would let out an extra-illuminated moan. Sarah began moving me faster and faster. My skin began to burn, it became harder to breathe; the stench became worse. I could hear her panting. It occured to me that the sooner I ended the thing the less I would suffer. Each time I was rammed forward I would arch my back and neck, tilt everything of me into this hooking curve of a thing, bumping The Man in the Boat. Suddenly I was ripped out of that terrible tunnel. Sarah held me up to her face. "Come, you damned fiend of a thing! Come!" she demanded. Sarah was totally drunk on wine and passion. I felt myself being rushed back into the tunnel. She worked me rapidly back and forth. Then suddenly I sucked air into my lungs to increase my size and then I gathered saliva intlo my jaws and spit it out---once, twice, 3 times, 4, 5, six times, then I stopped...The stench increased beyond all imagination and then, at last, I was lifted out into the air. Sarah lifted me into the lamplight and began kissing me all over my head and shoulders. "O, my darling! o, my precious little cock! I love you!" Then she kissed me with those horrible red and painted lips. I vomited. Then, spent in a swoon of wine and passion, she placed me between her breasts. I rested there and listened to her heart beat. She had taken me off of her damnd leash, that silver chain, but it didn't matter. I was hardly free. One of her massive breasts had fallen to one side and I seemed to be right over the heart. The heart of the witch. If I were the answer to the Population Explosion then why hadn't she used me as more than a thing of entertainment, a sexual toy? I stretched out there and listened to that heart. I decided that she was a witch. Then I glanced up. Do you know what I saw? A most amazing thing. Up in that little crevice below the headboard. A hat pin. Yes, a hat pin, long with one of those round purple glass things at the end of it. I walked up between her breasts, climbed her throat, got up on her chin(after much trouble), then walked quietly across her lips, and then she stirred a bit as I almost fell and had to grab to a nostril for support. Very slowly I got up by the right eye--- her head was tilted slightly to the left---and then I was up on the forehead, having gone past the temple, and I was up into the hair---very difficult, wading through. Then I stood and stretched---reached up and just managed to grab the hat pin. Coming down was faster but more treacherous. I almost lost my balance several times, carrying that hat pin. One fall and it was over. I laughed several times because it was so ridiculous. The outcome of an office party for the gang, Merry Christmas. Then I was down under that massive breast again. I laid the hat pin down and listened again. I listened for the exact sound of the heart. I determined it to be at a spot exactly below a small brown birthmark. Then I stood up. I picked up the hat pin with its purple glass end, beautiful in the lamplight. And I thought, will it work? I was 6 inches tall and I judged the hat pin to be half again longer than 1.9 inches. The heart seemed closer than that. I lifted the pin and plunged it in. Just below the birthmark. Sarah rolled and convulsed. I held onto the hat pin. She almost threw me to the floor---which by comparative size seemed a thousand feet or more and would have killed me. I hung on. Her lips formed an odd sound. Then she seemed to quiver all over like a woman freezing. I reached up and jammed the remaining 3 inches of the pin down into her chest until the beautiful purple glass head of the pin was up against her skin. Then Sarah was still, I listened. I heard the heart, one two, one two, one two, one two, one... It stopped. And then with my little killer's hands, I clutched and gripped the bedsheet and made my way to the floor. I was 6 inches tall and real and frightened and hungry. I found a hole in one of the bedroom screens which faced east and ran from ceiling to floor. I grabbed at the branch of a bush, climbed on, clambered along the branch to the inside of the bush. Nobody knew that Sarah was dead but I. But that had no realistic good. If I were to go on, I would have to have something to eat. But I couldn't help wondering how my case would be evolved in a court of law? Was I guilty? I ripped off a leaf and tried to eat it. No good. Hardly. Then I saw the lady in the court to the south set out a plate of catfood for her cat. I crawled out of the bush and worked my way toward the catfood, watching for animals and movements. It tasted worse than anything I had ever eaten but I had no choice. I ate all the catfood I could---death tasted worse. Then I walked over to the bush and climbed back into it. There I was, 6 inches tall, the answer to The Population Explosionm hanging in a bush with a bellyful of catfood. There are details I don't want to bore you with. Escapes from cats and dogs and rats. Feeling myself growing bit by bit. Watching them carry Sarah's body out of there. Going in there and finding myself too small, still, to open the refrigerator door. The day the cat almost caught me as I ate at his bowl. I had to break away. I was then 8 or 10 inches tall, I was growing. I even scared pigeons. When you scare pigeons you know that you are getting there. I simply ran down the street one day, hiding along the shadows of buildings and down beneath hedges and the like. I kept running and hiding until I got outside a supermarket and I hid under a newspaper stand just outside the entrance to the store. Then, as a big woman walked up and the electric door opened, I walked in behind her. One of the clerks at a checkstand looked up as I walked in behind the woman: "Hey, what the hell's that?" "What?" a customer asked him. "I thought I saw something," said the clerk, "maybe not. I hope not." I somehow sneaked back to the storeroom without being seen. I hid behind some cartons of baked beans. That night I came out and had a fine feed. Potato salad, pickles, ham on rye, potato chips and beer, plenty of beer. It became about the same routine. Each day, all day, I hid in the storeroom and at night I'd come out and have a party. But I was growing and hiding was becoming more difficult. I got to watching the manager put the money in the safe each night. He was the last to leave. I counted the pauses as he put the money away each night. It seemed to be---7 right, 6 left, 4 right, 6 left, 3 right, open. I went over to the safe each night and tried the numbers. I had to make a kind of stairway out of empty cartons in order to get up to the dial. It didn't seem to work but I kept trying. Each night, I mean. Meanwhile I was growing fast. Perhaps I was 3 feet tall. The store had a small clothing section and I had to keep going into the larger sizes. The population problem was returning. Then one night the safe opened. I had 23 thousand dollars in cash. I must have hit them the night before banking time. I took the key the manager used in order to get out without the burglar alarm ringing. Then I walked down the street and got a week's worth of lodging at the Sunset Motel. I told the lady I worked as a midget in the movies. It just seemed to bore her. "No television or loud noises after ten p. m. That's our rule here." She took my money, gave me a receipt and closed her door. They key said room 103. I hadn't even looked at the room. The doors said 98, 99, 100, 101, I was walking north toward the Hollywood Hills, toward those mountains behind them, with the great and golden light of the Lord shining upon me, growing. === ** 25 BUMS IN RAGS** you know how it is with horseplayers. you hit it hot and you think it's all over. I had this place in back, even had my own garden, planted all kinds of tulips, which grew, beautifully and amazingly. I had the green hand. I had the green money. what system I had devised I can no longer remember, but it was working and I wasn't and that's a pleasant enough way to live. and there was Kathy. Kathy had it. the old guy next door would actually slobber at the mouth when he saw her. he was always knocking at the door. "Kathy! oooh, Kathy! Kathy!" I'd answer the door, just dressed in my shorts. "ooooh, I thought-" "I thought Kathy-" "Kathy's taking a shit. any message?" "I-bought these bones for your dog." he had a big bag of dry chicken bones. "feeding a dog chicken bones is like putting broken razor blades in a child's cereal. you trying to kill my dog, fucker?" "oh, no!" "then jam the bones and split." "I don't understand." "stick that bag of chickenbones up your ass and get the hell out of here!" "I just thought Kathy-" "I told you, Kathy's taking a SHIT!" I slammed the back door on him. "you shouldn't be so hard on the old fart, Hank, he says I remind him of his daughter when she was young." "all right, so he made it with his daughter. let him screw swiss cheese. I don't want him at the door." "I suppose you think I let him in after you go to the track?" "I don't even wonder about that." "what do you wonder about?" "all I wonder is which one of you rides topside." "you son of a bitch. you can leave now!" I was getting on my shirt and pants, then socks and shoes. I won't be 4 blocks away before you're locked in embrace." she threw a book at me. I wasn't looking and the edge of the book hit me over the right eye. a cut started and a spot of blood hit my hand as I tied my right shoe. "I'm sorry, Hank." "don't get NEAR me!" I went out and got into the car, backed out the drive at 35 miles an hour, taking part of the hedge with me, then some of the stucco from the front house with my left rear fender. there were blood on my shirt then and I took out my handkerchief and held it over the eye. it was going to be a bad Saturday at the track. I was mad. I bet like the atomic bomb was on the way. I wanted to make ten grand. I bet longshots. I didn't cash a ticket. I lost $500. all I had going to be a terrible Saturday night. I parked the car and went in the back door. "Hank-" "what?" "you look like death. what happened?" "I blew it. I blew the roll. 500." "jesus. I'm sorry," she said, "it's my fault." she came up to me, put her arms around me. "god damn, I'm sorry, daddy. it was my fault, I know it." "forget it. you didn't make the bets." "are you still mad?" "no, no, I know you're not fucking that old turkey." "can I get you something to eat?" "no, no, just get us a fifth of whiskey and the paper." I got up and went to the hidden money cache. we were down to $180. well, it had been worse, many times, but I felt that I was on my way back to the factories and the warehouses, if I could get that. I came out with a ten. the dog still liked me. I pulled his ears. he didn't care how much money I had or how little. a real ace dog. yeah. I walked out of the bedroom. Kathy was putting on lipstick in front of the mirror. I pinched her on the ass and kissed her behind the ear. "get me some beer and cigars too. I need to forget." she left and I listened to her heels clicking on the drive. she was as good a woman as I found and I had found her in a bar. I leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. a bum. I was a bum. always this distaste for work, always trying to live off my luck. when Kathy came back I told her to pour a big one. she looked funny, and fine. we'd make love. we'd make love through the sad- ness. I just hated to see it go: car, house, dog, woman. it had been gentle and easy living. I guess I was shaken because I opened the paper and looked at the WANT ADS. "hey, Kathy, here's something. men wanted, Sunday. pay same day." "oh, Hank, rest up tomorrow. you'll get those horses Tuesday. everything will look better then." "but shit, baby, every buck counts! they don't run on Sunday. Caliente, yeah, but you can't beat that 25 percent Caliente take and the distance. I can get good and drunk tonight and then pick up this shit tomorrow. those extra bucks might make the difference." Kathy looked at me funny. she'd never heard me talk like that before. I always acted like the money would be there. that 500 dollar loss had left me in shock. she phoned me another tall one. I drank it right off. shock, shock, lord, lord, the factories. the wasted days, the days without meaning, the day of bosses and idiots, and the slow and brutal clock. we drank until two a.m., just like at the bar, then went to bed, mad love, slept. I set the alarm for four a.m., was up and in the car and downtown skidrow at 4:30 a.m. I stood on the corner with about 25 bums in rags. they stood there rolling cigarettes and drinking wine. well, it's money, I thought. I'll get back-some day I'll vacation in Paris or Rome. shit on these guys. I don't belong here. then something said to me, that's what they're ALL thinking I don't belong here. each one of THEM is thinking that about HIM- SELF. and they're right, so? the truck came along about 5:10a.m. and we climbed in. god, I could be sleeping along behind Kathy's fine ass about now. but it's money. guys were talking about just getting off the boxcar. they stank, poor fellows. but they didn't seem miserable. I was the only one who was miserable. I would be getting up about now, taking a piss. I would be having a beer in the kitchen, looking for the sun, seeing it get lighter, peeking at my tulips. then going back to bed with Kathy. the guy next to me said, "hey, buddy!" "yeah," I said. "I'm a Frenchman," he said. I didn't answer. "can you use a blowjob?" "no," I said. "I saw one guy blowing another in the alley this morning. this one guy had this LONG THIN white dick and the other guy was still sucking and the come was dripping out of his mouth. I watched and watched and god I'm hot as hell. let me suck your dick, buddy!" "no," I told him, "I don't feel like it right now." "well, if I can't do that, maybe you can suck mine." "get the hell out of here!" I told him. the Frenchman moved further back into the truck. by the time we'd gone another mile his head was bobbing. he was doing it righ in front of everybody, to some old guy who looked like an Indian. "GO, BABY, GET IT ALL!!!" somebody shouted. some of the bums laughed but most of them were just silent, drinking their wine and rolling their cigarettes. the old Indian acted like it wasn't even happening. by the time we got to Vermont the Frenchman had got it all and we all climbed out, the Frenchman, the Indian, myself and the other bums. they gave us each a little tab of doughnut and a coffee. the waitress held her nose up. we stank. dirty cocksuckers. then somebody finally hollered, "everybody out!" I followed them out and we went into a big room and sat in these chairs like they used to have in school, or college rather, say like in Music Appreciation. with the big slab of wood for the right arm so you could open your notebook and write on it there. any- how, so there we sat for another 45 minutes. then some snot kid with a can of beer in his hand, said, "o.k., get your SACKS!" the bums all leaped up at ONCE and RAN to this large back room. what the hell? I thought. I slowly walked on back and looked in the other room. the bums were in there pushing and fighting for the best paper carriers. it was deadly and senseless battle. when the sack I found on the floor. it was very dirty and full of rips and holes. when I walked out into the other room the bums all had their paper carriers on their backs, wearing them. I found a seat and just sat there with mine in my lap. somewhere along the line I think they had gotten our names; I think it was before you get your coffee and doughnut tab you gave your name. so we sat there and were called out in groups of 5 or 6 or 7. this took, it seemed, another hour. anyhow, by the time I got into the back of this smaller truck with a few others, the sun was well up. they gave us such a little map.I recognized the streets all right: GOD OH MIGHTY, OUT OF THE WHOLE TOWN OF LOS ANGELES THEY HAD GIVEN ME MY OWN NEIGHBORHOOD! I had the rep as drinker, gambler, hustler, man of leisure shack-job specialist. how could I be SEEN with that filthy dirty sack on my back? delivering newspapers full of ads? they put me out on my corner. very familiar surroundings, indeed. there was the flowershop, there was the bar, the gas station, everything-.around the corner my little house with Kathy sleep- in her warm bed. even the dog was asleep. well, it's Sunday morning, I thought. nobody will see me. they sleep late. I'll run through the god damned route. and I did. I ran up and down 2 streets very quickly and nobody saw the great man of class and soft white hands and great soulful eyes. I was going to get by with it. then up the 3rd street. it was going well until I heard the voice of a little girl. she was in her yard. about 4 years old. "hey, mister!" "oh, yes? little girl? what is it?" "where's your dog?" "oh, haha, he's still asleep." "oh." I always walked the dog up that street. there was a vacant lot there he always shit in. that did it. I took all my remaining news- papers and dumped them into the back of an abandoned car near the freeway. the car had been there for months with all the wheels gone. I didn't know what it meant. but I put all the newspapers on the rear floor. then I walked around the corner and went inot my house. Kathy was still asleep. I awakened her. "Kathy! Kathy!" "oh, Hank-everything all right?" the dog ran on in and I petted him. "you know what those sons of bitches DID?" "what?" "they gave me my own neighborhood to deliver papers in!" "oh, well, it's not nice but I don't think the people will mind." "don't you understand? I've built this REP! I'm the hustler! I can't be seen with a bag of shit on my back!" "oh, I don't think you have that REP! it's just in your head." "listen, are you going to give me a lot of shit? you've had your ass in this warm bed while I've been out there with a lot of cock- suckers!" "don't be angry. I've got to pee. wait a minute." I waited out there while she took her sleepy female piss. god, they were SLOW! the cunt was a very inefficient pissing machine. dick had it all beat. Kathy came out. "please don't worry, Hank. I'll put on an old dress and help you deliver the papers. we'll finish fast. people sleep late on Sun- days." "but I've already been SEEN!" "you've already been seen? who saw you?" "that little girl in the brown house with the weeds on West- moreland st." "you mean Myra?" "I don't know her name!" "she's only 3." "I don't know how old she is! she asked about the dog!" "what about the dog?" "she asked where it WAS!" "come on, I'll help you get rid of the papers." Kathy was climbing into an old ripped dress." "I got rid of them. it's over. I dumped them into the back of that abandoned car." "will they catch you?" "FUCK! who cares?" I went into the kitchen and got a beer. when I got back Kathy was in bed again. I sat in the chair. "Kathy?" "uh?" "you just don't realize who you're living with! I'm class, real class! I'm 34 but I haven't worked 6 or 7 months since I was 18 years old. and no money. look at my hands! I've got hands like a pianist!" "Class? you OUGHT to HEAR yourself when you're drunk! you're horrible, horrible!" "are you trying to start some shit again, Kathy? I've kept you in furs and hundred proof since I dug you outa that gin mill on Alvarado st." Kathy didn't answer. "in fact," I told here, "I am a genius but nobody knows it but me." "I'll buy that," she said. then she dug her head into the pillow and went back to sleep. I finished the beer, had another, then went 3 blocks over and sat on the steps of a closed grocery store that the map said would be the meeting place where the man would pick me up. I sat there from 10 a.m. to 2:30 a.m. 9t was dull and dry and stupid and torturous and senseless. then the rotten truck came at 2:30 p.m. "hey. buddy?" "yum?" "you finished already?" "yum." "you're fast!" "yep." "I want you to help this one guy finish his route." oh, fuck. I got into the truck and then he let me off. here was this guy. he was CREEPING. he threw each paper with great care upon each porch. each porch got special treatment. and he seemed to enjoy his work. he was on his last block. I finished the whole thing off in 5 minutes. then we sat and waited for the truck. for an hour. they drove us back to the office and we sat in our school chairs again. then two snot-nosed kids came out with cans of beer in their hands. one called off names and the other gave each man his money. on a blackboard written in chalk behind the heads of the snot-noses was a message: ANY MAN WHO WORKS FOR US 30 DAYS IN A ROW WITHOUT MISSING A DAY WILL BE GIVEN A FREE SECOND HAND SUIT. I kept watching as each man was handed his money. it couldn't be true. it APPEARED that each man was given three one dollar bills. at the time, the lowest basic wage scale by law was one dollar an hour. I had been on that corner at 4:30 a.m. now it was 4:30 p.m. to me, that was 12 hours. I was one of the last names called. I think I was 3rd from last. not a one of those bums raised hell. they just took the $3 and went out the door. "Bukowski!" the snot-nosed kid hollered. I walked up. the other snot-nosed kid counted out 3 very clean and crisp Washingtons. "listen," I said, "don't you guys realize that there is a basic wage law? one buck an hour." the snot-nose raised his beer. "we deduct for transportation, breakfast and so forth. we only pay for average working time which we figure to be about 3 hours or so." "I see twelve hours out of my life and I've got to take a bus downtown now to go get my car and drive in back in." "you're lucky to have a car." "and you're lucky I don't jam that can of beer up your ass!" "I don't set company policy, sir, please don't blame me." "I'm going to report you to the State Labor Board!" "Robinson!" the other snot-nose hollered. the next to last burn got p from his seat for his $3 as I walked out the door and on up to Beverly blvd. to wait for the bus. by the time I got home and got a drink in my hand it was 6 p.m. or so. I really got drunk then. I was so frustrated I banged Kathy 3 times. broke a window. cut my foot on broken glass. sang songs from Gilbert and Sullivan, which I once learned from an insane English teacher who taught an English class which began at 7 a.m. in the morning. L.A.City College. Richardson was his name. and maybe he wasn't insane. but he taught me Gilbert and Sullivan and gave me a "d" in English for showing up no sooner than 7:30 a.m. with hang- over, WHEN I showed. but that's something else. Kathy and I had some laughs that night, and although I broke a few things I was not as nasty and stupid as usual. and that Tuesday at Hollywood Park I won $140 at the races and I was once again the quite casual lover, hustler, gambler, re- formed pimp and tulip grower. I drove slowly up the driveway, savoring the last of the evening sun. then I strolled in through the back door. Kathy had on some meat loaf with plenty of onions and crap and spices in it just the way I liked it. she was bent over at the stove and I grabbed her from the back. "ooooo-" "listen, baby-" "yeah?" she stood there with the large dripping spoon in her hand. I slipped ten into the neck of her dress. "I want you to get me a fifth of whiskey." "sure, sure." "and some beer and cigars. I'll watch the food." she took off her apron and went into the bathroom for a moment. I could hear her humming. a moment later I sat in my chair and listened to her heels clicking down the drive. there was a tennis ball. I took the tennis ball and bounced it on the floor so it hit the wall and zoomed high into the air. the dog who was 5 feet long and 3 feet tall, + wolf, leaped into the air, there was the snap of teeth and he had that tennis ball, up near the ceiling. for a moment he seemed to hang up there. what a beautiful dog, what a beautiful life. when he hit the floor I got up to check the meatloaf. it was all right. everything was. === **NON-HORSESHIT HORSE ADVICE** so, the Hollywood Park meet has begun, and naturally I have been out a couple of times, and the scene is not very variable: the horses look the same and the people a little worse, the horseplayer is a combination of extreme conceit, madness and greed. one of Freud's main pupils(I don't recall his name right now, only remem- ber reading the book) said that gambling is a substitute for masturba- tion. of course, the problem with any direct statement is that it can easily become an untruth, a part truth, a lie or a wilted gardenia. yet, checking out the ladies (between races) I do find the same oddity: before the first race they sit with their skirts down as much as possible, and as each race proceeds the skirts climb higher and high- er, until just before the 9th race it takes all one's facilities not to commit rape upon one of the darlings. whether it is a sense of masturbation that causes this or whether the dear little things need rent and bean money, I don't know, probably a combo. I saw one lady leap over 2 or 3 rows of seats after getting a winner, and screaming, screeching, divine as an iced-grapefruit vodka across the top of a hangover. "she's getting hers now," said my girlfriend. "yeah," I said, "but I wish I had gotten there first." for those of you unfamiliar with the basic principles of horse- wagering, allow me to divert you with a few basics. the difficulty in the average person leaving the track with any money at all is easily propounded if you will follow this - the track and the state take roughly 15% out of each dollar bet, plus breakage. the 15% is di= vided about in half between the state and the track. in other words, 85 cents out of each dollar is returned to the holders of winning tickets. breakage is the penny difference on the ten cent breakdown of the payoff. in other words, say if the totalizer machine breaks the payoff down to a $16.84 payoff, then the winning player gets $16.80, the 4 cents on each winning bet going elsewhere. now I am not sure, because the thing in not publicized but I also believe that on, say, a $16.89 payoff, the payoff is still $16.80 and the 9 cents goes elsewhere, but I am not positive of this and "Open City" cer- tainly can't afford a libel suit now or ever and neither can I, so I will not make this a positive presumption, but if any "Open City" reader has the facts on this, I do wish he would write O.C. and advise me, this penny breakage alone could make millionaires out of any of us. now take the average goof who has worked all week and is looking for a little bit of luck, entertainment, masturbation, take 40 of them, give them each $100, and presuming that they are average bettors, the general medium based upon a 15% take, forgetting breakage, would have 40 of them leaving with $85. but it doesn't work that way 0 35 of them will leave almost completely broke, one or two of them will win $85 or $150 by sheer fortune of falling upon the right horses and not knowing why. the 3 or 4 others will break even. all right, then, who is getting all this money that the little bettor who works a turret lathe or drives a bus all week, losers? easy: the betting stables who send off bad-form horses in a spot that it is profitable for them to win in. stables cannot make it upon purse money alone, that is, most of them can't. give a stable a top handi- cap horse and they are in, but even they must resort to pulls and deliberately bad races in order to get weight off for a top money race. in other words, say a top-weighted horse gifted with 130 pounds by the track handicapper for an early $25,000 race will tend to lose this race and get weight off on that performance for a later $100,000 race. now these statements cannot be proven but if you will follow this conjecture you might make a little money or at least save a little. but it is the stables who must race in the lower class races with lower purses who must maneuver their horses for a price. in some cases, the owner of the horse or horses himself is not aware of the maneuvering; this is because trainers and grooms, hot-walkers, exercise jocks are grossly underpaid (in time and effort put in, com- pared to other industries) and their only way to get out is to put one over. the racetracks are aware of this and attempt to keep the game clean, to give it a holy sheen of honesty, but for all their efforts- barring tough guys, cons, syndicates, operators, from the track, there are still "goodies" put over on the crowd, a so-called pig who "wakes up" and wins by 3 to 10 lengths at odds of 5 to up to 50 to1. but these are only animals, not machines. so there's an excuse, an excuse to haul away millions in wheelbarrows from the racetrack, tax-free. human greed will not relent, it will continue to feed itself. the com- munist party be damned. all right, that's bad enough. let's take something else. besides the public being automatically wrong just by instinct (ask the stock- broker - when you want to know which way to move just move the opposite from the big crowd with the small, 'scared, tight money). but the something else is this: a possible mathematic. taking the dollar base - you invest the first dollar, you get back 85 cents. automatic take. second race, you have to ass15 cents, then another 15% take. now take 9 races and take a 15% take on a break-even basis - upon your original dollar. is it just 9 times 15% or is it much more? it would take one of these Caltaech cats to tell me and I don't know any Caltech cats. anyway, if you have followed me up to here, you must realize that it is very difficult to make a "living" at the racetrack as some starry-eyed dreamers would like to do. I am a "hard-nose": that is, any given day at any track you just ain't gonna take much money from me; on the other hand, I ain't gonna make much. naturally, I have some good plays and I'd be a damn fool to reveal them to everybody because then they would not work. once the public gets onto something it is dead and it changes. the public is not allowed to win in any game ever invented and that includes the American Revolution. but for "Open City" readers I have a few basics that might save you a little money. take heed. a/ watch your underlay shots. an underlay is a horse that closes in odds under the trackman's morning line. in other words, the trackman lists the horse 10 t0 1 and it is going off at 6 to 1. money is much more serious than anything else. check your under- lays carefully, and if the line is just not a careless mistake by the trackman and the horse dos not show any recent fast works or a switch to a "name" jockey, and if the horse is not dropping weight and is running against the same class, you will probably get a fairly good run for your money. b/ lay off the closers. this is a horse, that say closed from 5 to 16 lengths from the beginning call to the last and still did not win and is coming back against the same or similar. the crowd loves the "closer," through fear $ tight money and stupidity, but the closer is generally a lard- ass, lazy and only passes tired horses who have been running and fighting for the front end. not only does the crowd love this type of junk-horse but they will consistently bet him down to odds less than 1/3 of his worth. even though this type of horse continually runs out, the crowd out of fear will go to him because they are tight up against the rent money and feel that a closer possesses some kind of super stength. 90% of the races are won by horses on the front end or near the front end of all the running, at plausible and reasonable prices. c/ if you must bet a "closer" bet him in shorter races, 6 or 7 furlongs, where the crowd believes he does not have time "to get up." here they go for the speed and are stuck again. 7 furlongs is the best closer's race in the business because of only one curve. a speed horse gets the advantage of being out in front and saving ground on the turns. 7 furlongs with one curve and the long backstretch is the perfect closer's race; much better than a mile and a quarter, even better than a mile and one half. I am giving you some good stuff here, I hope you heed it. d/ watch your toteboard - money in American society is more serious than death and you hardly get anything for nothing. if a horse is listed at 6 to 1 on the morning line and he is going off at 114 to 25 to 1, forget it. either the trackman had a hangover when he made his morning line or the stable just isn't going that race. you don't get anything free in this world; if you don't know anything about racing, do bet horses that go off to their morning line. large overlays are nil and almost impossible. all the little grandmamas go home to eat bitter toast with gummed teeth upon Papa's retire-ment death certificate. e/ only bet when you can lose. I mean without ending up sleeping on a park bench or missing 3 or 4 meals. the main thing, get the rent down first. avoid pressures. you will be luckier. and remem- ber what the pros say, "If you've got to lose, lose in front." in other words, make them beat you. if you're going to lose anyhow, then to hell with it, get you a dancer out of the gate, you've got it won until they beat you, until they pass you. the price is usually generous because the public hates what they call a "quitter" - a horse that opens daylight on the pack and still manages to lose. this looks bad to them. to me a "quitter" is any horse that does not win a race. f/ any profit-loss venture is not based upon the number of winners you have but upon the number of winners at the price. to basics, you can have three 6 to 5 winners in 9 races and wash out, but you c