Derby Day

Today is the 135th Run for the Roses, The Kentucky Derby. I am not a horseman nor a gambler, but the race is part of my personal mythology. For some reason, I remember my father watching the race every year. I don't know if this is true or not because he wasn't a horseman or a gambler, either, but I remember watching it with him and remember him commenting on the horses with an assumed knowledge. I didn't care for it much then, but I loved my dad.

When he passed away, I went through a crazy number of years where I ended up in some spectacular place when the race came on, and I always had a drink and watched it. The first time, I was on a trip to another city with a very spectacular girlfriend. We had been in town all day and had stopped at the cities only sophisticated bar to have a drink. It was full of doctors and lawyers and other unfortunate types, and as we ordered our first drink, the Derby came on the TV over the bar. We had a smashing time, all the young lawyers flirting with my girl, and we drank the afternoon away on her charm. The race was spectacular, too, a close finish that had the entire bar going wild.

The next year, with another girlfriend, I was having a weekend at a small boutique hotel in Palm Beach. This girl was wealthier than I can describe, and we were at the old bar overlooking the Atlantic at the Breakers in Palm Beach (the OLD bar, I stress, for they renovated years ago and took away all of its charm) when a waiter rolled in a couple of TVs so that patrons could watch the Run for the Roses. Again, it was spectacular.

And again, the next year, I happened to be in an upscale bar on a beautiful boulevard (with the same girl) when the race came on. This was the most dramatic of all races, the winner a smallish horse that came from behind, an unlikely winner that went on the win the Belmont as well.

The next year, I suggested to the owner of the most wonderful bar in my own town that he should make mint juleps the day of the Derby. He did and gave them away for free. It was a good thing, for they were the hideous things, syrupy sweet and minty.

Each year, I raised my glass in a toast to my father.

Now I know I write about the seriously cracker background I grew up in, but the story will unfold. I will get to the more sophisticated thugs later, that jet-set, monied crowd with which I was plagued in the middle years. During that time, I happened into another sophisti-bar where I saw some girls I knew drinking champagne with a table full of guys, only one of whom I knew. He was buying bottles of very good champagne and showing off, and I knew neither he nor any of his friends were needing my help with that, but as I say, I knew the girls (who over the years had kept me well-lubricated on the expense accounts of countless men who never knew me), and they, in their drunken foolishness, jumped up and called me to the table. I went over to say hello, and one of the pretty blondes handed me a glass which I brushed aside until the fellow who was buying asked me take a seat and have it. And so I did.

I was not like the other boys at the table, all from monied families, part of what was referred to around town as the millionaire's boys club. They had the manners of southern royalty, both polished and rough, smooth and dangerous. The main talent for hanging with them was a quick, acerbic wit rooted in a knowledge of social hierarchy. They were fun enough to listen to, but as I say, I didn't know some of the fellows and one in particular didn't really care for me. I tried to stay in the background, but one of the girls kept championing my charm, purring and cooing and touching my arm, and it was not setting well with this fellow, who was already quite drunk, at all. Now it had gotten about town several times, and I don't know how, that I was the son of a wealthy father, a trust fund baby, who hung around all day sunning and sailing and other notorious things, part of which was true, but certainly not the first part. And perhaps this fellow had heard some of this. I could feel his ugly scowl and laser stare drilling into the side of my face, and so to ease the tension I turned to him and said, "I just remembered they are running the Kentucky Derby today," to which he replied, "So what?" Not caring one way or another about this southern simpleton, I tried to deflect his comment with, "Oh, I just wish I'd gone, that's all."

"Why didn't you?" he spat.

I think I said something about the cost, something he made ridiculous with his derisive laugh. I'd had enough of this fellow, and though I didn't want to make a scene, I could feel the old angers, learned from years in cracker houses and trailer parks, rising with the blood in my neck. And so I stood up calmly and said, "Hey, come outside, I want to tell you something." At this, the girls all began to twitter and coo. "Oh, he didn't mean anything, forget about it, he's drunk." I stood for another few seconds, but he was making no move to rise, so already having made my point with a ridiculous display, I sat back down. The fellow I knew who was buying the champagne reached over and filled my glass, saying, "Don't pay any attention to him. He's an asshole. Drink, drink."

But the blood and adrenaline had already mixed and my hillbilly blood continued to boil.

"Take it easy," said the bright boy said. "I just can't stand you boys from the north coming down heah with your money actin' like y'a own the south. My fatha owns textiles and we make a good living. . . " He was sad and ridiculous, but he wouldn't shut up, his mouth just going and going like a recording that you can't turn off, and as I say, the chemicals had jacked me up, so I turned to face him directly and leaned very close.

"You know what you are? You're just some asshole throwing his pay stub on the table. You can't drink, we've already established you can't fight, and if I asked around, I'd find out you can't even fuck. So what are you then? You're not a man. What are you?"

I could see I'd gone to far, even as he slumped with resignation. The girl who'd called me over was looking at me with disdain. I'd broken up the party. I'd spoiled the good time.

I guess I'd done my job, and so I stood and excused myself, thanking the fellow for the drinks. I don't remember anything else about the race that year.

A couple years later, a buddy I climbed mountains with had a friend with a horse in the Derby, and he had invited us up. This would be great! We were going to be on the inside, at the parties with Bo Derek and the like. We would be in the box seats for the race. We would be big.

We decided to go a week early and make a vacation of it, driving up to his family vacation home in North Carolina to climb and hike and kayak until it was time to make the drive to Louisville. But as the day for departure grew closer, I kept thinking about the return trip with dread, and so I said, "Listen, lets buy roundtrip flights from Atlanta instead of driving. We will already be halfway home when we fly back." He agreed.

The day of the flight, we got up early to make the drive to the airport leaving plenty of time--we thought. But those mountain roads were taking their toll, I guess, for the harder we drove, the later it got. We were pissing the entire time thinking we might miss our flight. We got to the airport with moments to spare, so he dropped me off at the passenger dock and told me to check us in while he went to park the car.

I waited for him at the gate, tickets in hand, but he wasn't there when it was time to depart. The flight crew was nice, though, and tried to hold the plane as long as they could, but after five minutes, I knew it was over. Of course, as soon as the plane pulled away from the gate, there he was, sprinting down the concourse. It was over. There would be no box seats. There would be no Bo Derek.

We spent the rest of the day at the Gold Room, Atlanta's premiere go-go bar. It wasn't the Derby, but it was something.

The best account of The Kentucky Derby you can read is Hunter S. Thompson's The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved. If you haven't read it, click the link. You'll be glad.