I recently went home to visit my mother in Chicago. I could not help but go to the simulcast room at Hawthorne race track, about 2 miles from Midway airport where my friends picked me up. God forgive me but I find these dives irresistible. The collection of degenerate broken down horse players who have nothing left in life but their next $2 is staggering. The jetsom and flotsom of life's hard knocks is stacked tall and deep. And I am in the middle of it, betting the card at Churchill Downs. These are my people. From the top left: 1) My brother (Whom I had not seen for some time. I knew I could find him at the track). 2) Marshall Gramm my degenerate horse race gambling buddy who asked me if he could borrow money for his stake that day, and also wanted to know who I had in the 5th at Woodbine. 3) A sharp dude who had his racing form in one hand and his wheel chair control in the other. He was decked out to the nines with hat and white shoes. 4) An old horse player who had three forms open in front of him from three different tracks looking at them through a magnifying glass mumbling to himself.
I ask the ghost of the horse players' future, is this a sign of what "must be" or a sign of what "may be"?