It opens like a
celebration.
Out of the closets, where they’ve been waiting patiently for their
moment in the sun come the costumes. An endless parade of bright satins topped
with stocks of colored plumage transforms the mares. Tailored wool and silk
knots polish up the stallions.
The first cocktails
pass the lips before Noon, with expectations already running high. In the paddock, the
curtain rises, and there’s bare flesh on display, rippled, tanned, and
glistening. The suggestive glances are all hidden behind dark blinders for the
moment, but the animals can still sense it. A pause for a quick calculation of
the odds, and the smell of sex punctures the air. Everywhere there’s sex, or
the promise of it.
Exhilaration arrives at
the track before the first post. The anticipation of that quickening of the
heart beat as your horse comes around the turn, the nervous sweat that starts
to arrive the moment you stand in front of the wall of glass ready to place
your bet, the program rolled and crushed in the hand as hooves and hot breath
near the line.
For the winners, a rush
to the head and fists in the air. The losers sulk back to the bar to summon
more courage, then again to the cage with prayers of doubling down. This will
all repeat itself.
The sun counts another
walk to the gate, another start, and they’re off. Longer and longer shadows of
desperation build to a seething madness that creeps in under the skin. Small
mountains of spent tobacco form casual centerpieces to the empties that collect
on tables scattered carelessly about by the urgency, the terrible urgency.
A confetti of sorts
covers the grounds like a field of paper flowers. Spent forms, discarded slips
that moments earlier held the promise of fortune are now mingling under foot
with the horrible spill from hands and mouths that are becoming increasingly
unsteady.
The tension mounts as
the opportunities to recoup grow fewer and fewer, and already there’s evidence
of those who will fight no more. They’re seated off alone, or with a partner,
both in silence, mourning what’s been lost.
Toothy smiles that
began the day have now all but faded. Where they still exist, they’re mostly
too open, too wide and pumped up artificially by the booze, or simply there to
camouflage the pain.
The fascinators have
all begun to fail now among the distaff who crowd together for protection or to
exchange notes on potential pairings at the after. There are those who will
spin and fall, unaccustomed as they are to the mix of heat and gin, and this is
where the mascara stained tears all begin their journeys South. Flocks of
support staff rally round to give what comfort they can, but mostly
commiseration, some cautionary tales, and another round.
By the shank, spears
and swords are off crossing themselves against a grate or a barn door, or a
wall, steam rising as it does for the thoroughbreds. Voices become louder, stories
of the day with details of when and what went down will lengthen, and most without
true endings. Your shout, and yours, and is it mine, but make no mistake, the
push and the shove will arrive to rupture this company of good cheer. Some
fists, blood even, but all amongst best mates, and then after slurred
negotiations, all’s forgiven.
At the close of this
glorious day, when the last bell has sounded, everyone and everything will be
the worse for wear, but with few regrets, for there is but one carnival, one
golden slipper, and there will be time for recovery, and time to reflect, and
there will always be a next year, and then a next.
downandunder
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