Fake I.D.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. He was a little old Irish guy with gray hair and square shoulders. He reminded me of Frank.

“Ask this guy,” I said. “He just grabbed me.”

“I just told him he can’t go out there without a pass and he tried to get by me,” the usher said.

“Forget about it,” I said. “The guy’s crazy.”

“Just take it easy,” the security guard said. “I don’t want any trouble here.”

“You talking to me or him?” I said.

“You,” he said.

I walked away, shaking my head.

I spotted Pete, sitting on a bench against the wall, reading the Racing Form. At first I thought it couldn’t possibly be him. Not because he looked different, because he looked the same. He was wearing sneakers, old jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and the same beige winter jacket he’d been wearing at the jai-alai fronton. He wasn’t even dressed up as good as he was at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe I got the day screwed up—maybe we were supposed to claim the horse tomorrow or some other time. I couldn’t think of any other reason why Pete wasn’t wearing a suit.

When I walked over to him he looked up at me like he was surprised. I was probably giving him the same look.

“Look at you,” he said, “all decked out. What’s the special occasion?”

Maybe I did get the date mixed up.

“What do you mean?” I said. “I got a call from Alan the other day. We’re claiming the horse today, right?”

“If he doesn’t get scratched,” Pete said. “But I just checked the board downstairs and he’s still in. No, I meant are you doing something after the races? Going to a wedding or something?”

“No,” I said.

“Then what’s with the outfit?”

“I was gonna ask you the same question,” I said.

“What do you mean? I always dress like this to go to the track.”

“That’s what I mean,” I said.

We stared at each other for a couple of seconds.

“I get it,” Pete said. “You’re trying to be funny.”

“Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?” I said. “I don’t understand—why did you dress like that today?”

“Because I felt like it,” he said.

“Yeah, well you’re a horse owner now—you should dress like one. Is this how you’re gonna look when you’re down there in the winner’s circle, getting your picture taken? I mean come on—”

“Are you feeling all right?” Pete asked.

“Are you?”

“Maybe you should sit down—relax.”

I turned around and started to walk away. Then I stopped, realizing this wouldn’t do me any good. Pete was part of the syndicate and I had to stick with him no matter what he looked like.

I stood with my back to Pete for twenty seconds, maybe longer, then I turned back around.

“Forget about it,” I said. “It’s not important.”

“You scared me there for a second,” Pete said. “I really thought you were losing it. Come on, why don’t you sit down? Take a load off.”

I sat down on the bench next to Pete. I noticed that he was wearing cologne today, probably to cover up his B.O., but he’d put on so much of it he smelled as bad as he always did—maybe worse.

“I think I get what’s going on,” Pete said. “You think I was making fun of you. Well, I wasn’t. I think you look great in that suit and with those sunglasses on—like a movie star. I also think it’s good that you got dressed up today. It shows you’re serious about this. That’s what I wanted when I got into this thing—not just to be with guys who wanted to fuck around, for a tax write-off. I wanted to be with guys who wanted to get into the horse business to win. Come on, no hard feelings, right?”

I looked over. Pete was holding out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.

“No hard feelings,” I said. I shook his sweaty hand, but I still hated him.

“I’ll tell you what—when the horse is ours, when we come for the first time he races, I promise I’ll wear a suit too. How’s that?”

“Whatever,” I said.

I was looking away again, hoping Pete would go back to reading his Form and forget about me.

“By the way, I wanted to ask you, where did you get those shoes?”

“Macy’s,” I said.

“Macy’s?” He said. “You should’ve come by my store, I would’ve gotten you those shoes for a quarter of the price. Eh, it doesn’t matter. Next time.”

Pete was trying to make some more conversation. I stopped paying attention, but he didn’t get the message. He kept talking to me, not caring if I was listening to him or not. I didn’t know why Pete got to me so much. Yeah, he smelled and, yeah, he dressed like a slob, but there was more to it than that. Then it hit me—he was low class. I was sick of low-class people.

A few minutes passed, then Alan, Steve and Rob came up the escalator together. I guess I should’ve expected it, but I didn’t. They were all wearing suits at the Chinese restaurant so I figured they’d look at least as good today. Steve and Rob looked about as slobby as Pete—in jeans, sneakers, and sweatshirts. The only one who looked halfway decent was Alan, but even he didn’t look as good as he did the other day. He had a black shirt tucked into chinos and he was wearing shoes, but he wasn’t wearing a tie or a jacket.

As soon as the horse started making money I was going to take my share of the profits and buy my own horses. Then it was going to be sayonara to these losers. We all shook hands. Then Alan said, “Let’s all congratulate Pete for putting on some cologne today.” Everybody laughed except me.

Steve said to me, “So what are you, getting married today?”

“No,” I said.

“Then what’s with the ice-cream man outfit?” he asked smiling.

Everybody laughed again.

“This isn’t an ice-cream outfit,” I said. “It’s a five-hundred-fuckin’-dollar suit.”

“I was just busting on you,” Steve said. “You look great. I mean I’m going to my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah later and look how I’m dressed?” He waited a second then said, “Nah, I was just kidding. I got a suit in the car. I just figured I’d put it on in the bathroom at the temple.”

I couldn’t believe it. He had a suit in his car and he wasn’t wearing it now? Some kid’s Bar Mitzvah was more important than his first day as a horse owner? Was the guy out of his mind?

I was so shocked I had nothing to say. I just stood there staring.

Everybody stood around for a while, bullshitting. I didn’t say anything until Steve turned to me and said, “You’re not Jewish, are you, Tommy?”

“No,” I said.

“I didn’t think so,” he said, “I mean with a name like Tommy Russo. What are you, Catholic?”

I nodded.

“Me too,” he said. “So you got any plans for Christmas?”

“Christmas? When’s Christmas?”

“In two days,” he said

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” I said. “I’ll probably just hang out in the city.”

“That’s cool. Yeah, my wife and me are gonna head up to Massachusetts, to her sister’s house. Bores the hell out of me—not Christmas, just being up there in the sticks, you know? It’s up near Amherst, not far from New Hampshire. They have a dog track up there so I figure the day after Christmas I’ll—man, what the hell happened to you?”

I’d taken off my sunglasses to pick off the crust in the corners of my eyes. The other guys were looking over now too.