Excerpt: BUG

Whitey came to pick me up by the jockey room after he’d spoken to the Steward, and I showered. I slipped into the bucket seat of his white corvette--proof, I supposed, of his powers as a purse winner. He drove in the darkness for a while, then lit a cigarette and offered me one. I took the pack from him and smelled them. They brought back some nebulous memory, half remembered, of a poker game in our den, Dad and a few other guys.
“Haven’t been so basted since Lexington,” He lit up. “Man, I was one hung over hombre the next day trying to win races one after the other. Didn’t succeed in nothing but vomiting between every race. Nothing churns you up more than that blasted ocean motion. Ever did that?”
“Hell, I just had my birthday in March, so I haven’t really done much drinking. From what I’ve seen, the fun doesn’t last very long. Right before I broke my arm…” I was going to say something but it all choked back, a flood, an avalanche.
“You two were best friends?”
“We went to school together. Dropped out at the same time. Went to the same man to win our bugs. He had Bayard’s name on a matchbook. Some guy wrote it down for us when we got work at the stable at Manassas. We hitched to Timonium on a chicken truck-- you wouldn‘t believe it. The whole hippie cavalry was there playing on banjos. I felt like I‘d walked in on a set of the Grand Ol’ Opry. Bayard nearly didn’t take me on either. Zim had to beg him. He thought I was too runty and weak looking to ride. I thought that was the limit. Zim, he liked. Good all-round athlete; pecs, delts, lats, the whole shee-bang. Good confirmation, he said.”
“How’d he come to be called Zim?”
“Don’t know. That’s what we called him in high school.”
Whitey drove into the gravel parking lot of a low slung bar and grille on the side of the highway. I looked up to see a sign with a round pink pig on the rust colored building. A dancing pig holding a hot dog. A hand lettered sign said: Best Damn Barbeque in Baltimore County.
“You getting the best damn barbeque in Baltimore County?” I asked, thinking maybe I‘d try it myself.
“I’m getting me Mary K. You can go get your barbeque.”
“You going to dump me to screw a tramp?”
“It’ll take five minutes, I promise. She’s all business. Day like this makes me pretty excited. Feel like I‘m about to explode,” he reminded me that he’d kicked home five winners at Pimlico that day and his pants were sagging with pay dirt, and probably something else Mary K. would be interested in. We got a booth and he spooned for a moment with a large coffee colored waitress and said, “you take care of my little friend here, Okay? Bring me a draft, Mimmi. Give him whatever he wants.”
He sashayed away, limber body in thin jeans and cowboy boots, off to meet with Mary K., and Mimmi stood over me like a drill sergeant and said “what do you want.”