Crap-py Attitude

In our culture we generally avoid going around stinking to high heavens. So we bath, use deodorant, brush our teeth, run a comb through our hair and try to keep the grime from collecting under our finger nails. And generally we don’t run around with bare feet. It is a matter of politeness and there is an assumption that we are personally responsibility for our own hygiene so that we don’t offend others. Or be a total embarrassment to ourselves.

I also believe we have a personal responsibility not to put our moods on others. Like bad body odor we should not offend others with a stinky attitude. We are obligated to act happy, even if we are not.

At 5 am I reported for duty at the track. I actually looked forward to a day of being outside, watching the horses at the St Clement’s Horse Show and shooting the bull with other guards. Easy money compared to swinging a sledge hammer and hauling concrete. Under the glorious mist filled sunrise over the Oklahoma Track, I listened to the crows squawk as they zeroed in on bread crumbs and French fries tossed to them by the nighttime guard.

The nighttime guard warned me about the on coming guard’s toxic behavior. His reputation preceded him. I didn’t know his name, but I had witnessed his actions at Belmont. There he called a group of Asians chinks when they moved a few picnic tables around, he threw a chair when he “lost” a confiscated case of Heinekens and he strutted around the park muttering complaints about the crowd’s stupidity, NYRA’s incompetency and the bullshit of life in general. I immediately figured out who he was. I was going to have the pleasure of working with him for six hours. Maybe four if we both got breaks.

When he showed up at 7 am he immediately rearranged the signs posted at the gate. The speed limit and the posting to show your credentials were not in the “right place.” They worked fine for the previous two hours. Each of the three parking cones was then re-positioned. Next, the two chairs in the security hut switched and I couldn’t figure out why he wanted to sit on the one with the broken back.

When a horse van pulled in, the driver had to wait for him to complete the required paperwork because he insisted it was his job to check credentials and wave cars through the gate after removing the cones. I wasn’t doing anything at the time because there were no oncoming horses to hold traffic for. But as soon as I walked over to the gate and reached for a cone he barked, “That’s my job.” I feigned no intentions of touching his cone then watched the inefficiency of his strutting back and forth from hut to gate while keeping everyone waiting. It would have been humorous if he wasn’t muttering profanities every step of the way and pretending to be so put out by the inconveniences of everyone else one, who were all stupid idiots of questionable lineage.

Not once during the shift did he make eye contact with me, or acknowledge my existence, but once in his flurry to open the gate he nearly ran me over. No apologies and I'm sure at the moment I was a stupid b*. He kept his newspaper on the other stool. He made sure that he returned it there whenever I got up and left to hold traffic for the horses. Upon my return I removed his papers and sat back down.

I had been offered a cup of coffee by the night shift guard and was told that my day shift partner would attempt to throw it away. He didn’t but complained about the possibility of spillage on his paperwork, even though he had a large hot tea. I had no intentions of drinking the 3 AM coffee, but occasionally took a sip to hold my right to have it in the shack.

About mid-shift a horse owner came by and stopped to talk to the guard. By then I had positioned myself across the street no longer able to take his under the breath rants and cusses. I paid little attention to their conversation. When the owner drove off, my buddy had a muffin and a hundred dollar bill, gifts from the owner. “It’s a f’ing bran muffin,” he griped wiping the crumbs away from his mouth. He tossed the remainder into the trash and he showed me the Ben Franklin.

What could he possibly complain about? He took another hundred from his wallet and held it up to the sunshine. Squinting into the sunshine, he flipped it over. Then he took the gifted one hundred and did the same thing. “Just making sure it’s not a g---damned counterfeit,” he said. About that time I wanted one of the crows to shit in his eye.