How to Save a Life

It was mid afternoon, hot as dog breath. The Moreau Lake echoed the cloudless sky. No ripples, no defects. I was on my quest to video my feet near the shoreline of the lake when I noticed a disturbance on the water, about thirty feet from shore. What was that? Since Moreau is not known for sea monsters I stared at the wake trying to figure out the commotion.

The poor little guy was drowning! He tried hard to get to shore, but he wasn’t going to make it. He was doomed if help didn't arrive soon. I quickly ran back to Dad who also noticed the flailing victim. "God, why am I carrying so much shit in my pockets," I muttered, tossing keys, camera, pens and a Mike’s Lemonade bottle top into the Saratoga Track give-away chair. Okay, I had been drinking a little, but I wasn't going in over my head. However, I forgot to dump my wallet so I waded into the water with my wallet clenched between my teeth.

It was a small bird. It struggled to keep a float. Since birds are made to fly, I imagined he would float on the surface until completely waterlogged, but as I head out Dad yell, “He went under.” It was just a bob. The little guy was on the surface as I neared.

From reading "Boy’s Life" and my older brother’s Scouting manuals I knew that you should approach a drowning person from the back to prevent being taken under by the panicked victim. I didn’t expect the bird to give much of a fight, but to keep it from further alarm I put my hands under the water before I reached the little guy. I scooped him up without him pecking at my fingers. What was he more scared of - me or drowning?

He was too exhausted to care. I lifted him out of the water. Immediately, he closed his eyes and gave up his fight. I began to wade back to the shore with the drenched bird shivering in my hands. I took him to a sunny spot and watched him breath. He was going to make it, but he needed to dry out, warm up and gain some strength.

After a few minutes he opened his eyes, peeped once and went back to his resting mode. I figured that was "thank you." It certainly wasn’t the bird poop that covered my hand. I waited and watched him begin his recovery.

When I rescued him his wings and tail feathers had been spread eagle. He seemed so broken and fragile. Now he ruffled his wings and tucked them back into position. His tail feathers laid flat and smooth. Each little bit of recovery required rest. He'd peep and close eyes. His crown began to dry. A mat of wet feathers began to lift and fluff, revealing the soft down of a young gold finch.

I suspected it was his first flight. Who teaches a bird not to land in water? It is an experience few learn, never getting a second chance. This guy was luckier than most.

The shivering stopped. He became more alert. Once he turned his head to the lake as if to look at the waters that nearly stole his life. A few more shakes and he seemed nearly perfect, except for a few damp feather near his belly.

And then... he took off to the low branches of a nearby maple. There he adjusted his feathers, and preened a little before flying to higher branches.

That’s how you save a life.

Entitlement Program

“They spend three dollars to get into the place and they think they own the joint.” So is the observation of one of my fellow Peace Officers.

Upon walking through the gates at Saratoga Race Course some people morph into monsters of entitlement. The transformation is not flattering. For a mere three dollars the average pleasant person who would smile and say "excuse me" if you accidentally bumped your shopping cart by the potato bins at Price Chopper becomes wrapped in an attitude that would embarrass the South Park kids. Most carry the attitude in their coolers, while others have it tucked into their billfold.

To Be Rude

The New York Racing Association ( NYRA) stations a red vested hospitality corps at the gates. Armed with smiles, maps, brochures and a wealth of information these people can direct you to the nearest ATM, bathroom or any other location on and off site. They provide instructions on where to find your seat in the clubhouse, where to buy a cigar, or how to place a bet and where to celebrate or commiserate afterward. Never-the- less people stream pass this help and wander aimlessly through the grounds in search for information. When unable to obtain answers their three-dollar attitudes emerge.

By the time they find me aimlessly strolling through the grandstand to my post their patience is gone. The first race is still an hour and a half away. “Where do I get clubhouse tickets?” It’s a big ass building, how can you miss it?

Clearly agitated he went on, “I’ve had five different people tell me five different things. Do you know where to get clubhouse tickets?” He waved three general admission tickets under my nose.

What I know is that reserved seats are purchased at the main gate and general admission tickets can be exchanged at the gate to the clubhouse. So I asked, “What are you trying to do?”

Answering a question with a question frustrated him and he snarled, “If you can’t tell me, I’ll find someone else.” How's that been working for ya?

“I can tell you, but I need to know what you want to do. I hate to give you the wrong information. After all, I’m afraid you might hit me. I’m headed to the clubhouse entrance, but that might not be where you want to go. If it isn’t the right place, I’ll take you to where you can get a seat in the clubhouse. I’m just a little scared I might make you more frustrated.”

I saw him calculating a thought behind in his eyes. “I’ve got a couple of other people with me. Let me get them.” He disappeared into the crowd. When he initially approached me, I had been talking with a security guard. She now scurried away. Minutes went by and I began to think he wasn’t coming back. What did he look like? I can't remember. Make a mental note. Undress these people describing attire. When he returned, his mood had improved.

“I’m Bob,” he introduced himself as if we were meeting for the first time at a cocktail party.

I engaged in small talk as we walked to the clubhouse admission gate. When we arrived I offered, "If you need anything else, my post is right by the horse crossing.” He offered to bring me a beer. I declined but said, “Lemonade would be great.”

I never saw him again.

To Be Greedy

It’s a well-respected tradition to reserve a chair by leaving a newspaper on the seat. A picnic table can be held by placing a cooler on the table. Security will not resolve any disputes over claims. But we will toss people out who disturb the festive atmosphere of a summer afternoon at the races.

The amount of space a patron claims is inversely proportional to the knowledge one has about horseracing. Thus when someone comes to Saratoga and spreads out three acres of blankets to “reserve” lawn space near the horse crossing (prime real estate), it is an immediate signal that they have no horse sense, will smoke fat stinky cigars and will most likely place their bets prior to seeing the horses parade to the track. In other words, they will act like fools.

Such an invasion is tolerated by the regulars to a point in hopes the greenhorns will enjoy their experience and not interfere too much with theirs.

When one of the rookie interlopers staked out a piece of real estate that extended into the horse path a security guard moved the blanket. Thinking one of the other near-by patrons interfered with their claimed territory, a confrontation ensued. I foolishly found myself standing between the two shouting parties. I sounded like Arlen Specter for a moment. "Wait a minute Wait a minute." I suggested if they didn’t calm down I would show them off the grounds. (There was no freaking way I was going to kick the regular out because he provides water and cookies to the security guards and he places my bets.)

In typical juvenile fashion the response from interloper was, “Well you better say something to the other guy.”

I didn’t fall for that crap. With my best Peace Officer authority I bluffed, “I’m addressing you at the moment. Understand I’ll show you to the door if you don’t calm down.” Hell, I couldn’t move them off the ground any more than I can pick a winning horse.

Shortly thereafter, everyone kissed and made up. The interlopers eventually “snuck” into the clubhouse and we all said good riddance. Sometimes it is better to give up a little to gain a whole lot of peace.

To Be Privileged

Even in this tight economy, companies sponsor a day at the track, hosting their party in the “tents” where guests can eat and bet in for comfort of air conditioning. Admission is pricy and for that price the patrons are tagged with a tracking device placed around their wrist. With the bracelet they can roam freely in and out of the tents.

One door is no more than four feet from the horse path. On the other side the entrance to the horse path is surrounded by five foot high bushes. Patrons flow in and out of the tent on the tide of the races and horse likewise go u and down the path. It is an intersection made for disaster, especially because the outriders park their horses in the shade two feet away from the gate. People and horse often get very up close and personal. Visibility is restricted by horse butts and bushes. There is lots to watch out for, including the monitoring of glass bottles which are not suppose to cross the path.

Keeping people and horse separated is a challenge. I usually step into the middle of the path so I am visible to incoming horses and people crossing from my left and right. I eyeball the horse and rider to let them know that I know they are there and I make eye contact with people who are approaching. Most of the time people are preoccupied with the program, their winning tickets, their drinks or their cellphones.

I held up my hand to halt a patron’s return to the tent. He responded by showing me his bracelet. He apparently thought I was preventing him from entering. He snipped, “I have a gizmo.”

Just as a 1200 pound animal passed behind me, I responded, “I have a horse. Just saved your life.” That will be three dollars, thank you.

Fame and Fortune

It’s weird to be identified by someone whom you have never met. It’s what famous people deal with everyday. The other day, I yelled hello to the mayor of Albany, who doesn’t know I live in Hawaii, but probably thinks I am one of his constituents. "Hey, Mayor Jennings, you keeping the fort down?" Whatever the hell that means.

I stood at the clubhouse horse crossing waiting for the first race to start when a well-dressed, rather good-looking man approached me. “Excuse me," he began. Now I was expecting a stupid question like, "Can you tell me where the horses are?" Instead he asked, "Are you the person who wrote the book?”

I’d never seen this guy in my life. I smiled but responded, “Who put you up to that?” I looked around expecting to see seven co-workers tee-heeing in the paddock. Except, this guy didn’t look like he would play any part in a juvenile prank.

My little brain raced to zero in on how this guy knew me. Someone I met last year and didn’t remember? Before I could ask or get that quizzical expression off my face he said he had heard me on the radio. That was a month ago and it was on some obscure niche market radio station in Knoxville, Tennessee. But how would he know me from that? My voice?

I still looked stumped until he mentioned Al Roney. Al is the morning talk show host on 810 WGY in Albany.

Holy Cow! That was nearly two years ago. I called the radio station because Al Roney had gone off the deep end about man caves, as if he invented the concept. At first, I wrote him an email and then went off to work on my taxes. An hour later, Al was still talking about a man’s need for that off limits place where he can put the moose head over the ratty plaid Lazyboy and the woman in his life can’t do anything by roll her eyes. I finally had it. I called the station and told him I had been in the ultimate man cave. It was Shep’s boat, the Cosmic Muffin. I had the privilege of sailing across the ocean with this guy in his custom designed man cave that didn’t even have a bathroom. I had to use a bucket. Al thought that was a hoot. And so did this guy standing in front of me. He went on the internet, found my website, emailed me and ordered a book.

From the little photo on the back of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin he picked me out of the crowd and was able to identify who I was. Unbelievable. The fact that he even approached me is even more unbelievable. Just a few weeks ago I was eating dinner at the Everglades when I spotted someone I thought was an old high school classmate. Did I approach him? Hell no. But later, via faceBook I asked him if he had been at the restaurant.

That makes this guy a very good salesperson. He is in real estate. I had not remembered his name, but I certainly remembered his purchase. In fact, the first book never arrived, but fell out of its package. I sent another. It was a hard winter.

I just thought the whole meeting was remarkable. So I played a few horse and got the first place horse in the first three races.

Ah, there is nothing like a little fame and a little fortune to make the day.

Thanks Bruce.

Fire, Fire...

There is no typical fan at Saratoga. There is the horse groupie, the person who goes up and down the east coast tromping from one dingy track to another, following horses whose granddaddy's greatness has been spread as thin as the Track’s give-away blankets. There is the jockey groupie who saw the Cajun win the Kentucky Derby on a long shot and now hangs on the fence outside the paddock hooting at the goofy grinned jockey as if they had been life long friends. Wearing thin Italian shoes, orange checked shorts, and a linen jacket, there is the fan who talks horse, combines the oddest mix of horses for a Super Trifecta and swears to God dinner at Siro’s cost him nothing. The “I’m a player” loser. There is the dad who totes his son who clutches a stuffed gray pony and a pair of jockey goggles. And there is the guy so old his tattoo says, “Lincoln Sucks.” He brings some friends who have never been to the track and ends up getting separated and spends the next four hours searching the crowd. Finally, desperation drives the track veteran to ask security for help.

Joe looked for Billy who was a “little not right in the head. He had an accident.” I made a few notes and took Joe to the phone located near the Porch Reservations. The desk sergeant answered the phone and I explained I had a gentleman missing his party. When I began to describe the missing man the sergeant barked, “I’ll ask the questions.”

“What kind of shoes is he wearing?” Even Obama would have thought that was a pretty stupid question to ask because I would have looked for a forty-four year old white male with a blue pullover shirt about 5’ 10” with short gray hair and dark pants. But he’s the sergeant and I, the patrol officer who doesn’t have a clue as to how to become a sergeant.

“When was the party missing?” I wanted to say after he couldn’t find him, but instead I said, “since 1 PM.”

“What? And he is just reporting him missing three hours later?”

Yeah that’s right. Stupid and irresponsible, huh? I’ll tell him he didn’t make the report in a timely fashion and we can’t do anything about it. Statue of limitations and all.

After I answered all the sergeant’s questions describing the missing person, he asked me who was making the report.

“Joe DiLeo.”

“Who?”

“Joe DiLeo. D-I-L-E-O.” Joe was impressed that I pronounced and spelled his name correctly. Hey, I might be wearing this uniform, but I do have an MBA.

“Not Joe DiLeo. You got to be kidding me. Is he 80 years old?”

I asked Joe how old he was and sure enough he was 80. One thought ran through my head. Is this guy an annual prankster who reports someone missing and I haven’t heard about it. I’m going to be pissed.

The sergeant explained, “Joe DiLeo has been reported missing by HIS party.” Good, we will have a quick and happy ending.

“His party is at Gate A. Where are you?” Once again I told him I was at Porch Reservation.

“Wait there.” Click.

The rain was coming down in buckets. Standing under the cover was okay by me. "Just a few minutes," I told Joe. We struck up a little conversation while we waited. Joe was one of twelve children all boys except for the oldest who basically raised the family. Two of Joe’s brothers served in WW II, but Joe served in Korea. He had five kids, eighteen grandkids and fourteen great grandkids. Except for a bad back because of a car accident, Joe was in fairly good health. Took no medication.

Fifteen minutes rolled by and I was beginning to wonder where the hell the sergeant is. I called the desk and explained I was still waiting.

“Where are you?”

“Porch Reservations. Clubhouse.” In training they told us to be specific. There is only one Porch Reservation booth at the Track and it is a four by six booth. I couldn’t have been any more specific with a GPS.

“Okay, I am sending someone.”

Fifteen minutes later, I knew the names of Joe’s attorney and accountant, but I was still standing at the Porch Reservation with an 80 year old who needed to sit down. I found a folding chair for him and called the desk.

“We can’t find you.” I didn’t know what to say. I had on a bright yellow rain slicker that said NYRA on the back. It was so large it covered everything but my shoes. Joe was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with canoes. If I were reporting a fire, the building would be a pile of ashes by now.

Another fifteen minutes went by before a sergeant showed up. “We lost the other party.” Did I roll my eyes?

At that very moment Joe piped up, “There he is. In the blue shirt.” He pointed and all I saw was a sea of blue shirts.

“Billy, Billy, Billy”, he yelled out, but his old voice didn’t get too far in the crowd.

I yelled out, “Billy, Billy, Billy,” expecting someone in the crowd to wheel around. No dice, but I managed to get ten other patrons to take up the chant. And Billy turned around.