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.