My favorite author is Jack Kerouac.  I like the way he thinks.  I like the rhythm of his writing.  Whenever I seem to be out of rhythm I pick up one of my Kerouac books and soon things seem to start cutting right along smoothly.  I get that slow jazz beat feeling.  I start to dig things I wouldn’t usually dig.  I start to use words like “dig”.  I can’t help it.  I read Kerouac and my mind starts wanting to really look at things, really understand things.  Dig things.  I was in this state of mind when I decided to go to the races Friday night.  I took Kerouac to the car races.

    I noticed right off that I was in Kerouac mode.  I stood in line and made myself disappear.  I stood and listened and watched everything.  The first thing that really struck my interest was this guy standing a couple of spots in front of me.  Usually I wouldn’t have noticed him.  My head normally would have been in the clouds playing all kinds of scenarios that could possibly make me rich.  I noticed though.  I knew he couldn’t have been a local right off.  We’re not too  clothes conscious around here but this was a blatant disregard for all things Okie when it comes to clothes.  This guy had on a pair of cut-off jean shorts.  This would usually be acceptable.   However, these jeans looked brand new.  It was as if he had decided to take his knife out and make his blue jeans into shorts on the way to the races.  Cut-offs are fine as long as they are made from worn clothing but cutting a pair of new jeans into cut-offs, that is unacceptable.  So after I got over my hang up on the jean shorts I noticed this guy had on a pair of insulated underwear tops that the sleeves had been cut off.  What?  Now I’m hung up again.  Insulated underwear tops with the sleeves cut off in the middle of the summer, What?  The top looked new as well.   So this guy just cuts off his pants to make shorts and then ruins a new winter-time garment by cutting off the sleeves.  It’s a hundred degrees outside.  At least the guy had on tennis shoes.  They were black stylish tennis shoes with red laces and they looked brand spanking new.  He wore a very nice pair of half calf white socks with them.  It hits me for a second that this guy might be special.  I decided to check out this guys face and watch his body language.  Maybe I could find a clue by doing that.  The problem is that this guy looked very normal.  He is somewhere in his mid to late thirties.  He has glasses.  He has a full head of slightly greying medium length brown hair that is oiled down with something and combed back.  Old fashioned looking slicked-back hair.  He’s not using the “product” that people use these days for hair.  He’s got some Elvis, fifties, daddio, grease on those locks.  He is speaking to some woman and they seem to be having a very pleasant conversation.  The lady looks dead normal in race-car adorned t-shirt and Khaki shorts with ankle socks and white tennis shoes.  I can’t hear anything they say but the conversation looks very normal.  Then I finally get the clue I’ve been waiting for.  He says something he thinks is funny and he smiles.  That smile is a dead give away.  He does not smile in the normal okie way.  We do more of a smirk or a full open mouth, slack jawed thing.  That’s how we do it.  This guy pulled all the skin back from his teeth.  That’s how he smiled.  Whenever he would start to smile I would see the flesh muscles start to pull lips and skin away from his teeth.  I’ve seen this before.  I’ve seen Northern folks do this.  It’s a little creepy.  I had my answer and didn’t need to explore this anymore.  He’s a yankee.  A northerner.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

         The timing was perfect.  I  had finished my dig on the yank when it was my turn to buy a ticket.  I went in and took a seat a few minutes before the national anthem and the praryer.  It’s the prayer that really got my Kerouac going.  The man that does the prayer before the races each Friday night warrants a short explanation.  You see I have pre-concieved notions concerning the man that says the  prayer.  I know who he is.  I’ve met him.  I can’t dig him on quite the same level as the yank.  I’ll just explain a little about him and then get to the point.  He is a Vietnam vet.  He’s a good person.  He’s probably not normal but what the  hell, who is?  Anyways, he always start the prayer like most prayers start.  He greets the almighty with a howdy.  It’s right after the howdy that things get different.  He starts to speak in a very casual voice, very laid back.  He starts telling the almighty what’s been going on in the world, sort of catching him up on things.  Then he throws in a few tidbits about what’s been going on with him.  These things can range from small things like headaches or soreness to big things like surgery.  It’s very casual, very first name howdy neighbor stuff.  After the catching up part he launches into a commercial for the race track.  It’s a nice thing to do.  It seems odd that a real prayer by a real guy, not an actor in a comedy, would be doing commercials inside a prayer to the almighty.  I think this is when he is speaking to us.  He seems to meander between speaking to  us and the almighty.  It’s very  much like  he’s at a dinner party with god and friends.  He always mentions the armed services.  I like that.  We all owe those cats alot, always will.  After the armed services he always launches into a short story.  The stories are always about someone he knows who is going through a bad time.  The stories are touching and very real.  I’m unsure if the short story is for us or the almighty.  Either way it’s a nice jesture.  He ends his prayer in a typical manner not befitting the casual cosmic journey we just took with him.   I Kerouac-dug that prayer and it’s form. 

      The race track I go to has this drawing every race night.  You buy a ticket for a dollar.  If they draw your ticket you get half the money from the ticket sales and the other half goes to some charity.  This way you can feel good and righteous about gambling.  I always buy a ticket or two.  It doesn’t hurt that the ticket girls are young and very pretty.  They have on shorts, real ones, and t-shirts.  They are usually very friendly and flirty with all the older guys of which I am one.  It’s a good way to sell more tickets.  The ticket girl that works my area is a tall blonde nicely proportioned.  She is young so I only admire her from an artistic perspective.  I usually make her walk up the stairs to sell me a ticktet one at a time through out the evening.  I do this because I believe it improves my chances of winning.  I like to have tickets at different places in the hat.  It’s called logical even though I have never won a drawing or even been close.  This ticket girl friday night ignored me.  I’m an easy sell.  Walk up to my seat and I will hand you a dollar and say something profound.  You hand me a ticket and smile and then leave.  We repeat this several times during the evening.  I think this ticket girl thinks I’m a perv or something.  She made sure she was never looking my way when in my section.  She went out of her way to avert her eyes.  She’s all hung up on me being a perv.  I’m not a perv.  How dare she think such vile thoughts.  I didn’t buy a ticket.  I was branded a pervert in her mind.  I’ll forever be a discusting pervert to her even though it is based on no evidence and would be thrown out of court in a second should there be such a court for thoughts I think people  have about me.  I dug the fact that I could read her mind.  Kerouac dug the fact that we both could read her mind.  I Kerouac-dug the races in general.  It was probably my night to win that damn drawing though.  I’m taking her to thought court.  I want my money.