that’s good—you want to flush cover to run behind if you can. But he was parked deep, with two horses ahead of him on the outside instead of just one.
I glanced at the timer, the three-quarters had gone in 1:27.4, so I knew the lead horse wouldn’t be able to hold on, but he was trying like hell anyway.
The first horse coming up on the outside slingshotted the clubhouse turn and made his move. The horse behind him had his nosein the other driver’s helmet. Just as those two pulled past the leader, Sheba’s Pride swung out three-wide and made his own lane.
Down the stretch, it looked like the two horses who’d been running outside were really flying. Sheba’s Pride was just grinding away on the outside, closing on the leader, but not fast enough. But he kept grinding, right to the wire. The photo had his nose in front. The Double paid $709.50, and I had it five times.
I didn’t go cash my tickets right away. I wanted to watch the replay on the monitors. And make some marks in my notebook.
I wished the old man had been there, but I didn’t know why.
13
Late one afternoon, I got a call. They told me the job was over. They didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask. Instead of going to the track that night, I checked out of the motel and drove to a new one, all the way over by JFK.
The next morning, I packed my duffel bag: my clothes, my tools, and my notebook. I would have ditched everything except the notebook, but I didn’t know how this would come out. That’s why the virgin semi-auto I’d bought for the job I never did went into the slot built behind the glove box. Then I threw the duffel in the trunk of my car and started driving.
I’m going to try my luck at this sweet little track upstate I heard about. If I can be good at anything besides the one thing I already knew I was good at, maybe I could be good, period. A good man, I mean.
I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out, soon enough.
for Stephen Chambers
PASSAGE TO PARADISE
Beyond the border is everything they pray for. Pray
for
, not pray
to
. The border is no plaster shrine; it is a gateway to Paradise. The only one.
My life is to take them there.
They pray to God, but they cannot see God. They pray for the border, but that, too, they cannot see. God is only a belief. And the border; it is only a line on a map.
That line is not God’s work. There is no river to swim, no mountains to climb. The terrain is exactly the same on either side. The borderline is not made by God; it is the mark of the Conqueror, a dry moat surrounding his palace.
Those who pray, those who dream, those who risk all they have against what they could be … they are no threat to the Conqueror. They do not want the palace; they dream only of tending its grounds.
On the Conqueror’s side of the border, pay for such work is meager by their standards. It is not irony that the people of the Conqueror call it “slave wages.” But on the other side, such wages can transform a life. Many lives. For eternity.
A man can live for years in a hovel if he knows each day brings his family closer to glory. A man can live with many others, packed in as if in prison, treated with contempt, driven like a mule. He can look at a tattered picture of his wife and children and feel his chest swell with pride. Why? Because he is their hero. Their provider and protector. His children will have clean water to drink. His children will never be beggars. His wife will not sell her body to feed them. Someday, there might even be a house. And school.
And his grandchildren will prosper, because their parents will have carried on his name, each generation climbing higher than the one before, because each will have begun higher.
All because of their foundation. The foundation he is building with his body-crushing labor.
His wife will be the envy of the others in the village. Her husband is not one of those fat, drunken cowards who tell big stories but never do big things. They make babies, but
I glanced at the timer, the three-quarters had gone in 1:27.4, so I knew the lead horse wouldn’t be able to hold on, but he was trying like hell anyway.
The first horse coming up on the outside slingshotted the clubhouse turn and made his move. The horse behind him had his nosein the other driver’s helmet. Just as those two pulled past the leader, Sheba’s Pride swung out three-wide and made his own lane.
Down the stretch, it looked like the two horses who’d been running outside were really flying. Sheba’s Pride was just grinding away on the outside, closing on the leader, but not fast enough. But he kept grinding, right to the wire. The photo had his nose in front. The Double paid $709.50, and I had it five times.
I didn’t go cash my tickets right away. I wanted to watch the replay on the monitors. And make some marks in my notebook.
I wished the old man had been there, but I didn’t know why.
13
Late one afternoon, I got a call. They told me the job was over. They didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask. Instead of going to the track that night, I checked out of the motel and drove to a new one, all the way over by JFK.
The next morning, I packed my duffel bag: my clothes, my tools, and my notebook. I would have ditched everything except the notebook, but I didn’t know how this would come out. That’s why the virgin semi-auto I’d bought for the job I never did went into the slot built behind the glove box. Then I threw the duffel in the trunk of my car and started driving.
I’m going to try my luck at this sweet little track upstate I heard about. If I can be good at anything besides the one thing I already knew I was good at, maybe I could be good, period. A good man, I mean.
I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out, soon enough.
for Stephen Chambers
PASSAGE TO PARADISE
Beyond the border is everything they pray for. Pray
for
, not pray
to
. The border is no plaster shrine; it is a gateway to Paradise. The only one.
My life is to take them there.
They pray to God, but they cannot see God. They pray for the border, but that, too, they cannot see. God is only a belief. And the border; it is only a line on a map.
That line is not God’s work. There is no river to swim, no mountains to climb. The terrain is exactly the same on either side. The borderline is not made by God; it is the mark of the Conqueror, a dry moat surrounding his palace.
Those who pray, those who dream, those who risk all they have against what they could be … they are no threat to the Conqueror. They do not want the palace; they dream only of tending its grounds.
On the Conqueror’s side of the border, pay for such work is meager by their standards. It is not irony that the people of the Conqueror call it “slave wages.” But on the other side, such wages can transform a life. Many lives. For eternity.
A man can live for years in a hovel if he knows each day brings his family closer to glory. A man can live with many others, packed in as if in prison, treated with contempt, driven like a mule. He can look at a tattered picture of his wife and children and feel his chest swell with pride. Why? Because he is their hero. Their provider and protector. His children will have clean water to drink. His children will never be beggars. His wife will not sell her body to feed them. Someday, there might even be a house. And school.
And his grandchildren will prosper, because their parents will have carried on his name, each generation climbing higher than the one before, because each will have begun higher.
All because of their foundation. The foundation he is building with his body-crushing labor.
His wife will be the envy of the others in the village. Her husband is not one of those fat, drunken cowards who tell big stories but never do big things. They make babies, but
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