Gilded Horseshit: The Kentucky Derby

I went to the Kentucky Derby not knowing what to expect. I had read Dr. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Better Than Sex: Confessions of a Political Junkie but at twenty-two those were the only two books of his I had under my belt. Had I read The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved I may have not taken the long drive from Chattanooga to Louisville. I am very glad I did. Unready, I witnessed a live definition of the colloquial use of the word “horseshit”, not as equine droppings but as, well, horseshit. These days, when I read Doc’s article, I still laugh until my balls draw up into my guts. Because I know.

The Kentucky Derby is the most blatant display of the American Scream Dream. Many argue for Las Vegas or Atlantic City to take that crown, but I disagree. As millions built this country on sweet Kentucky Bourbon, so does the Kentucky Derby remind an American what a fucking lot of cheap shot bullshit life in this country can be. The sound, the fury, the reprehensible nothing. And also the great loss.

I entered the place with bright eyed expectations of hours-long horse-racing and hoping to see sawed-off Jockeys trash talking one another, some real Seabiscuit type shit but what I got instead is comparable to entering Six Flags and realizing with frenzied disdain that I had entered a dank catacomb. Something medieval. The gray block smelled of shit and sweat and shame. Having arrived before the throng, the betting box windows were closed, eyes of the sleeping dragon. One way or another I missed the bar. I shrugged it off. Perhaps it would prove better to take this display in sobriety. After all, I did mean to gamble and gambling drunk often leads to disaster and that is why the drinks at the tables in Vegas are free, baby.

Like a pack of rats escaping a level twelve hurricane the cocksuckers soldiered from nowhere into the dungeon with their fur of suits and disheveled hair and flirty trophy wives and wasted, spinning eyes. My nerves spared no time feeling the Horror, far beyond the Fear. These hungry beasts had no manners. As they swarmed over me to make their bets and the eyes of the cash dragon slammed open I found myself alternately pushed, kicked, held, hugged, kissed, and altogether discombobulated. What the hell? Where had order gone? These fuckers were wealthy, upstanding American citizens.

At business, perhaps. At the Derby all participants are equally wicked. Leave your upbringing in the parking lot. The Biblical swarm of J.P. Fatbacks showed zero mercy to me or anyone so I decided to give them a taste of the trailer park. I wanted out of there, goddammit, but I meant to place a bet. I grabbed some lumpy cunt by his tie and jerked him away from the betting window. There may have been a fight if not for the engulfing force of the throng. As it turned out my biggest stump came when the bored bookie asked “Which horse, which race?”

Oh, shit. I had left my element. With no time to freeze or fear I did what any warrior would do; acted and hoped for a throat shot. At the Derby, much like in combat if not more so, there is no place for hesitation. All I knew to do at that green age was toss my money on the table and say “Long-shot, fifth race” mainly because I liked the number five and I had watched that goddamn episode of The Simpsons where the family gets Santa’s Little Helper the half-dead dog too many times as a child. I took my ticket and fought my way out of the pulsing masses. All had mean eyes whether they wore suits or wife-beaters. I saw that some of these poor, spitting souls really had come to bet even; the house, the car, the kids if possible. Escaping these intense rippling blocks of Romanesque flesh by ducking and dodging, I found myself holding my ticket like a stupid carny in the face of a young woman who looked like she had crawled fully-developed from William Styron’s head. She laughed and gave me her drink to hold while she fracked forward to place a bet.

Back to my element. I downed her drink, some good whiskey, potent fire. I dropped the glass and lunged away from the catacombs to the freedom of the stands, taking a place in the front as the bettors lumbered in broken-bone disarray behind me. Shortly after the announcer began yapping his heraldic spiel and no one listened. All present were far too intent on their muscled animals’ pursuit of glory…not for the animal, but for personal gain of the folding god. You know. The important thing in life. The crack shot of the starting gun shredded the air. A rain of alcohol inundated me so I took my shirt off to get drunk by osmosis. By the fifth race I was there.

My fucking horse came in last. Hours had passed in twenty minutes. Wait. Twenty minutes? Bullshit. Only three races left? Well damn, that would only be another ten minutes or so, right? Survival kicked in. I had to make slinky egress lest I be torn to shreds by these despicable lizards. The vista was jack--there would be no grandiose ending. I imagined a dead fuck. A few thrusts and a grunt and a rope of spent seed. Don’t forget to leave the money on the dresser.

I stuck around for a bit longer. The final race passed. The winners cheered and the losers threw down their tickets. I expected that. When the losers started fighting and strangling the winners in an attempt to steal their tickets surprise hit and went away like a ghost passing through sheetrock. Shock? At this? Even that young, I knew better. I had often theorized that if the Lottery were held in an unobtrusive environment like this one where individuals became the Hanged Man of the Crowd anarchy would overtake America within thirty seconds. At the Kentucky Derby this theory proved true in less than ten seconds, and I rushed the fuck out of the melee post-haste.

As I left the parking lot, safe in my Toyota and smoking a cigarette, I realized how Gatsby ended up dead, how James Dean ended up dead, and how all the good and young ones end up dead, wondering if I would end up dead like them. By uncanny grace I remain alive to write. I should be dead. Not honorable dead, like Lieutenant Dan wanted to be in that fucking Tom Hanks farce, but just dead, another toilet bound drunken junky with a grin on his face and the last flickers of once-proud dreams exiting his synapses. I have no answer to that quandary, but I can answer the first question. The Kentucky Derby—and no doubt the American Dream itself—is decadent and depraved.