The Sky is Falling at the Saratoga Race Course

The sky, the cumulus clouds, the local airliner painting its white streak, and the sun at 1 o’clock moved according to a grand schedule. As if some puppeteer was manning an orrery, spinning a mechanical dome of gradient blue, tracking the clouds and the hot air balloons on an automated railing, and wiring the sun to the ceiling with a bright LED that blinds anyone from seeing the fabricated assets. John wondered this, and if turning off the LED is what made it night—or maybe there was a larger world behind the dome, where large people blocked out their sun to fabricate night for the smaller people. And while the dome’s axis rotated and the LED flickered on and off to perennial intervals, for a brief moment, the large people might consider their smaller counterparts: Sitting back, laughing at their inability to look behind it all.

“Oy, Johnny! Quit dazin’. You have half n hour to clean this whole place unless you want to clean the stables instead,” said Gordon, looming over John who now jumped from his perch on seat 5C, row 14 of the bleachers.

“Yeah. I mean yes, I’m cleaning. Don’t worry ole Gord,” John nervously smiled as Gord in his plump, beige suit sauntered back to his office. John would have to clean rows 13 through 20 before they let anybody in for the day’s Horse Derby. It was a Sunday, so they were opening at 2 p.m. instead of the usual 1.

Although he’s worked at the Saratoga for 4 months now, John wasn’t actually fond of horses or betting or horse betting for that matter. He found his place here at Saratoga because of a growing dislike for his last job, not to the point of quitting but enough so that when his Uncle Bob, friends with “good ole Gord,” offered to recommend him, John obliged. His last job was as a gift shop cashier at the Ulysses S. Grant Cottage, a small Bavarian-style beach house in Saratoga Springs famous for being the infrequently visited summer getaway for the President with the same name. John wasn’t sure if the eponymous building came before the name or the name before the building but frankly, he didn’t care for the particulars. What did surprise him, however, was how self-aggrandizing the whole charade was. How for the Saratoga Historic Sites website, photographers were hired to take pictures of other photographers taking pictures of the cottage. The whole idea confused John. It’s like they’re making famous how famous it is and people fall for it, thought John.

Cleaning row 15’s seat 3B now, the whole famous-for-being-famous thing disordered John’s mind. He didn’t know where it began or ended—a fractal of nameless energy coming into itself out of nothing. Out of nothing. For a few weeks, the idea became a kind of phobia to John. Growing up, John was addicted to mystery novels—a beleaguered confusion turned into workable, impregnable sense—and the lack of a gift-wrapped, bow-tied resolution unsettled him. They had the kind of sense that was organic, the stuff you could work with, bake with even, thought John. At 9 years-old, John’s favorite series was Nancy Drew; at 13, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; nowadays, it’s the legal thrillers of John Grisham or Lee Child’s tactical mysteries. Whether it’s the escape to the Cayman Islands of Mitch and Abbey after cracking a masterminded murder firm in The Firm or the stereotypical ex-military crime-buster in Child’s Jack Reacher series, John was hooked on mystery novels. Albeit the formulaic nature, John found the endings brilliant—no cryptic, unfinished business and instead a look back at the labyrinthine mystery, now a steeple of ornate, explainable summary. Atop this view, John beamed at seeing the story in its aftermath and deducing it all again—Just as he now stood atop row 17, in front seat 2A, taking in the endless sea of grey, sun-washed, folder chairs and behind that the dirt track, carved near perfectly into oblong race course out of the Saratoga bluegrass. John thought about how empty it all was before opening and how, like the plastic pawns and cards from a board game, he’d imagine the perfect role for everything: Attendees in the bleachers one-by-one, horses on the circular track racing clockwise, him or another smiling employee behind the concession stand. All of which stood empty and motionless but of course once John was done fixing the place up, there would be nothing stopping the grand locomotion of the business.

Despite preferring his new job at the Saratoga Race Course, John found it on the smaller scale uninteresting. The monotony of aisle to aisle cleaning, the tormented arithmetic in tracking tickets and attendees, the punch card getting stuck on the punch machine, the helicopter-boss incapable of promoting anyone, the seemingly unending defecation of the racehorses, and the collective obsession with betting. It was all tracked, scheduled, counted, timed, particular. He often found himself daydreaming because of the expectedness of everything. The regularity gave him an endless void of time to ponder, to float. That was until he found a note under seat 0C of row 19 in the bleachers that heavied his boots firmly on the ground.

‘The betting is fixed for tomorrow.’

John’s eyebrows furrowed. He took a second glance. Was this note from yesterday’s races? Must be or else I would’ve seen it. But betting is the one thing that shouldn’t be fixed, he thought. Slipping it into his pocket before Gordon could see, John went through the motions of cleaning the last row. What could that mean? John didn’t know much about betting, being hired merely as the made-up-on-the-spot position, ‘janitorial admissions clerk’ by Gordon. But he knew betting was meant to be spontaneous, uncertain, and random to the point of only making educated guesses. Certain fate didn’t exist in horse betting but if it did, then it would be, well, illegal, John thought.

Well, certainly there IS an aspect of known results. A kind of destiny revealed in the end. John stared at the note for a second. Handwriting, naturally sans serif, lacked hooks and turns and in dried out black ink conveyed its message with candid, smooth understanding. At least, John understood it. Surely betting must be like that too, like reading almost. Educated guesses… People arrive at them somehow, reading the signs of the horse’s health, measuring the pressure of their calf muscles in psi, then picking the strongest one. Do they do that? John didn’t know, but for a moment as the clouds waxed and waned him, he wanted to know more. John wasn’t particularly loyal to Saratoga’s bureaucratic ways but he was somehow chosen. Imbibed with this message, he felt tethered to a potential explanation. He scratched his scraggly orange hair, slipped the note in his blue custodial overalls, and worked through aisle 20 before climbing up to the 2nd floor banister where the in-person betting stall lied.

John showed the note to his coworker Meg, who facilitated the incoming bets online and in-person. Meg who was still waiting for the track to open for the day was browsing Yelp, fiending for new restaurants with reputations coerced by the user mass of foodies and bots in a system of stars—and reviews if one had the energy to read them.

“What is this?” Meg’s eyes lazily tracked to John at the windowsill.

“I found it in aisle 19, under one of the seats. Fixing means they’re planning to cheat right?” John’s fingers clenched the window’s railing, head now poking through.

“It’s a yellow sticky note John, and we don’t even know when they wrote that or why. Plus fixing doesn’t necessarily mean cheating.”

“It could, though! I mean why would anyone write this down?”

“It’s probably a prank or something. I know the old retirees from Mary’s down the street love to play games like that. Behind their sappy old-person faces, they’d make dirty jokes and fool around like that all the time. Do you really think someone could be cheating?”

John retracted his forebody from the window, his left hand still clinging to the railing. He thought about it for a moment. Probably not. No… in all likelihood not, but if I could stop it then I would, John thought to himself. The thought of him solving it gave a warm feeling, filling the room and enveloping him.

“Yes! They could be. We should be cautious anyway, right Meg? It’s like going to a restaurant without checking the Yelp consensus. I mean, how could you, right?” said John, knowing full well that he didn’t care much for Yelp or the consensual chattering of millions of nameless people behind it. He found you couldn’t tell the bot reviews from the human reviews very well except for the fact typos were only human—and that confusion, that interstitial state of being, in the presence of a nameless, uncertain horde frightened him. But, of course, he played it off for the help of Meg. And if she fell for it then it would prove, well, nothing about her being human or bot.

“True, I guess. I mean if they mean fixing, they could mean ‘match-fixing,’ which would require an entire group of conmen—probably a whole organization. I mean Saratoga is one of the most heavily popular and well-known race courses, there is just no way we’d let that slip through,” said Meg, index and middle finger both itching her temple.

“Wait wait wait, what is match-fixing exactly?”

“It’s when players throw games on purpose to ensure betting on a certain team, or horse in this case, would profit because a predetermined team would win.”

“But… that…” John was still wrapping his head around the ‘teams’ being the ‘horses.’

“—Would require the horses to deliberately lose today’s race, so one horse would win for certain, which I don’t think you could plan. I mean they’re horses, not humans John.”

Saratoga Race Course was famous for being one of the few in the country that still held pure race horses, without jockeys. John was left blank, relaxing his body before the window, one finger still touching the railing.

“Yeah, true. This note was surely written for a reason though. Has there ever been match-fixing in horse races, Meg?”

“Not that I know of, and again, it could just be a dumb prank or we don’t have enough context. Listen, I’m sure it’s fine. Just hurry up and get ready for admissions.” Meg woke her computer from sleep and flipped the ‘CLOSED’ sign to ‘OPEN’ as John’s steps trailed off. The window was left wide open.

DING… DONG…

The clocktower on the East side of the Saratoga rang its bell signaling the hour. It was now 2 o’clock.

John usually headed to the employee lockers for a quick change of clothes before manning the admissions booth at the West entrance. There was an hour grace period—for snacks, concessions, and betting—before the day’s horse race would begin. But John couldn’t get over the note. It ran around his head, the periphery of his thoughts, like the fly-halo he’d get when working at the concession stand. That buzzing, the rapid flapping of its wings, the way he had to bat it off with his hands every few seconds but always missed. It was a rhythm: A slap at the air every few beats. In his private daydreams, he wondered if one day he wouldn’t wave the fly off—if he let it spin around him indefinitely. Would he be put under some insectile seance? Hearing and seeing the fly at different intervals of rising and lowering buzz—like the ticking of a pendulum swinging in front of the seemingly impromptu audience member at a hypnotist show. Circled by the fly until the spell of its wings lifted John toward the sky, toward an invisible web connecting the clouds made just for this very fly to be eaten. Did he and the fly share the same fate?

John didn’t know why he was reminded of this daydream but he quickly brushed it off. Why would anyone write this? Were they planning to hand it to someone? Maybe there was a mass-scale organization fooling the Saratoga Betting Association. But… how would you force a horse to lose? Cover its feet in some oil so it would slip? Hire a horse whisperer and communicate the plan to all of the 8 horses, 7 of them slowing down near the end for the chosen horse to gallop through the red line, faking its celebratory neighing as the crowd cheered. John wasn’t sure how a massive betting scandal like this would be orchestrated, or how much money was on the line. But if the note was any clue to its existence, John figured with all the mundane time and energy on his hands to think, he could possibly find out.

In the stuffy employees’ locker room, John quickly changed out of his dark blue custodial jumper for black slacks, a cognac-colored Men’s Wearhouse belt, and his green Saratoga employee polo. Slipping on some all-black leather Reebocs (they were more comfortable than dress shoes), John headed out towards the admissions booth.

Being late, the line extended past the courtyard, which consisted of a fountain sculpted into a horse, and Gordon’s black Bentley which he treasured so much—although, John didn’t know why. Hurrying into the booth, John shut the plexiglass door behind him, the sun glaring its mask of white over his eyes. Blocking it with his hand, he noticed something.

‘Come and experience the World Famous SARATOCA Today!’

It was the entrance poster hanging from the third-floor balcony of the clubhouse. ‘Saratoca’? It should be ‘Saratoga’, thought John. John stared at it for a minute while the crowd was eagerly waiting. The SARATOCA part was supposed to be the logo of the place. All capitals with a red and white tent-roof over the O and the C. And a red silhouette of a horse jumping through the two letters. But it should be a G, not a C. Did the poster manufacturer make an error? It should be done by machine and computer. Wouldn’t they simply CTRL-C-CTRL-V our website logo? It didn’t make sense. But John didn’t have time to daze out into the mystery of it all right now. He grabbed his stamp, dipped it in a red ink pad, and marked the first entrant’s ticket, and then proceeded to repeat.

The menial and repetitive work gave John time to survey the crowd. He saw every person one by one stop by the window, hand in their card, take it back, and trail off to the clubhouse. Their whereabouts afterward John wouldn’t know, but for this sliver of a moment, he could inspect every person entering.

The culprit must be here—or culprits. Even if the bets were handled online, and they were a part of some larger organization, they must rendezvous at some point inside—or how else would they sabotage 7 of the horses? John scanned every ticket he saw. Joshua Pierce, Sean Browne, Joey Li, Greg Charbot, Ian, Mary, Faye, James, Susan, Bob, Jim, another John. The names were mixed and jumbled in John’s head, sorted, mixed, and then resorted as if he were playing the potential losing round of Scrabble. As his forehead furrowed and a dorsal vein between his darting eyes popped, he thought one of these names had to be in on it. He analyzed their outfits. A middle-aged woman wore a lavender blouse with dark blue jeans; an adult man had on a white dress shirt with washed-out black slacks; another man showed off a whole tuxedo (Maybe someone famous or wealthy? Would they really cheat in horse-betting? They certainly had the money too, or the money was already won through previous, never-caught instances of match-fixing); an elderly woman with a large sunhat and a gold inscribed cane (Someone from Mary’s? Would their two-faced nature allow them to cheat with ease? Having the elderly from the saboteur team come in person would meet no glancing eyes surely, conveniently.); a man in a tan trench coat; a woman in a one-piece maroon backless dress and high heels (Wealthy? And here to preserve it, maybe?); another woman in a grey sweater and light blue jeans; a man in a turtleneck and round spectacles; a woman; a man; another man; a woman. John was getting nowhere. He marked a few names he found suspicious, maybe a few too many vowels or maybe too French-sounding, and noted the outfits he worried over, the trench-coat man and the spectacled black turtleneck. But in the end, the names, descriptions, and unforeseen identities of these passerby’s culminated to nothing more than the constituents of words—suffixes, prefixes, phonemes, pieces, parts. No whole words relieved him of any stress of the game he was playing, the names and their unconfirmed connections merely teased him before he gave up his turn.

Useless, useless, useless. My shift continues until 2:30 anyways, when we close off admissions for the race, so I can’t even shadow any of the suspicious ones. What’s more, I never stamped a ticket for Row 19 0C. I guess the note-writer would probably switch up the rendezvous spot anyways. All that wasted effort. Or maybe it wasn’t… I could certainly find these people in the crowd, at the drink bar, the betting line, or right in their seats. I could go up and ask them myself, take direct action. John considered it as he played with his hangnail, pulling it then patting it down as pain surged his hand. The cuticle refused to let it go and he found it a daily annoyance, never knowing when it developed and separated from the rest of the nail, but considering himself a fidget-thinker he found some pleasure in toying with the elusive pain. The stables! John decided if he was ever going to stop the potential horse betting scandal, he would need to confront those working or loitering around the stables. They have the highest chance of being a part of this all because they’re so close to the horses, thought John. They’re either involved or know how the culprit would ‘fix’ a horse to win. They must!

Putting on a black windbreaker, John headed outside and down to the stables, eastward, opposite of the betting station and on the ground floor. Entering the two large red swinging doors, he saw a long hallway of dirt, dust, and hay flanked by the individual housings for each racehorse. Reeking of horse feces and grass, John pulled his collar over his nose and mouth, hoping the polyester and cotton would mask it. Past the 4th stable and sitting on a black, wooden stool was a middle-aged man around 45 years old wearing a denim jacket and blue jeans. John had never seen the man before but he also didn’t work in the stables, having only been there two or three times as punishment from Gord for daydreaming. Is this guy really sabotaging the horses? If only I had an employee list then I could cross-reference and completely call him out. John was now slowly walking down the hall, taking time to gander at the different horses to buy time for his thoughts. Fuck, I need a plan. I can’t just waltz in and expect this guy to tell me any information.

Staring at each horse, John saw some of them wearing elastic saddles with their colors and numbers—purple-8; green-6; orange-4. Odd, some of the horses for the day’s race aren’t here, thought John. The saddled ones wore thin, beige billets fastening the saddle in place and a white crescent covering over their noses. While staring at blue-2, John zipped up his black windbreaker, covering any tracing of the identifiable dark green employee polo. He slowly walked over, coasting his head around the stable before directing it towards the man.

“Hello!” John waved, his other hand in his pocket now.

“Hello,” the old man replied. He was cleaning some crescent blade, the same size as his hand. A hand scythe maybe? To kill… and then hide the muder weapon under a sleeve? Turning upside down, the blade gleamed as a brush on the other end was brought into the hazy barn light. Loosening up now, John realized it was probably a tool.

“I had questions about the stable, and was wondering—do you work here?” John gritted his teeth, jaw muscles pushing against the skin of his cheeks.

“Mhm. What do you need?” The old man didn’t look up, but pulled out a brush and towel to clean it. Do I ask him if he knows about the scandal? He would just clench up on me then; I need to lure it out somehow.

“Are you the stable keeper?” John didn’t know what to ask, he was mostly winging it.

“Stable keeper? ‘Grooms’ is what we’re called. We take care of the horses, feed them, clean them, cut their nails.” The old man gestured to his horse pick on the ground, much of the cuticle shavings now on the brush he held. John felt his own hangnail twitch for a moment.

“Erm, are ‘grooms’ able to horse whisper?” John was reaching, hoping to catch bait here.

“Horse whisper? HAHAHA.” The old man’s chuckle echoed through the stables. “Oh man, no. We don’t do that here. Frankly, I don’t know anyone who does and I’ve been working with horses for over 20 years. I mean, I guess if horse whisperin’ is just creating an intimate bond with the creatures then I guess you could call me one. But I’d separate the job from the name on this one. Creates some sort of eerie mysticism when really I think anybody kind enough to a horse could be a ‘horse whisperer’.” If this guy is working with some sort of cheating organization, then he is one really good actor.

“Haha, I guess you’re right. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Marshall. And you young man?”

John thought his name ordinary enough to pass off. “John.”

“Well John, are you fancyin’ to be a horse whisperer?” Marshall smiled.

“Oh no, haha. I’m here for the race today as a…” John blanked for a moment. His hangnail caught on his windbreaker and the surge of pain jolted him. “Sportswriter for Horses Weekly.” A nervous smile crept on his face. “I was just curious about the stables and… how Saratoga runs its races with no jockeys.”

“Horses Weekly huh?”

John’s eyes, vitalized and scared of their new life as a sports columnist, stared at the horse pick, almost leaping out before him.

“Ah, yes, I think I’ve heard of them.”

John relaxed and blinked. “Saratoga is one of the last standing racecourses that do horse Derbys and races without jockeys. If my history serves me, I think it started when Mr. Saratoga became superstitious because of his religion. He was Catholic, first, and a dreamer, second, you see.” The old man put down the brush and laid the towel flat on his lap. “After reading Revelation, he became deathly afraid of the Four Horseman—not of them but how their written omen might fade away from our collective belief system. With many Christians taking a more positive stance on the Four Horsemen and many in the 20th century moving away from religion, he was fearful that one day the horsemen—Death, Famine, War, Conquest—would ride down from the skies and punish those for disbelieving. Therefor’, Mr. Saratoga thought it would be fitting, almos’ as a protective charm, to have some of his races stay riderless. Rumor has it, he secretly believed it would protect him from the apocalypse if he saved the saddles on his horses for the four big guys.”

“Do you really believe Saratoga is still committed to preserving Mr. Saratoga’s religious goals?”

“Well, I’ve not worked long enough to know for sur’, but if there was something he’d bet on, it would definitely be that apocalypse.” Something he’d bet on…

“Are you Catholic, Marshall?”

“Oh, I used to be. Not that I ain’t anymore, I just care for my horses on Sundays instead.” Today was Sunday, thought John. Maybe it does make sense for Saratoga to have jockey-less races on Sunday, church day. But does religion really play a part in this horse scandal?

“Say, are you religious John?” John looked up again.

“Oh. No, not really.”

“Hmm, nothing at all? Everyone’s got somethin’.” Marshall’s eyes pointed at John.

“I guess… the only thing I really believed in was that my nursery mobile as a child might fall onto me. I imagined the rocket ship spinning around the golden plush star would break off and zoom towards me in my crib. I don’t know why, but it frightened me.”

“Haha, well maybe it was one of the horsemen on that rocket,” chuckled Marshall, who didn’t push the topic.

Surely I wouldn’t be punished for not believing in the rocket-horsemen as an infant. But, if there was a mastermind behind this whole thing, would they really be doing it to punish disbelievers? What if everyone all randomly betted on the chosen horse? How would they distinguish the believers from non-believers? The questions raced through John’s mind and he had little more than 10 minutes left if he wanted to solve the scandal before the race began. His back jerked, his hangnail painfully skidded on his windbreaker, and his eyes darted around for the stable doors. He waved goodbye to Marshall and rushed out, considering his options.

Religion, betting, jockey-less horses, non-believers, and old people? What did these all have in common? John had barely any time left before the race. As he ran back to the employee’s locker room, he read the brochure to today’s race. Horse names: Boudet, Blitzer, Fredda, Charger, Scout, Gypsy, Rosie, and Rebel. Nothing, just names, two B-lettered ones and two R-lettered ones. John flipped to the second-to-last flap, announcing the race’s sponsor.

‘We would like to thank the joint contribution from Albertsons (Saratoga Sunnyvale Rd. 12876) and St. Mary’s Retirement home, where nurses are angels (1 Perry Road 12866)’

John’s eyes lit up. He crinkled the paper as his jog turned into a sprint. I need to ask Meg. John found a connection. St. Mary’s is a Catholic retirement home and the largest customer demographic for our race course. The connection made too much sense to John. Is it possible Mr. Saratoga’s religious legacy is being ensured by the elderly at Mary’s? Are they circulating the money only between Catholics and the racecourse by match-fixing the jockey-less horse races on Sundays? John still didn’t know how they did it. Mass prayer maybe? But he had the most significant lead in solving the scandal yet, and he only had to ask one person to confirm it.

“Whoa, slow down there janitor,” said Meg. John was still panting, arched over with both of his sweaty palms on the railing.

“It’s the people from Mary’s, Meg.” John was muttering quickly, still breathless. “They… They’re doing the match-fixing. Listen, I talked to Marshall at the stables who gave me the inside scoop of Mr. Saratoga, and he had this massive fear in his belief system that the people weren’t respecting the Four Horsemen, and that they weren’t–”

“Okay okay, I’ll entertain your little scandal. I have to close down real soon anyway. Race is ‘bout to start. You want info on the customers from Mary’s?” John caught his breath, he would’ve liked to tell her all the evidence and ideas he had, but he knew time was running out.

“Yes, do you have anything about their religious beliefs and their expenses, and their betting history.” John gripped the railing harder, almost feeling as if he would slip through it.

“I’m not Facebook, John. We take pride in private data here. Look.” Meg tabbed out of her partially written Yelp review and opened up the database for the day’s bets. In a criss-cross of columns and rows, it displayed white text on a black terminal, showcasing the name, affiliation (if applicable), age, gender, ID number, and bet for this Sunday’s race. John CTRL-F’d the terminal for “ST. MARY’S” and found at least 40 people related to the place. Some of the lower-aged numbers were likely nurses or terminally-ill young people, but the majority of Mary’s elderly seemed to pinpoint their bets almost collectively.

“Scout! Meg, nearly all of them betted on Scout!” John ungripped the railing, flowing with waves of energy, he grabbed and turned Meg’s head from her phone to the monitor.

“Oh my god. I guess you’re right. Most of them are win bets too, not places or shows.” A ‘win’ bet meant the horse had to get first place for the better to profit, but it was the largest prize pool out of the three bets. ‘Place’ bets cast their chances on first and second place, and ‘show’ bets on first, second, or third place. The pain in John’s hangnail went away for a moment as he shook his arms in the air and celebrated.

“‘Win’ bets, Meg! That’s crazy, so many people of the same age and place and religion betting on the same horse with the same kind of bet—nothing sounds more orchestrated, right!?” Yet John needed Meg’s confirmation nonetheless.

“Yeah, I—wow. I guess maybe there actually is a scandal. I mean I haven’t looked at the analytics yet or how others are betting but that seems like a wild correlation if it is one.” Meg’s terminal glowed its black hue on their faces. An unconquerable void of a mystery was solved. John had the strongest of leads now and against the nameless horde of betters, attendees, and biblical, or real, horses, he found his answer. He just had to wait for the race’s results to confirm it.

Scout, he thought. What an interesting horse name to bet on. Although, it could’ve been Blitzer, Barry, Bob, or Mary herself and it wouldn’t have mattered. John, calm, collected, now prideful, walked towards the dark oak railings on the third-floor banister. He took off the black windbreaker and tied it around his waist. Hands light and lank on his sides as he walked, he rested one elbow on the railing. A few minutes left until the race begins…

“Excuse me, sir. Do you work here?” A woman behind him asked, likely prompted by the green polo in nearly full view.

“Yes, do you need any directions, ma’am?” John was only half paying attention to the young lady; the other side of his attention rested on Scout, the chosen horse.

“Mhm, yes. I was wondering where the betting stall was? I’m awfully late and I have to bet on the winning horse.” The lady’s voice was soothing, with a light southern tinge, but somewhere in its melody, John’s ears perked.

“Winning horse? Why, which horse are you betting on, ma’am?” John knew it must be her confidence. The wind blew the partially unbuttoned collars of his polo as well as the ruffles of the lady’s flower dress.

“Scout, of course. Didn’t you hear? All the Horse Sports Illustrated columnists are betting on him—a once-in-a-lifetime unanimous choice. Surely, they must be right.”

John froze. He turned around slowly towards the lady, eyes wide open, quivering. His whole body was greyed out as the sun loomed behind him. He was in his own shadow.

‘Horse Sports Illustrated’? ‘Unanimous choice’? IS THIS SOME KIND OF JOKE? John’s thoughts bounced around his skull and almost slipped out of his mouth. SCOUT IS THE POPULAR PICK? His lips moved in silence as the rest of his face was static. Then… I must be wrong. I’m being played like the elderly at Mary’s. It… must be a different horse.

“Down the banister that way and then to the right.” The lady saw his limp finger point north and followed it.

John’s hangnail skidded against the banister railing as he began to lumber towards the bleachers. The pain surged throughout his entire nervous system and he gripped it with his left hand to suppress the pain, half hoping the hangnail would meld back into the rest of his nail. He began to re-trace his clues and evidence. It couldn’t be the elderly at Mary’s unless they wanted to cover up their match-fixing by having the likely winning horse win. So then, maybe it has nothing to do with Mr. Saratoga and Catholics and the Four Horsemen? Maybe it was someone else. Was Marshall lying? I still don’t even know how they would match-fix in the first place. Or why the elderly at Mary’s are two-faced like locals say, or really why we have jockey-less races on Sundays. Then it caught John’s eye.

‘RATOCA.’ He saw it around a man’s soda cup. His eyes darted to the cup as the hand tracked it across the air. For a moment, he wondered if the man was in on it. ‘SARATOCA.’ He saw it again on a flyer next to a wooden column about today’s race. He wondered if their printing company was bribed into the scheme. ‘SARATOCA.’ He saw it on a giant banister poster above the east bleachers. He wondered if that poster was compromised as well. ‘SARATOCA’. He saw it carved and painted on the bright white clocktower that was now seconds away from 3 p.m. ‘SARATOCA’. He saw it again on the metal panel above the blue starting gates. He could’ve sworn it was with a ‘G.’ “Saratoga.” John said it to himself. “Sarato-ga.” The ‘g-uh’ sound lingered on the tip of his tongue. Had he been pronouncing it wrong this whole time? John’s eyes were unblinking, vacant. At last, he stumbled his way to the bleachers and found a seat.

Seat 0C of row 19. John found himself sitting in the same exact chair as the note-writer. He checked under the chair, half expecting a new note to be left behind in the same rendezvous point. But, nothing. John, in his dark green polo, his cognac-colored belt, black slacks, and Reebocs, now sunk into the seat.

DING… DONG…

The ‘Saratoca’ clocktower hit 3 p.m., echoing throughout the track. The hour and minute hands parallel and overlapping each other suddenly grew desperate—angry, human, and weaponized. They flung towards John and wrung his neck, choking him as he coughed out into the row below him. Strangled by the hands, John pulled out the note, ‘The betting will be fixed tomorrow’, and wrote down all the clues he had before his breath would pass:

‘0C, row 19.’ ‘Match-fixing.’ ‘Two-faced Mary’s.’ ‘Mr. Saratoga and Mary’s—Catholic.’ ‘Four Horsemen.’ ‘Jockey-less race on Sunday.’ ‘Marshall, “Groom.”’ ‘Scout, popular horse—Elderly at Mary’s.’ ‘SARATOCA.’ ‘The betting will be fixed today.’

The clues began to intersect with everything he saw and recorded in his temporal lobe as if it monitored every name, number, and description he was met with: ‘Purple-8,’ ‘Joshua Pierce,’ ‘Rebel,’ ‘Marshall,’ ‘Horses Weekly,’ ‘5C,’ ‘Show,’ ‘Bet,’ ‘12866,’ ‘Conquest,’ ‘Scout.’ They were all put into his head and then shook as if his brain was a random gift jar, and he wondered if he drew something new out every time he peered into it. He saw patterns, mixing ‘0C’ into ‘Scout’ and ‘Catholic,’ or finding it in ‘Jockey’ and ‘Conquest.’ For a split second, he almost hoped if he closed his eyes the writing would tell him the winning horse. But then, after a blink, he sunk further into his seat.

John crinkled the note in his palm. He felt his body harden, metalize into an iron alloy. His scraggly hair turned into an antenna. His joints and digits into cogs. His blood into oil, and his hangnail into a loose screw. If he pulled it, all of his oil, nuts, bolts, and circuitry would fall out onto the bleachers, ruining the show for those around him and draining him into a cold, empty shell—a newly evicted home gaping, welcoming. Instead, as the harsh sun rusted his metal exterior, the vacant lenses of John scanned the crowd before him. His sensors picked up faint traces of men and women, betting on a lazy Sunday at a horse race. Each of them picking a horse to bet on, placing money on it, and for moments before the race, they too lived in the pocket reality of their winning—their possibility of seeing their chosen horse cross the red finish line and staying tightly wound to their comfortable winnings, their right choice. One horse, one choice, and now they’re all left patient waiting for confirmation.

The horses lined up at the blue starting gates now. In his rote circuitry, John thought he was betting on something as well. As he was waiting for the official starter to press the button, to release the racehorses on their own circular rails, his sockets cocked toward the sky. He imagined the nursery mobile of his childhood spinning around an invisible center with the Sun, as the mechanized orrery tracked the clouds, the airliner, and now the fate of horse race. John sat back in seat 0C. He stared at the horses behind their gates. For a moment, he wondered if the sky in its mechanical wiring, scaffolding, parts, and pieces would come crashing down toward the race track before a single horse ever crossed the finish line.