But it's called-- it's also from Belfast.
It's called Kentucky Derby Day--
Kentucky Derby Day, Belfast, Maine.
When I was 12, I happened to guess the winning
horse of the Kentucky Derby.
I was on the sixth grade field trip to the Henry Ford Museum,
where we learned the plain common sense is
the key to the moral dominance of the United States.
The man in the car radio discussed the horses.
And when he came to the name Dark Star, I said,
that's the horse for me.
I mean, it seemed clear that any horse
named Dark Star had to win.
The boy nods.
He may be no Apollo, but he knows about love.
But this is Derby day, 21 eager horses.
And I'm told Tap Shoes is the horse
to beat, so I call over the bartender
and say, hey, turn on the TV and let's watch the Derby.
He says, what's the Derby?
And I say, the Kentucky Derby.
And he says, I never heard of it.
But he's a nice kid, so he flicks on the TV.
And there's Churchill Downs and thousands
of flowers and happy fans.
Jesus, says the kid.
Look at all those people.
It's the Derby, I say.
See, there's Muhammad Ali.
Who's that?
Says the kid.
You know, I say.
You know, I say, the great boxer.
Hey, says the kid.
Those horses are going to pull little carts?
Not today, I say.
Too bad, says the kid.
I like the carts.
On the TV, the announcer is predicting
how the race will be run, and famous people
are asked their opinions.
I wait for a twinkle in my brain, but nothing happens.
Still, it's all so exciting.
I want to talk to somebody about it, say how making a bet
is like falling in love or that the horses and jockeys look
like centaurs before the rape of whoever.
But the bartender is learning to make a Pink
Lady while the five chicken processors are
deep in their sadness.
The girl with a collar puts her hand on the boy's shoulder
and says, he needs me, Joey.
I don't care if he hits me.
He wouldn't hit me if he didn't need to do it.
And Leo says, listen.
I'm no good she thinks I'm good, but I'm a pig.
The light from the door throws their shadows
on the wall I think how defeated their lives are and wonder
why the girl wears a dog collar and what Leo must
do to mistreat her, if the old man will really die of cancer,
and why the boy sticks holes in his arm
to make dumb tattoos with the name Jesse and little stars
and crosses, how he will die with that sentimental doodling
still on his body, having spent his life as a poor man's
advertisement for unrequited love.
In no time I start thinking of my own life
with its insoluble problems, how I can't afford health insurance
and my parents constantly fret that my marriage
is falling apart.
But on the TV, they're getting ready for the run
for the roses, 140,000 happy fans maybe Bold Ego,
I tell myself, maybe Cure the Blues, or Proud Appeal, maybe
Tough Avenger or Mythical Ruler.
What noble names.
They all deserve to win.
The bartender looks up from his little red guide.
I like gray horses best, he says.
It makes them look sad.
Now they're in the gate.
The TVs by the jukebox, and the flashing lights
become all the flowers at Churchill Downs.
Then the bell and they're off.
Right away, the horses string out,
rounding the first turn as the favorites take an early lead.
But uh-oh, here comes the girl with the dog collar
with about five bucks for the jukebox.
Hold up, I tell her.
This is the big race, and it's almost over.
She's indifferent but polite, so she waits.
What's your horse?
She asks.
Maybe Bold Ego, I say, unable to see him.
I love those country songs, says the girl.
She stands beside me, and when I look down,
I find that I can look down on her blouse.
But on the TV, terrible things are happening.
All the heroic names are falling behind,
and coming up fast to the finish is Pleasant Colony,
while the number two horse, Would Chopper, pays over $20.
And I'll bet they never announced his name,
because I spent half the damn winter chopping wood.
And if I'd put $1,000 on wood chopper, or even $100, then
right now I'd be winging my way south to better times.
Troy has fallen, I tell the girl.
Play those country songs.
She puts a hand on my arm.
It's a crazy world, she says.
And I say, what's a smart girl like you
doing here in Barbara's Lunch?
Why, she says-- why, she says, we're just waiting for Big John
to get us out of here.
Aren't we all?
I say.
The girl feeds her five bucks into the slot
and goes back to Leo, drapes herself over his shoulders.
The jukebox begins to pound out "Take these chains
from my heart," which drowns out the TV for Pleasant Colony
and jockey Jorge Velazquez and trainer John Campo
and the owner, Thomas Mellon Evans,
accept the quarter of a million purse
and their corner on the world's happiness.
As I watch the horseshoe of roses being lowered on
to Pleasant Colony's neck, I think of my life
and wonder how to cope with my marriage coming down
to certain divorce and a son will
be the subject of long distance calls
and for whom I'll be an occasional visitor.
Is he taller?
I will ask.
Is he doing well in school?
And I will remember kissing the soft part
of his neck, the velvet indentation
by his collarbone, how I would nuzzle it and he would giggle.
On the TV, the winners keep mouthing their thanks
to the world as the jukebox plays songs of infidelity
and rejected love and the girl with a dog collar
keeps glancing at the door waiting
for Big John, who is a phenomenon I have no faith in.
The but damn it ail, I am wrong.
Just when I think it's a joke, in
comes this big fellow and the girl jumps to her feet.
It's Big John, she says.
And Big John looks foolish and grins.
He's a fat man and a red t-shirt that doesn't reach his waist,
so the roll of fat looks like a white snake
wrapped around his belly.
But everybody's perking up and the girls
twitch their shoulders.
Come on, shouts to one of the dog collar.
Big John's got his Winnebago.
So, we troop out to the street where the fog is rolling in,
and parked at the curb is a golden Winnebago
with a huge stereo, soft chairs, and all the beer you can drink.
So what if you don't know horses?
So what if your life's shot to hell?
Hey, I shout, can your fat God and his fat machine
fix my life?
Happy days ahead, calls the girl,
hanging from the back step.
But before I can decide to act, Big John hits the gas.
The gutters of Belfast are filled
with the white feathers of chickens trucked daily
to the processing plant.
And as Big John takes off, feathers
are swept up in his wake like a taste of hot times.
The Winnebago disappears into the fog
like some winged Pegasus, I think,
or Trojan horse cruising the coastline for holiday villages
to pillage and burn.
In any case, it's gone.
And on the dead streets of Belfast,
I find myself stuck without wonderful racehorse
joke or a satellite with which to divert myself by watching.
Where are the tricks to help me through the day?
It's here I must take my first step,
but I'm torn between Dark Star, the Winnebago life,
or finding my way home, where my wife
tries to push me from her heart because I've told her she must.
Think of the wedding pictures and everybody laughing.
Think of all the contemptible ways to say goodbye.
And unable to move a foot, I turn this way and that.
Dark Star, Dark Star, where are the winners I was promised?
Well, I'm not dumb.
I know you only win when you bet real money and play for keeps.
Instead, I stand in the street as feathers drift over
my shoulders like Icarus.
I ask myself, hopefully.
No, just another damn fool who won't make up his mind.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]