Dark Intruder

My younger brother James was on defence force leave in the spring of 1983; he flew from Brisbane to Melbourne, home visiting our parents and his mates.

He sported his first moustache.

James and I shared the camaraderie of growing up together. Our career paths diverged wide, though they both started with the letter A. He fired artillery; I designed architecture.

He joked; his job description included blowing up anything I built. We shared being single in '83. My high-spirited and peppy brother rang Friday afternoon at my workplace. He invited me to a day of horse racing, booze and strip clubs 'til late.

He urged me, "Tag along."

I thought, what the hell, why not?

Work presented no pressing deadlines. A day out sounded great. The night could take care of itself.

I woke early on Saturday morning, the day warmish at seven. As a usual day at home, I started routines—the newspaper, an extra cup of coffee, cleaning the apartment, and washing. When completed, I sidestepped unnecessary blueprint checks to fill in the day.

Not this Saturday; its purpose stirred vividly.

Purpose— drink and gamble and peep at nude girls.

Sounded good.

James collected me, and we caught a train to his mate's place.

"Sensible cotton shirt," as part of his banter about being practical and rejecting jackets and top hats.

"Let's leave it to the babes to provide the fashion," he concluded.

I recalled a photo of a young Coral dressed to the nines attending the Melbourne Cup alongside her parents. A pastel puffed sleeved floral dress; carnation pink, hibiscus mauve and sea blue. She wore a white butterfly fascinator sprouting delicate rose and baby blue dots.

We piled pronto into two taxis at James' mates and headed to the racecourse. As we arrived trackside at midday, a searing heat discharged through the crowded venue. We fused into a Spring racing carnival day with a veritable sea of souls milling around the mounting yard, the spectator stands, and the betting ring.

We joined a body crush as we entered the nearest booze tent.

"Embrace the tradition", stated James' tall, raucous mate, shouting our group a cold beer to commence race day fun.

Crammed, lacking elbow room, my afternoon yoked to a group of six young men, all in our twenties and out for a good time. A refreshing beer outwardly commenced a potentially excellent time. It scorched damn hot outside. The happy moments surged as we eyed the fillies. And we were far from the mounting yard and the stalls.

Young women at the races monopolise the attraction stakes. The day belonged to them, dressed in dishy spring fashions. Above everything, their fascinators stole attention.

My eyes roved an endless array of exquisite, individualised headpieces. I prized them and their no-limits decorations using feathers, beading and lattice lace. I glimpsed in a constant bob of heads, gorgeous fascinators.

I should have invited Coral and made a day of oohing and arrhing at hats.

I drank cold beer scouting headwear. In an overcrowded tent, I missed appreciating the light spring dresses. Impossible to spy sleek, shaved legs. After a couple of beers, I relaxed into race day mode.

We headed to place bets on 'racing fillies.'

Outside the beer tent, the heat bored beneath the skin. Akin to breathing cotton wool and an instant coat of torso stickiness, it loitered despite a fine-grade short-sleeved shirt.

One of James' buffer mates wiped his brow and muttered, 'Too bloody hot,' he and the tall guy re-entered the beer tent.

They would catch us later to watch the races at an agreed location.

Four guys goofed our way to the betting ring through a jostle of pressing bodies. Standing room only inadequately describes the ring. It oozed people in a swollen, confined way beyond congestion as everyone swarmed, placing their bets before the first race.

I joined the surge and hustle in a compact group that plunged straight into the disordered order of the ring. Around us, the bookmakers yelled odds. Between calling their odds, they repeated, 'Place your bets,' as bets on the race closed soon.

The two remaining mates also happened to be brothers. The older one in a blue shirt informed James they preferred the tote to the bookmakers, which would be less crowded.

"Sheesh, it's hot," said the younger brother, wiping curly ginger hair from his forehead.

I watched the pair bump and plunge towards the stand's rear to seek shade. James and I remained punished under the direct, muggy midday sun. Sweat glued my thin shirt against my chest in the elbow-to-elbow body jostle.

James desired to back the favourite in the opening race.

I stated, "It's never worth it."

He responded upbeat, "A win is a win," brushing his new moustache.

I replied, "Yes, you put five dollars on and get five dollars, twenty cents back— big thrill!"

James thrust the race program at my chest.

Prickled, he offered, "Study the form as you like— favourites are favourites— for a reason."

He back-slapped me and squeezed into compacted bodies to place a bet on the favourite in the first race. I anchored my feet in the churning crowd. Finding space to hold the program and scan the upcoming races proved challenging.

I wasn't a regular horse racing attendee. Twice before, I graced the course as part of workplace events. These client-focused, promotional gatherings focused on marquees, champagne and strawberries.

In the teeming ring, I studied the race times in the program. The small yellow printed program half scrunched against my face like I suffered short-sightedness. If I ignored the immediate race, I had plenty of time to pick a later winner. I scanned the race guide from the final race, pursuing the outsiders. Not the rank outsiders. I wasn't throwing money away.

Outsiders, I perused the outsiders.

Was this because I felt like one daily?

The buzz of the crowd influenced me. I longed to win. None of the horses' names appealed in the last two races. Abruptly, the crowd surged; it waved through bodies like dominoes teetering.

I planted my feet in a dour mindset.

You win, or you lose.

My mental state post-Ruby offered no other combinations.

I nudged forward in a betting ring saturated with flesh beyond its capacity. Bodies milled and knocked one another, eager to place a bet or return trackside. Yet, no doubt, within each individual, a myriad of secret circulating thoughts beyond horses, including yearnings past, present and future.

Jostled sideways, I received a mumbled half apology wafting past my ear. Elbowed in the ribs, I drew a gruff 'sorry.'

Followed by an unexpected rear shuddering bump that shoved me forward, where I profusely apologised rapidly to a fascinator, peacock-themed, its wearer's face remains forever blurred.

The program flapped loose and, despite my clawing and clutching, nosedived to the ground. It tattered beneath an endless scurry of feet. Beyond saving, it disappeared, dust trampled. I resorted to the alternative option, the bookie's boards.

A horse's name drew me to the second race.

Reason To Smile.

The odds 50-1.

A rank outsider.

Who named racehorses?

Reason to smile.

I smiled wryly as I struggled to find a personal reason to smile.

Then, suppose it won!

I perused the later race boards- the feature cup race - Dark Intruder, and immediately, I was attracted to the name. Plus, the odds 8-1.

My legs rallied in the hurly-burly manoeuvring of the crowd. I commenced the slow-motion push towards the bookies and their money bags.

Colourful fascinators bobbed and weaved ahead of me. Feathers pointed high. Silver beading glistened in the sun. The bright colours of the hats lifted my spirit.

Pick a winner - pick a jockey's colours.

I needed a program. James' race guide lay trashed; I would replace it later. The crowd seemingly competed, herding and dispersing, so I couldn't beeline the bookies. I joined the flow rimming the ring, and the surge pushed me into action.

Take a punt. If I lost, I lost. I knew how to lose! 

For the past twelve months, I had regularly considered myself a loser – beyond my job. I sensed work saved me free-falling to – I don't know – I wasn't wretched low.

I jostled along the bookmaker's ring. My horse decided: Dark Intruder.

I wanted the best odds. I found 9-1. The momentum of bodies milled me past the bookie. Impossible to shove back against the crowd flow.

Dark Intruder fitted my mood.

It sounded already a winner. I scanned other bookies' odds, again seeking the extra point.

Come on, you tight-fisted wankers! Where's the gambler in the bookie?

Finally spied, farther left, 10-1.

I craved defying the odds.

Thoughts mobbed my head.

Was I too guarded in life?

Over careful approaching women?

Beyond cautious in Ruby's vicinity? 

BAM! – like a comic punch - sealed lips.

I cursed sentiments, careening sad.

I stopped my runaway train; today belonged to fun - even naughtier opportunities later.

Betting on Dark Intruder at 10-1; fifty dollars outright.

The burly bookie nonchalantly bypassed my face and reacted to the big dollars in my fist. Money quickly transferred to his callous palm, and he issued me a betting slip in return. He swung promptly to engage the next gesticulating hand waving across my shoulder.

I shoved through the betting ring. In the massed assemblage, it was impossible to spot James. Hemmed in a surge, I watched the backs of the individuals in front of me.

Two light shirts were likely brought from the same department store as mine. The inconsequential unknowingly connecting us. One dude's broad shoulders triggered an image of Josh's dad.

Finally, I manoeuvred beyond the ring in a chink of space and strolled away as confident as money in the bank. I walked down a lane to the trackside between two grandstands, where the body crushes repeated.

The crowd along the home straight and beside the finishing post massed densely. Under their feet lay unseen grass. I pressed towards the mounting yards, the boy's agreed meeting point. Everyone held their spots to watch the first race of the program.

It made me ask everyone in my path, "Excuse me, please."

I managed it, staying calm and polite.

Suddenly, I cussed in my head.

Jesus Christ! 

Right in front of me stalled Ruby!