Here is the carcinogenic third act.
We rehearse our lines on racing forms and
shopping lists—daily double, vodka orange,
and—say it just like this—Sweet Cap Filter
Kings. We have it down. Take Wednesdays: Come to
Wellington’s after school and when I’m off
work we’ll knock ‘em dead. See you then, okay?
Alberta beef dip and cheesecake while he
cashes out and counts his tips. He pays a
fin for preferred parking, and we’re in the
clubhouse seats. Luck is on our side tonight—
that is, at least at first. And then the tenth
has come and gone, but it ain’t time to go
yet, son. (He’s still got drinks in front of him.)
Pari-mutuel musings careering
down the back side of Cemetery Hill,
rapid decompression, and the Magnum’s
shearing in the curves. But he knows his lines
well enough to tell the cop we’re going
home. And by home he means the bar. He’s got
fifty to collect on Cinci- and six.
It means this play just got a bit longer,
and he’s pissed at me because I locked the
goddamn doors before I feel asleep, ten
goddamn minutes bangin’ on the window.
And Dad’s got something to tell you. But odds
are good I’m going to win this one. They’ll
never get me with that chemosabe!
Set change (didn’t see it coming): off track
at Foothills and Rockyview—a hell of
a long time to spend in a scene he hates.
And they excavate and he handicaps
the metaphysical aspects of his
role. Meanwhile, hasty rewrites behind the
scenes and I’m pulled before the curtain drops.
Exeunt (or so I heard, having been
traded to wanderlust in pursuit of
the American dream, riding third wheel
in the back of a red Camaro, my
initials inscribed in video games
on Interstates from Pennsylvania to
California): I am so far away.