Jerry’s Lucky Number
Jerry O’Donahue loved to bet the horses: harness racing, flat racing, you name it. Most people didn’t do as much research as he did. Looking up the breeding history and track records of dozens of horses under various racing conditions was a chore for many, but Jerry found it fascinating.
He never made bets on his computer or his phone. He preferred the friendly camaraderie of the OTB Teletheater just one exit down the interstate from his home. He also liked the chance it gave him to get away from Agnes.
All in all, it should have been a happy retirement, and it was, except for one annoying thing. He kept losing.
Actually, it had gotten beyond annoying. Agnes never looked at their credit card statements or bank balances, but if she ever did, his ass would be in major trouble. But today was the day he was going to win big.
He looked up at one of the giant screens that festooned the theater’s massive walls, the one showing the seventh race at Saratoga. It had been a beautiful day there until sudden torrential rains began. Now, the track was a quagmire, and the horse he’d picked, a three-year-old named Bluebell, absolutely loved running in the mud. In fact, the horse had never lost under those conditions, and Jerry had him at 20-1. His $500 bet was but a couple of minutes away from becoming $10,000.
The starting bell rang and the race began. Jerry’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the sides of his table. His eyes bored in on the TV screen as Bluebell vaulted into the lead, grabbing the inside position.
“That’s okay, Shalimar, lots of time.”
The voice came from the table to his right. It belonged to Ed Schwartz, a man of about Jerry’s age and a regular at the teletheater.
Ed was an anomaly in terms of sports betting. He owned neither a computer nor a cell phone. He never carried around any tout sheets or racing forms. In fact, he seemed to do no research at all.
Jerry fiercely concentrated on the race. “C’mon, Bluebell,” he muttered as the horse increased its lead to two lengths, then four as they reached the far turn.
“Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!”
His heart was pounding as it always did.
Ed, at his table, was the picture of calm. “All right, Shalimar,” he said, “it’s showtime.”
There was stirring in the middle of the pack. A gray horse had moved to the outside and was passing the others, slowly gaining on Bluebell.
“There you go,” said Ed as Jerry watched with growing apprehension.
Bluebell’s jockey seemed to sense the challenge. He went to the whip, but it was no good. Shalimar slowly narrowed the distance, catching Bluebell just before the finish line and beating him by a nose.
“Another day, another dollar,” said Ed, leaning back in his chair and stretching his bony arms.
Jerry resisted the urge to either slam his fist against the table or reach over and punch Ed in the gut, right in the middle of his luxurious stretch.
It just wasn’t fair. The guy knew nothing about horses and couldn’t care less about his ignorance. Before this race, he’d probably never even heard of Shalimar.
“How the hell do you do it?”
Ed shrugged.
“Shalimar is a mule!” Jerry wailed in frustration. “He’s never won a single race in the mud, never even come close! This is the first time it’s ever happened, and you sit there acting like you knew it all along.”
“That’s right,” said Ed. “Because I had the number.”
“The number. This place is full of numbers. Which particular one did you have in mind?”
“The right one.” Ed pushed his chair back from the table. “Horse racing really has nothing to do with this, you know. It’s purely about numbers. Numbers are the language of the universe. If you listen carefully enough, one of those numbers will speak to you. And when it does…let me tell you, anything is possible.”
He got to his feet as Jerry stared up at him.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some money to collect.”
Jerry watched him as he moved toward the redemption window.
“How does a freakin’ lunatic like that keep winning?” he muttered.
***
That night, he had a dream. In it, he had a winning ticket in his hand, a ticket worth a million dollars. All he had to do was walk up to the window and collect.
But the floor of the teletheater had become mud, thick, gooey mud up to his ankles. His feet could not move. He struggled as the man behind the redemption window laughed at him.
“What’s the matter, Jerry? Can’t you even do a simple thing like collecting money?”
He realized that the man was Ed Schwartz. A murderous rage overcame him.
“You son of a bitch! You don’t know anything about horse racing!”
His feet sank even deeper into the mud, which had now become quicksand. It was rising rapidly, covering his waist, then his chest, then his throat.
“Help!” he tried to say but could make no sound. The mud was covering his mouth, then his nose.
“Jerry, wake up!”
His eyes popped open and there was Agnes hovering over him, her face etched with concern.
“You were flailing about and moaning,” she said. “You woke me up. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he murmured. “What time is it?”
“The middle of the night. Why do you care what time it is?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, go back to sleep.” She rolled over, facing away from him.
He lay there for a moment in a stupor, remembering the dream. Then he turned on his side and looked at the clock.
It said 5:55.
***
He thought about that while they were having breakfast, sitting at the table together but in their own worlds. She was wrapped up in the novel she was reading, while he studied the day’s upcoming races. The FM radio, as always, was tuned to the smooth jazz station.
The record they were playing ended, and the buttery-voiced deejay intoned that they’d been listening to Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.” It made him think of how his alarm clock had said 5:55 after he woke up from the nightmare.
Did it mean the number five was speaking to him? Ed Schwartz might think so, the imbecile. He shook his head and went back to the racing forms.
“You need to do some shopping on the way back from that place you go to,” Agnes informed him. (She never referred to the teletheater directly.) “I’ve got a list on the counter, so don’t forget to take it with you.”
She went back to reading her book for a moment, then looked up.
“Actually, there are a couple of things I need to add to it. Since the kids and grandkids are coming this weekend, don’t get a two-pound pork roast, get five pounds. And Mazie loves bananas, so…how many of them should you get? Just to be safe, make it five.”
Jerry stared at her, but her book was in front of her face again. He gazed at its title: V. by Thomas Pynchon.
“V,” the Roman numeral for five.
***
As he drove to the teletheater he took note of the speed limit, which, on this section of the interstate, was fifty-five. Indeed, the road itself was Interstate 55. But it had always been that way, and he’d certainly made many bets over the years that involved the number five, and what good did it do? Ed was still full of shit.
The smooth jazz coming from the radio began to get on his nerves with its mellowness. It was Agnes’ favorite music, really, not his. He switched to the oldies station, which was much more high-energy.
“Aw right!” the deejay shouted. “That was ‘Glad All Over,’ by the Dave Clark Five!” (Of course, Jerry thought.) “You’re listening to Willy and Lou, and we want to send out all kinds of good wishes to the Star Wars fans!”
“Star Wars fans?” said the other deejay. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s May the fourth, dude. May the fourth be with you!”
His partner cracked up laughing.
“You’re a day late and a dollar short, señor. This is Cinco de Mayo!”
Jerry’s breath caught. That’s right, today was Cinco de Mayo. May 5th.
5/5
He got off at the exit for the teletheater. At least it wasn’t Exit 5 or Exit 55. The parking lot had no numbered spaces, so there was no Spot Number 5 to park in. He pulled into the first one available and began to calm down.
Taking a slow, deep breath, he reached for the keys to turn off the ignition, and as he did, he glanced at the odometer.
It said 55,555 miles.
***
He didn’t remember walking from his car to the entrance. He found himself standing in the vestibule of the teletheater, staring inside at the screens and tote boards as they blinked and changed.
Something was definitely going on here, something that could not be ignored. But what was it?
Should he disregard everything he knew about the upcoming races and just bet on number five all day long? No, number five was not going to win every single race today. That would be ridiculous, and nearly impossible.
It had to be something more subtle. He needed to concentrate, figure it out.
He sat down at the nearest table and spread out his racing forms. Maybe he should be looking for one particular race. The fifth race somewhere? Could be, could be.
“Hey, there, Jerry, how’s it going? Did your research turn up any winners today?”
It was Ed Schwartz, standing next to the table and grinning. It startled him and, for some reason, filled him with fear. What if Ed’s presence might spoil it, whatever it was?
“Hey, Ed,” he said carefully, “I can’t really talk right now. I’m trying something new.”
He instantly regretted saying it. Ed’s grin widened.
“Something new, eh? It wouldn’t have anything to do with what I told you yesterday, would it?” He chuckled, and then his face grew serious. “Be careful,” he said.
Then he stepped away and moved toward one of the betting windows.
Jerry went back to his racing forms. There were seventy-five racetracks in the country, twenty of which were shown on the teletheater’s TV screens. He’d focus on those.
He checked out the fifth race in track after track, but nothing jumped out at him, until he got to Aqueduct. Then it screamed out at him.
Pentagram. He was the number five horse in the fifth race. The odds were 55-1.
His heartbeat quickened. How much should he bet? Five-hundred, for sure. But maybe he should also bet fifty and five, just for luck. So that’s what he did.
He found a table near the screen for Aqueduct and waited as the minutes crept by. He was afraid to bet on any other race, so he made mental bets on the first four. He won them all and didn’t know if it was a good or a bad sign.
At exactly 5 p.m. the horses came out for the fifth race. He sensed movement to his right. Ed Schwartz was taking a seat at the next table. A corkscrew began to turn in Jerry’s stomach.
“Pentagram?” Ed said as he slid into his chair.
Jerry nodded warily.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I told you to be careful. You’ll just have to learn, that’s all.”
Suddenly, Jerry had had it up to here with Ed’s smugness.
“Listen, asshole,” he growled, “I’m doing everything you told me to. There’s a number that’s speaking to me, loud and clear, and I’m doing what it says.”
“True enough,” said Ed.
“So, what the hell is wrong?” Jerry shouted.
“You’ll see.”
The starting bell rang, the gates flew open, and the horses charged ahead.
“Come on, Pentagram!” Jerry implored as the horse broke out to an early lead. “Come on, Pentagram!”
Then, as he watched in mounting dismay, the horse slowly faded into the pack. At the end, he was indistinguishable from the others as they crossed the finish line.
But he did come in fifth.