An Expensive Picnic

Atlanta, GA

May 23, 2021

Yesterday was my wife’s birthday. But it’s her husband who’s getting old. Frozen shoulders, sore back, crotchety disposition…and whatever hairs remain are either turning grey or thinning away.

Last week, he stumbled to the edge of his driveway, picked up the paper, and mumbled futilely at the headlines as he shuffled back to the house.

Later in the day, he frowned as a couple ne’er do-well kids ran across his lawn. By dusk, he was standing on his front porch, shotgun in hand, daring the little punks to come back.

But despite his antediluvian, Neanderthal demeanor, he’s not entirely disconnected from the hip fashion of modern life. Yes, his investment proclivities tend toward canned goods, precious metals, and stocks of companies that mine them. But while one hand stuffs coins under the mattress, the other reaches for the future.

A few years ago, he dipped a toe into cryptocurrency. Last year, he waded in up to his knees. First Bitcoin, then Ethereum. Eventually he swam into deeper water, and faster currents. Dash, Cosmos, Litecoin, and Compound all flowed into his account.

But in recent weeks, he began to worry. Made-up coins, fraudulent tokens, and celebrity Tweets had exorbitant influence on digital markets. He’d also read how college kids and juvenile delinquents were getting in on the act. Not that they aren’t welcome to perform. It’s just that he’d prefer not to be on stage with them when they do. They don’t know their parts, rarely stick to their lines, and by the end of the evening are wallowing in the mosh pit.

Many of them are already there, and the stench is beginning to rise. Dogecoin, created as a joke, was suddenly minting millionaires. Last week, I read about AssCoin. In any other era, I’d have assumed it was a spoof.

These days, it’s very real, and eminently appropriate. And probably welcome. After all, it’d be nice if more “investments” were this honest about what they were making of their “investors”.

In this case, like a street gypsy on the Spanish Steps, it was doing its job. Apparently, piles of Reddit users were complaining that they’d lost their AssCoin. One unfortunate “investor” checked his account in the middle of the night to find “all my Ass Coin gone. Over 8 billion.”

Oh, well. Easy come, easy go.

At a time when flash and fraud are all the rage, this seems the perfect coin of a rock-bottom realm, where substance takes a backseat to a veneer of style. When fast living and quick bucks are the order of the day, dividend stocks and paid-off houses are for saps. Better to head to the crypto-casino, load up on AssCoin…and watch it get wiped away.

The old-timers among us would never be sheared by such crude clippers. We have more sophisticated ways of being fleeced. We don spring hats, tighten bright ties, sport pastel blazers, slip on colorful dresses…and head to the track.

We arrived yesterday at Foxhall Resort, about 45 minutes southwest of Atlanta, on a beautiful spring morning. The gates to the Georgia Steeplechase would open promptly at 11:00, with the races starting soon thereafter. Once they did, as at the opera, late arrivals would not be admitted. Clearly, this was high-end, hotsy-totsy stuff.

Rita and I rode with a couple friends. A couple others followed in a separate car. In each trunk were tables, chairs, and equine-themed trinkets with which we’d soon decorate our designated tent.

Several coolers carried trays of fruits, cold-cuts, sandwiches, deviled eggs, and chocolate dessert. Adult beverages would be sold at the event, so bootlegged imports were prohibited. As such, we had no choice but to surreptitiously smuggle several bottles of liquid sustenance under thick ice at the bottom of each carton.

Being advised by organizers to bring our own furniture, we were assured by them that porters would help ferry our luggage from the parking lot to the horse track. As we unloaded our bulky baggage, we looked around, expecting attendants to be thick as flies, like valets outside the Ritz.

Instead, we saw lines of well-dressed vagabonds hauling their belongings up a dirt road and into the woods, like Parisians fleeing the German advance. The porters, apparently, were a myth…like a chaste hooker or an honest politician. An occasional golf cart flittered about, offering a fortunate few a relieving ride. Otherwise, we soon realized, we were on our own.

As we began dragging several full coolers and carrying enough folding furniture to fill a studio apartment, we spied one of these tiny carts, sitting idle. A man who seemed official suggested we take it, if only we’d bring it back once we’d delivered our goods.

Deal.

I placed the tables and chairs beside me in the driver seat, put a couple coolers in the back, and asked Julie, one of our group, to sit there to secure them as we rode. Then we set off, and we drove…and drove…and drove.

As we continued up the path, past the never-ending caravan of weary refugees, I became fearful they’d soon surround us…as if we were the Romanovs riding east or the Bourbons headed to Belgium…and demand our cart. I hit the gas, almost tossing Julie and a couple coolers from our tiny carriage.

Within a few minutes, after traveling about a half a mile from the car, an open field finally appeared. In the distance, over several hills, was a long row of blue tent tops, under which patrons were to place their gear.

Julie checked our tickets and confirmed that ours was Tent Number 31. But none of the tents was labeled. A group who’d preceded us said we should just count from the first tent till we reached the one we were assigned. So Julie and I drove slowly past each tent, counting till we finally reached the last tent on the field.

Which was Number 30.

Naturally, no one from the Steeplechase was around to assist. So we decided to help ourselves. Pitched about halfway back up the row of blue coverings, and between the race-track and the other tents, was a separate single shelter. Julie and I immediately drew the same conclusion: that must be Tent Number 31.

And if it wasn’t before, it was now. We would give ourselves a front row seat.

We unloaded the cart, Julie began setting up shop, and I returned to retrieve the others. On the way, I saw Rita trudging toward the tent. Behind her, the rest of our group followed. The last was a ways back, so I drove on to pick him up.

On my way, a man waved me down.

“Do you work for the Steeplechase?”, he asked.

“Does anyone?”, I responded sarcastically, thinking I was talking to another frustrated patron. I then realized this guy was wearing a Steeplechase shirt, and wasn’t kidding around.

“How did you get that cart?”, he demanded.

“It was by the parking lot, and someone dressed like you suggested we take it.”

“Well, I need that cart”, he insisted impatiently. “I’m the chairman of the event, and I need that cart.”

Given that it had been sitting unused while most everyone was laboring from their car to their tent like characters in a Steinbeck novel, I wasn’t sure what he “needed” it for. But I assured him I’d return it after I collected the lost member of our party. He reluctantly agreed, and I quickly drove on.

As it happened, our straggler had made his way to our tent while “the chairman” was chastising me. But while I had the cart, I did manage to chauffeur a couple other ladies to their camp. I then returned the stolen buggy, and strolled leisurely back to our tent. There, a buffet was laid out, bottles were chiseled from the cooler ice, and we settled in for a day at the races.

The preliminaries were to begin at 11:30, with a constant stream of heats and sprints throughout the day. But it was already after noon. Sporadically, a couple horses would prance or gallop past. Occasionally, they would do so on the track, and we were condescendingly assured that the pairs that ran by had just completed a “race”.

Things were periodically promising. At one point, people around us began to stand. Hats came off, hands fell over hearts. In the distance, across the field, the faint sound of a woman’s voice carried intermittent verses of the Star Spangled Banner. We could barely hear the song, but as chapeaux and derrieres returned to their previous places, we assumed it had ended…and that the race would now begin.

It didn’t.

Fortunately, we had enough gin, vodka, Champagne, and Malbec to nourish plenty of patience. But, as the hours past, skepticism set in. Why was there no race? Was everything OK? And why was no one keeping us apprised? What was going on? Who was to blame for this delay?

Well, apparently…we were.

Around 1:30, a couple men walked ominously toward our tent. As they approached, I noticed the bottles of gin, wine, and vodka perched prominently on the table. We were sure we’d been busted. Our liquor license would be revoked, our saloon shut down.

No sense trying to hide the contraband. That would only make the crime more obvious. Besides, it’s not as if bottles of booze weren’t burdening every other table under this assemblage of thirty-one tents. As we had to thru the day, we’d roll with whatever waves these men made.

“Nice set up ya’ll have here,” one of them announced, like a bank collector about to re-possess a Porsche.

“Thank you”, we replied, keeping a ready eye on our supply of spirits.

“Unfortunately, as nice as this tent is, it’s too close to the track,” they continued. “The organizers told us all tents must be at least forty-five feet from the track, or the race can’t start.”

“Well, this tent was already placed here when we arrived,” I assured the men. “We didn’t set it up here.”

“That may be,” one of them said, almost apologetically. “But we need to move everything back toward the other tents before the race can begin.”

After receiving scowls from the patrons on whose territory we’d now be infringing, we assured them we didn’t put our tent in its illegal spot, and were only moving it next to them on orders from the authorities. Besides, we were secretly relieved our alcohol had gone unnoticed. Until it didn’t.

“Wow, lots of good stuff you got there!”, one of the men said after we moved our camp and he caught sight of the bottles.

“Uh oh”, I thought. Here we go.

“If ya’ll had any bourbon, I’d have to come join you!” And with that, they left. And, at long last, having removed the obstacle we’d unwittingly placed between hundreds of people and the reason they’d come, the races could begin!

But the inactivity resumed. No announcements, no horses, no nothing.

Then about a half an hour later, like a lone gull over open sea, we had a glimmer of hope. A “bugle” sounded First Call. Then, about halfway thru, it stopped. Then started again. Then stopped. Then started again. Then stopped. What was this? And where was it? The noise was amateurish, and came not from over a loudspeaker (by now we realized there wasn’t one), but from behind our tent.

There, from the back of a golf cart, sat a teenager…ostensibly a volunteer with the Steeplechase “organization”. He had pulled up behind the tents, stood proudly, and began (several times) to play his bugle. Or, rather, his trumpet. And probably for the first time in his life. A noise faintly resembling “First Call“ poured forth with the stoic dignity of Radar O’Reilly calling reveille.

The kid then drove away, and what was clearly becoming nothing more than an expensive picnic resumed.

As I recall how we continued to sit still, I should take a moment to step back.

Our friends graciously invited Rita and me to the Steeplechase after they had paid for admission at a charity auction. Two of the friends that joined us had attended the three previous years, and assured us it was wonderful. Dapper crowds mingling, jazz bands playing, mint julips flowing – the day was always one long, festive atmosphere…periodically punctuated by small jockeys on fast horses.

The event rotated locations, and this was the first year it had been at Foxhall Resort. The grounds are beautiful and the place is elegant. But they seemed completely unprepared, as if the guests had arrived a week early for Thanksgiving dinner. Yet we kept being reassured that the meal was being made, and that it would be served soon.

When we arrived at 11:00, organizers told us we’d need to be gone by 5:00. By 3:30, no horses were in sight and, on a pleasant 85 degree afternoon, we began to hear rumblings that it was “too hot” for the horses to run. After asking several volunteers what was going on, that was the story we continued to hear, and that they had clearly decided to stick to.

But it made no sense. The Kentucky Derby runs every May, and the Belmont happens every June. Baltimore in summer can certainly be hotter than Atlanta in spring. Something else was going on. We surmised that someone (or everyone) hadn’t been…or wouldn’t be…paid, and decided not to participate.

We hadn’t seen a horse in a couple hours, and had come to terms with the fact that we wouldn’t see another one. By 4:00, a few patrons and a couple volunteers (but no one “official”) told us the race had been canceled. “Too hot”, they all repeated, as eyes rolled reflexively toward skeptical brows. As people began to pack up, we decided to stay.

Why not? We were having a good time. The “rationale” for cancellation notwithstanding, the weather was nice, the company was great, and the bottles weren’t empty. Let the crowd dissipate, and then we’d go. And when we did, rather than trudge back without a stolen golf cart, we’d drive our cars to the tent and load them there.

Meanwhile, as we finished our wine, our hosts apologized for inviting us to a race that didn’t happen. We assured them we had a blast, and that regrets weren’t necessary. They also were trying to figure how best to get a refund, but without affecting the charity they wanted to support.

However they do it, they best get cash in hand. Knowing how this organization operated, our friends are liable to get their AssCoin handed to them.

JD