A Gunshot Starts the Race (Class Workshop)

Even as dawn broke across the silent sky, the horses munched on their oats as the stable boys brushed them down. Teddy was one in this myriad and no exception, though his horse had already eaten its fill. These were always the most frantic hours and although it was hard to ignore the race-day bustle, there was a pleasant calm within the stall. The movements performed themselves as Teddy’s mind was left free to wander and consider females, fathers, and fallacies.
When Paul came to inspect his horse, he saw the stable boy dozing off again. The sun was bright overhead and it was almost time to lead the horse out to the starting gate. Paul admired how smart both he and the horse looked; he hoped they would look just as good in pictures taken in the winner’s circle and he hoped to be there when the flashbulbs went off. Paul patted the horse’s flank and began to lead it out without a second thought to the stable boy or the tongue lashing he deserved.
Mr. Butler strolled through the stables giving handshakes to those he knew by name and friendly waves to those constituents he did not. He reminded himself to return with more time and really ham it up. After all, he considered himself as much an actor as a policy maker and the mayor’s mansion was far too luxurious, with more than enough unoccupied rooms, not to devote as much of himself as possible to his craft. At last he came to the stall of his favorite horse and saw the jockey and horse emerging as he neared them.
“Hey there Paul. Is it that time already? I must have lost track of time.”
“Sure is Mr. Mayor. Me and Nixon sure are ready though.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Go get ‘em, son.”
Mr. Butler returned to the track, bought his booklet, and placed his bet to win. He was confident in the horse and in the rider and felt like they would fill up his pocket today. He ambled up to his box and joined his daughter but not before numerous handshakes and salutations. He never forgot that this public had elected him so he never let them forget either. As Mr. Butler took his seat and wiped his ruddy forehead with a linen handkerchief, he felt his thigh brush against his daughter’s and a slight smile spread across his face. He considered how the pleasure his daughter gave him was almost equal to the pleasure he received from filling his pocketbook but he would never speak that.
Lila had used to hate coming to the racetrack with her father. She had felt the pain of the animals while all around her were screams of those making and losing pointless dollars. But one day, her father had taken her down to the stables and it was there she found her reason for ever coming to this place. The attendant to her father’s favorite horse was a tall young man with deep, dark eyes and strong, chocolate muscles. His tender face had shown compassion only for the horse on that meeting, but from then she had taken every opportunity to see him.
Lila did not really even care to know his name. She knew it was Teddy but never used it. Her upbringing, and that of her father, was one of Sunday school and white lace, with an emphasis on the white. So this new fascination would never have sat well with her father, had he been alive long enough to disapprove. So as they both sat in the box, waiting and watching for the hammer to be cocked, the trigger to be pulled, the bullet to exit, and the sound of discharge to reach their ears, they each thought of the one they loved.