A Hundred on the Nose
Earlier this year, I was walking up Toorak Road in South Yarra, wondering a. how it was that Nashville still isn’t available on DVD in Australia, while Fred Claus is readily obtainable, even on Blu-ray; and b. whether devoting time to such a concern marked me as some kind of latte-sipping elitist, when I noticed two men in crumpled suits conducting a fevered conversation with their hands. They were shuffling towards me, but the second one, his face a pinkish block that appeared to have been roughly carved from a hunk of home-brand ‘manufactured meat’, had pulled up, closed his eyes, and was sporting two raised index fingers, the way you do when you want to make sure you’ve heard something correctly. As I flitted past, I heard him say to his companion:
‘So, it’s number one, race three, at Sandown.’
It wasn’t until I’d passed both Fredric March jewellers and the Chevy Chase milk bar (the symmetry is beautiful; March made his final film, The Iceman Cometh, in 1973, while Chase made his first one, The Groove Tube, the following year), that I realised that what I’d probably heard was some kind of racing tip. I turned back. These were guys who knew what they were talking about. No mug punters here; they looked like the kind of people who could have someone killed if the information proved faulty.
The copy of that day’s Herald Sun folded neatly in my manbag was of no assistance; I can’t leave the house until all my newspapers have been ‘filleted’ of unnecessary supplements. The form guide is always the first to go, along with the Business, Sports and ‘Epicure’ sections, and anything containing yet another story about Louis Nowra and Mandy Sayer, and how they don’t actually live together, like an irritating local version of Woody Allen and Mia Farrow. I ducked into a café and, without ordering anything, fished through the basket of papers, like a bum. Locating the Superform Liftout, I examined it closely for the first time in my life. It was as mystifying as a tax form written entirely in Wingdings. What did all the boxes and numbers mean? Why was the TAB so keen to promote the fact that all its odds were ‘fixed’? Who were the ‘apprentices’ and what exactly could they ‘claim’? (to own a wardrobe full of clothes all smelling of horseshit, presumably), and was there really something called the ‘Bacardi Breezer Handicap’? (surely that occurred every Friday night, at Chasers?)
Eventually, it became clear that a ‘race three’ was to be run at something called ‘Sandown’ in approximately fifty-five minutes. ‘Number one’, I assumed, referred to the horse. I hadn’t heard of the horse listed in that position, but then, I hadn’t heard of any horse, aside from Phar Lap, Seabiscuit and Mr Ed, and none of these appeared to be running. The only times I’d ever bet on a horse race were during unavoidable office sweeps around Melbourne Cup time, where my policy of backing the horse with the funniest name had proved reliable in only one respect: it always came in last. As for the amount of money you were supposed to bet, that was anyone’s guess. But the bloke in the suit who’d stopped to memorise the tip didn’t look like someone who’d be pissing about down the shallow end. It would be an insult to his professionalism to wager anything less than a hundred bucks.
***
Because of a schedule too tortuous to relate, I decided to ‘lay the bet’ at the TAB in Gardenvale. As soon as I walked in, the piano music stopped. ‘What does this guy want?’, I could feel everybody thinking. ‘Does he think this is the local branch of Minotaur Books?’ I filled out, what I assumed was, the necessary paperwork and handed it, along with two crisp fifties, to the man in the cage. After pointing out that I’d done everything wrong, having ticked when I should have crossed or vice versa, he asked if I was interested in something called the ‘Daily Double’. Unsure whether this was a betting formality or an offer to buy a drink, I quickly declined and fled to the car, the mocking laughter of hard-bitten punters still ringing in my ears.
Just before 1pm, I swanned into a different TAB, on Carlisle Street, Balaclava, this time affecting the air of a seen-it-all veteran. It wasn’t necessary. The punters here were considerably more hardcore and had eyes for nothing but the many widescreen TVs bolted to the ceiling, each one broadcasting a baffling chatter of facts and statistics. I positioned myself in front of the one marked ‘Sandown’ and settled in for the race. But, just as the gun went off, I felt a tugging at my sleeve and heard these words:
‘Tony Martin! Would you have time to consider a proposition?’
I turned to find a nuggety, weatherbeaten man in his mid-fifties, handing me a business card that identified him as the sales manager for a plumbing supplies firm in the outer suburbs, a shop that was presumably closed this particular Wednesday.
‘Um, I’m just waiting to see how this race turns out,’ I replied, but he continued on as though I’d said nothing at all.
‘It’s an idea for a movie,’ said the man, who, for the purposes of this telling, I’ll call Des, before leaning in close enough for me to identify at least one leading brand of bourbon, and adding, ‘I can get you in on the ground floor.’
‘Can we just wait until after this race?’ I said.
‘I’ve already sent it to Shaun Micallef and he’s read it three times,’ he claimed. ‘He’s very assiduous in that regard.’
He’s very assiduous in that regard? Thanks to that line, Des now had my full attention.
‘So, you’ve got funding for this idea?’ I enquired.
‘Not yet, but if I can get some names attached…’
A rasping cheer exploded from one corner of the room. The race was over. I turned back to the screen, but could not see the name of my horse amidst the tangle of graphics.
‘Looks like I’ve lost,’ I said.
‘Which was yours?’ asked Des. I told him. ‘Nah, you’ve come in first, mate. You’ve won. Now, if I could just…’
I’d won! But how much? I made for the cage with Des hard on my heels, all the while continuing to advance his pitch.
‘Like I say, there’s an opportunity to get in at the ground floor on this. I can guarantee you an Executive Producer credit.’
The man behind the counter informed me there would be at least a ten-minute wait for the results to be confirmed.
‘Good,’ said Des. ‘Then you’ll have time to hear the idea.’ He proceeded to describe a set-up that I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d already seen done several times before – most recently on one of the worst comedy shows on TV, and even there it had been presented as a deliberately bad idea being pitched by an idiot.
‘But the thing is,’ said Des. ‘Whereas usually something like that would be done stupidly, with a lot of obvious gags, my idea is to do it intelligent.’ As if to confirm this, he supplied me with, what he asserted would be, the film’s best running joke, a play on the (unlikely) name of the film’s villain, which Des apparently hadn’t noticed was already being used as a nickname by a popular local radio announcer. At this point, I suddenly became aware of the overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke.
‘Hang on a second,’ I said, sniffing the air. ‘You can’t smoke in here, can you?’
‘No,’ replied Des. ‘It’s coming from everyone’s clothes. Here, smell my sleeve.’
‘I believe you,’ I said, demurring.
‘So, how about it?’ he said. ‘Ground floor?’
At this point, I glanced down and noticed, for the first time, that Des wasn’t wearing shoes.
‘You know what,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got to move my car.’
Repairing to yet another TAB, I discovered I’d won $310.00. From a tip overheard in the street. I could see how this could become addictive. Certainly, it seemed more sensible than investing in an Australian film, even one that had allegedly aroused the assiduity of Shaun Micallef. But then I recalled the state of the blokes settled in for what looked like the long haul back at the TAB. What had happened to me clearly wasn’t the norm. For starters, I still had my shoes.
And my winnings? Well, the thing about a story like this is, once you’ve told it, it’s kind of incumbent on you to pay for everyone’s dinner. I’ve told it so many times now, I think I’m down about 500 bucks.
Tony Martin is the Melbourne-based author of ‘A Nest of Occasionals’ and ‘Lolly Scramble’. Podcasts of his radio show ‘Get This’ are still available for free download at iTunes (type in: ‘Get This: Richard Marsland Lives’). He is currently directing new episodes of ABCTV's ‘The Librarians’.
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