My hoodlum friend took me to the Suffolk Downs race track during football season. There was no horse racing; the place was used as a legal betting place. There

My hoodlum friend took me to the Suffolk Downs race track during football season. There was no horse racing; the place was used as a legal betting place. There were three levels. On the bottom were nasty desks and booths under harsh fluorescent lights. Lines at betting windows. Semi-pathetic characters in soiled pants and hoodies working on their bets, then standing on line at those windows. Now up the stairs to the second level. Here was a well appointed cafeteria with cushioned seats. Kind of like a Denny’s or a large mall restaurant. Here, the denizens were older and better fed Now the hoodlum was a member of the “Club.” This was on the top, with a panoramic view of the race track finish line. Here was wood paneling, a full bar, and lots of tables with comfortable chairs. Everyone seemed to know everyone. The walls were covered with TV’s showing every active race track in the U.S., and the degenerate gamblers here would bet them. Galilean relativity was in evidence. As the horses approached the finish line at some track somewhere, a patron would yell: Where’s the wire? Where’s the wire? In the horses frame of reference, the wire was coming to them, and the horses desperately groped to reach the moving wire first. Three levels, just like that market.