Connie Mai Alexander’s Celebration of Life will be held at the home of local art historian and art curator James Blakeman. Connie Mai Alexander is survived by her father...
Judy and Sam sat at the Golden Grill, a backstretch diner. They read Connie’s fine print death announcement in the Daily. Who would have thought Connie was into the old rich art thing?
Judy poured herself another cup of coffee. Standing then swaying, she blurted to the rest of the diners. “That Connie girl was such a quiet cat. Always smiling and being nice, ya’ll thought she was too good for us, but she’s always been just a good kid.”
Sam watched skinny, worn out Judy. Too loose Judy, whose eyes drooped with drugs and drink. Her pussy was too dry to get no one but the most unlucky Black guys. She, with her Kentucky drawl, balding head and sagging ass. Sam listened to her spout her Southern Belle sincerity. “Yeah, bullshit, you didn’t like her. None of you women liked Connie.”
“Shit, yeah, I liked her. What are you talking about?” Judy slapped Sam on the side of the head. She sat down across from Sam and glared at his stubbled, red-gray face. “You don’t know nothin’, Sam. I tell you, one thing I do know...” She paused for effect. “Connie, she didn’t commit no suicide. She was too happy about getting married to some mystery guy. She told me so herself!”
Sam pulled a pocket bottle of whiskey and poured a slug into his coffee. He stared at Judy, waiting for her to say something stupid so he could lift the table up against her and pin her on the wall. “Go ahead, tell me! Tell me so I can get the record straight for everyone else to know, since you are the expert around here!”
Sam was a night watchman for the Brannon barn, one of the winningest barns this year at the track. He didn’t know why he had the job. Except, he figured, for the kindheartedness of the female assistant trainer, Sandy. She kept him in good graces with Brannon and covered for Sam’s drinking. He was never sober, and yet the track, especially the track women, felt sorry for him.
Sam wasn’t cute. He was difficult to look at— thin, long red haired, always drunk, dirty clothed, and funny. It must be his jokes keeping him in favor— or was it his ability to sense bullshit? That too was a good skill to have.
A good shit-o-meter, that’s what he was. Well, so what, that’s what he was. He was only forty, and he looked like sixty. Bent over, faded red and dying from lung cancer. No woman would touch him with a ten-foot pole. But that Connie girl, she was always kind to him, respectful.
She meant it when she asked him how he was. When she wished him a good day, he knew she meant it. Hell that Connie girl was one sad chick. He could tell she was not getting married. There was no one. No guy was ready to marry her. He knew she had nowhere to go and yet she didn’t belong here at the race track.
Connie never talked to him about her personal life. One time, yes one time she did give him a ride to the Five Points to get beer, because his bicycle was flat.
He remembered how she urged him to accept a ride from her. She in her little airplane car, a Japanese car, something CRX. He remembered calling her a Kamikaze. Too late he realized, not politically correct. Afraid he hurt her, he apologized for his racial stupidity.
Connie was so cool about treating people right. Sam remembered her smiling and tossing her long black hair. She said, “It’s okay Sam. I am a kamikaze— a wind spirit— only I hope to die on a horse and not in a plane or a car.”
That day, he fell in love with her. He knew he would be loyal and devoted to her and her image. He didn’t care what everyone said about her reputation. He knew no one ever entered her dorm room to take advantage of her at night.
He knew, because he stayed awake most nights, wanting and willing her to come visit him, while he worked as the night watchmen at the Brannon barn, listening to million dollar horses fart and eat hay.
“Sam, I tell you, she was in love. That Connie girl, I am telling you, she was getting out of here!” Judy, ugly skinny, long-haired greasy Judy. She shrilled her convictions between sips on her coffee cup.
Shaken from his elegy to Connie, Sam turned to Judy and burped.
Judy winced, fanning his sour air away from her face. “Nice Sam, fuckin' nice. “Listen, Connie told me she was going to stop all this shitting around at the track and have a real life. Get a man and maybe even a kid. There’s no way she would off herself like this. Besides, I live two doors down from her. She would have made some kind of noise, don’t you think?”