Tony the man, Beirut and a different set of rules, a day at the race track, lebanese wasta
These days its nice to be picked up by a car that isn't a cab, especially when it's driven by a man named Tony, the head of sports for the Beirut Municipality Board (he's in charge of a lot of the goings-on in the athletic arenas across the city), saving us from a Sunday of potential boredom and delivering us into the laps of luxury and corruption. My roommate Mac met him during his ongoing work as spokesman for an NGO looking to set up a Lebanese youth Basketball Tournament.
Mac, Marina, and I jumped into his Sedan just after noon. His varicose veined nose greeted me in the rearview mirror. He greeted me and gave me a polite look until he met marina's eyes the same way. He looked at her longer, smiled bigger, and well . . . I think he also noticed her boobs.
As the four of us drove to the Hippodrome Horse Track, I realized that this was the nicest car I had ridden in for months, and as I gently fingered the leather mid-seat armrest I began to wonder how it was that my friends and I occasionally find ourselves in the company of the elite Lebanese. Perhaps as Americans, we're considered upper-class and are not necessarily confined to all the social constructs of Lebanese Society, and though I sometimes feel like nothing more than a curiosity to them, at least I get the chance to see and do things I never would if I were in the States – like listening to Tony recommend betting on the first and third horse in the seventh race to his friend over a cell phone, even though Tony owned a horse in that race, which was neither of those two. He explained, "I don't care about winning. I will ask my jockey not to win."
We drove through the gates and into the track parking lot, dirt and asphalt crunching beneath the tires, everyone from the guy selling racing sheets on the street to the armed soldiers patrolling the grounds, waving to our host. Tony pulled into the closest spot next to the VIP entrance as he explained to us that it wouldn't look right if he had his name next to the horses he owned on the racing sheet, so he put his friends or families names. Did I mention he's also the manager of the track itself? He is. Now, he didn't come right out with it, declaring that these races to be crooked, and by judging the tone in his voice, he didn't really seem to think that there was anything wrong with what he was doing. He confessed some of the inner workings of the track with no hesitation, as if we were people who share the same world view. Not that I'll ever be excepted as Lebanese, even if I do learn fluent arabic (which people say takes atleast seven years) I'll generally considered to be of Asian origin in the image oriented society.
Our little trio of Americans walked ahead of Tony, while well wishers, big shots, and most everyone in between shook his hand, right up until the moment that we were waved into the VIP elevator. He kept his eyes on Marina, flashing her smiles, not the perverted kind, but the kind that are designed to remind people of his power. It was a confident smile on the face of a sixty year old man who's probably never been considered handsome in his whole life. I noticed that Tony was holding an expensive looking cigar and ventured to ask what it was. He answered, "It's a cigar." Then he told Marina that she was a beautiful girl while he patted Mac on the chest, giving props the way fathers congratulate their sons, away from the eyes of mom. I'm sure it was an odd moment for us all.
Once on the upper-most floor, Tony led us through a few rooms until we were in the VIP lounge itself. He sat us at a plastic table (this is still Lebanon after all) next to the viewing window, surrounded by guido looking characters in suits and scarves and slicked back hair, and with out much time until the first race, he told us that he had to tend to some things and left us. Of course, before he went, we did get "recommendations" from Tony on every race scheduled for the day. After all, we're not retarded. Did I mention Tony is also the Director of the Lebanese Olympic Committee, the non-elected one?
We figured we'd watch the first race without betting, to check and see if all this was for real. Sure enough, horses two and three both placed just like Tony said they would. We bet on the second race and guess what? We won.
Below us, the shebab who had placed bets whooped and whirled their shirts through the air in either dismay or elation, but their excitement couldn't have been much more than our own, as we had just come to realize that, even if it was only for a few hours, we were playing by a different set of rules.
Mac, Marina, and I jumped into his Sedan just after noon. His varicose veined nose greeted me in the rearview mirror. He greeted me and gave me a polite look until he met marina's eyes the same way. He looked at her longer, smiled bigger, and well . . . I think he also noticed her boobs.
As the four of us drove to the Hippodrome Horse Track, I realized that this was the nicest car I had ridden in for months, and as I gently fingered the leather mid-seat armrest I began to wonder how it was that my friends and I occasionally find ourselves in the company of the elite Lebanese. Perhaps as Americans, we're considered upper-class and are not necessarily confined to all the social constructs of Lebanese Society, and though I sometimes feel like nothing more than a curiosity to them, at least I get the chance to see and do things I never would if I were in the States – like listening to Tony recommend betting on the first and third horse in the seventh race to his friend over a cell phone, even though Tony owned a horse in that race, which was neither of those two. He explained, "I don't care about winning. I will ask my jockey not to win."
We drove through the gates and into the track parking lot, dirt and asphalt crunching beneath the tires, everyone from the guy selling racing sheets on the street to the armed soldiers patrolling the grounds, waving to our host. Tony pulled into the closest spot next to the VIP entrance as he explained to us that it wouldn't look right if he had his name next to the horses he owned on the racing sheet, so he put his friends or families names. Did I mention he's also the manager of the track itself? He is. Now, he didn't come right out with it, declaring that these races to be crooked, and by judging the tone in his voice, he didn't really seem to think that there was anything wrong with what he was doing. He confessed some of the inner workings of the track with no hesitation, as if we were people who share the same world view. Not that I'll ever be excepted as Lebanese, even if I do learn fluent arabic (which people say takes atleast seven years) I'll generally considered to be of Asian origin in the image oriented society.
Our little trio of Americans walked ahead of Tony, while well wishers, big shots, and most everyone in between shook his hand, right up until the moment that we were waved into the VIP elevator. He kept his eyes on Marina, flashing her smiles, not the perverted kind, but the kind that are designed to remind people of his power. It was a confident smile on the face of a sixty year old man who's probably never been considered handsome in his whole life. I noticed that Tony was holding an expensive looking cigar and ventured to ask what it was. He answered, "It's a cigar." Then he told Marina that she was a beautiful girl while he patted Mac on the chest, giving props the way fathers congratulate their sons, away from the eyes of mom. I'm sure it was an odd moment for us all.
Once on the upper-most floor, Tony led us through a few rooms until we were in the VIP lounge itself. He sat us at a plastic table (this is still Lebanon after all) next to the viewing window, surrounded by guido looking characters in suits and scarves and slicked back hair, and with out much time until the first race, he told us that he had to tend to some things and left us. Of course, before he went, we did get "recommendations" from Tony on every race scheduled for the day. After all, we're not retarded. Did I mention Tony is also the Director of the Lebanese Olympic Committee, the non-elected one?
We figured we'd watch the first race without betting, to check and see if all this was for real. Sure enough, horses two and three both placed just like Tony said they would. We bet on the second race and guess what? We won.
Below us, the shebab who had placed bets whooped and whirled their shirts through the air in either dismay or elation, but their excitement couldn't have been much more than our own, as we had just come to realize that, even if it was only for a few hours, we were playing by a different set of rules.
posted by miguella guerilla at 12:17 AM
1 Comments:
You write very well.
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