After Glenn was laid off from U.S. Steel in 1986, he started hanging around the track every day instead of just on payday. Since then he’s worked every racetrack hustle known to a man with an empty wallet and an urge to bet the daily double. He was booted from the sidewalk in front of the State and Lake offtrack betting parlor for selling photocopied racing forms at far below the cost of real forms. When admission to Hawthorne was free and programs were $2, he would rescue discarded “books” from the garbage and peddle them outside the gates for a buck. Now the track charges $2 to get in and throws in a program.
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So lately Glenn has been stooping–searching the floors, the counters, the trash cans for tossed-out tickets. It’s one of the oldest hustles around. The floors of any racetrack are littered with a white confetti of betting slips, and a few of them are winners, thrown away by mistake. According to Dave Feldman’s Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda, a guy named Herb made his living at local tracks by turning over tickets with his shoe. When Sportsman’s Park was open a character known as “the Garbageman” appeared each day around the eighth race toting a plastic bag. He’d scoop up tickets from the floor, sort through them at home, then cash the winners the next day.
“There were some sharpies who realized they’d put the wrong numbers,” remembers a handicapper who witnessed the scramble. “One guy runs through the third-floor grandstand, grabs the bag out of the trash can, ties a knot in it, runs to the next trash can, grabs that bag, and he went flying downstairs with the trash bags, presumably to take home and look through. People turned into stoopers who never were.”
Glenn raced to a touch-screen betting terminal, but the horses were out of the gate before he could punch in his bet. He backed away from the machine and looked up at the TVs. Laurel would be going off next. He bet $5 on the favorite to place–finish at least second–then watched the race, his arms folded across his black sweatshirt. He’s lost plenty of bets, so when his horse struggled home in the middle of the pack, he just scrunched his graying mustache and wobbled his head in resignation. “That’s it, man,” he said. “I’m broke.”
Glenn also watched for security guards. “I know a lot of guys been gettin’ barred out for this,” he said.
Then he hurried off to see the clerk. An hour later he was sitting alone on a bench next to the customer service window. Someone asked how he was doing. “It’s rough, man,” he said, shaking his head dejectedly. “I’m just trying to get together enough money for a bet.”
