Haduken.com

Van and his Texan sidekick, named, what else, Dustin the Texan, take a surreal and drug-riddled joy ride to the Horse Races of Northern Virginia, partly in tribute to the late Hunter S. Thompson, and partly in an effort to make political connections for fun and profit. For some reason, the son of the Prime Minister of Australia is there, wearing fancy boots. (Includes 1 picture of some random chicks wearing silly hats.)

The puckered fabric of seer sucker hung loosely on my legs, and Dustin was weaving in and out of traffic grumbling, “I hate this town.” “Get out of my way, mother,” he dived back in a lane and slammed on his brakes. “This town can kiss it. Van, I’m motivated. I’m glad we’re doing this. Go back, that’s the station,” and he settled in for the drive along Route 66 with a song from 50 Cent. Traffic was well dressed for a Saturday morning, and the wide brimmed hats signaled one destination: Gold Cup.

Since 1922, cars have trekked from stop lights to stop signs over the rolling green hills of Virginia’s north-country to Washington’s premiere social equestrian event. “I don’t understand where all these cars come from and where suddenly they vanish to; Go!,” Dustin was putting me on edge, but his aggressive tactics were what was needed if we were to travel to the heart of the Southern Gentlemen. Today, we were landed gentry, in our Cadillac with four-wheel drive – a Jeep Cherokee.

We had none of the supplies that would make such a journey successful – no Jim Beam, no Jack Daniels, no cigars, very little cash, and fewer family connections than you could shake a stick at – we were traveling into the mountains in seer sucker with determination to live off the fat of real gentry – eek into their elk, and become them – it all seemed possible. But it was all uphill, and my ears began to pop.

Three ladies in sun dresses looked flustered outside a shuttle bus, now broken down, with classic white smoke puffing out of the hood. “Let’s give ‘em a lift,” I suggested. Dustin slammed on the brakes reversed down the highway as cars swung wildly to get out of the way. Dustin was from Texas, and attitude is big in Texas. The girls hollered, “Gold Cup?” I nodded and they hopped in without question or invitation. They were from Arlington and fidgeted with their sunglasses and hair.

“Hello ladies,” Dustin began. I fumbled, and showed them my shoes with 3 white stripes on the heel, and recounted a tale of adventure – we dropped them off, and never heard from them again.

The white tents curled around the track, in a giant arc, flanked by soft mountains. Everyone seemed happy to be out of the city, yet still yakking on a cell with someone stuck in town – “Yeah, you tell that guy,” he said, “well, if YOU NEED anything, just let ME know.” This wasn’t the heart of the southern gentlemen, but had become what DeeCee makes everything – first an industry, then a lifestyle.

The setting was just atmosphere, the stage was not the track, but under the gleam of a white tent, in a single business card, and a promise for lunch – the dance switched after each card was given, in a natural way, some better dancers than others. However, if you found yourself without business cards, none of the dance was necessary. “What sort of law are you in?” “Nuclear? What firm? Haven’t heard of it. Well, I’ll be right back.” I drank more jack and coke and watched the women pass by. Most were young and single. Those not single had found love in balding men that dressed well, but looked worn and older. Perhaps he’s just a really good listener, I thought.

Dustin shot me a glance, “Do you think I’m any good?” “Dustin, you’re a natural.” He held out his catch, a stack of 35 business cards. We had not gone hungry.

The son of Australian’s Prime Minister was in the tent, and he seemed very pleased with his boots. “Mr. Howard, what do you do?,” Dustin asked after handing him his card. “I work for a consulting group in town.” Just then a woman carrying a red pitch fork walked by, and held it high as she took a long swallow of Chardonnay-”Out hunting?” I called. She nodded and walked on, “That’s a damn fine suit.”

We drove back east. “Van, you’ll find DC is a city of lonely people who love their pets.” We walked past someone picking up their dog’s droppings with an old food lion bag, bending over, glaring at the traffic; we had not found the heart of any dream, just a good day at the office – for a lobbyist.

-Van