The-Man-Who-Folded-Himself-David-Gerrold

see which way I would bet. Apparently they were betting the same way. Word of my “luck” seemed to
have spread. (I didn’t like that—I’d heard somewhere that too much money on one horse could change
the odds. Well, no matter. As long as I still won. . . .)
As I climbed back to our seats, I thought I saw Don leaving, but I must have been mistaken because he
was still sitting there in our box. When he saw me, he folded the newspaper he’d been looking at and
shoved it under his seat. I started to ask him about the odds, but he said. “Don’t worry about it. We’re
leaving right after this race.
We’re through for the day.”
“Huh—? Why?”
He waited until the horses broke from the gate; the crowd roared around us. “Because in a few minutes
we’re going to be worth fifty-seven thousand, six hundred dollars. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“But if we keep going,” I protested, “we can win almost a milllion dollars on an eight-horse parlay.”
He flinched at that. “There are better ways to make a million dollars,” he said. “Quieter ways. More
discreet.
“
I didn’t answer. Evidently he knew something I didn’t. I watched as Michelangelo crossed the finish
line and paid off at two to one. Don scooped up his two newspapers and stood. “Come on,” he said.
“You go get the money. I’ll wait for you at the ear.
I was a little disappointed that he didn’t want to come with me to collect our winnings; after all, they
were as much his as they were mine. (I’m getting my tenses confused—they were all mine, but it
seemed like ours.) Didn’t he care about the money?” No matter. I found my way down to the windows
to turn my tickets in—that is, I tried to turn my tickets in. There were some forms to be filled out first,
and a notification for the Bureau of Internal Revenue. And I had to show my drivers license for
identification and my credit cards too. The track manager was beaming at me and kept shaking my
hand and wanting to know if I would please wait for the photographers and reporters. At first I was
pleased with the idea, but something inside me went twang—just a warning sensation, that’s all, but it
was enough. “I don’t want any publicity,” I said; now I knew why Don had beaten such a hasty retreat.
I shook off the track manager and collected my check for $57,600 as quickly as possible. It felt like a
mighty powerful piece of paper; I was almost afraid to put it in my pocket. I must have walked out to
the parking lot like my pants were on fire. I was that nervous and excited.
Don was sitting on the passenger side, looking thoughtful, I was too giddy to notice. “You want to see
the check?” I asked, waving it at him.
He shook his head. “I’ve already seen it.” Then he pulled it out of his pocket to show me—his check
for $57,600. He’d had it with him all the time! I blinked from one to the other. They were identical,
even down to the last curlicue on the signature. “Hey!” I said. “Two checks!” Why don’t we cash them
both?”
Don looked at me. “We can’t. Think about it. If you cash yours, how do I get it back so I can cash it?”
He was right, of course. I wanted to hit myself for being so stupid. It was the same check. He—I—we
just hadn’t cashed it yet. He slipped it back into his pocket; I did the same with mine. Well, at least it
was nice to know I wasn’t going to lose it.
* * *
I drove home. Don was strangely quiet; I noticed it almost immediately because I had gotten used to
letting him do all the talking. (There wasn’t much point in my saying anything; he already knew it, and
anything I needed to know, he would tell me.) But now he had lost his former exuberance. He seemed
almost—brooding. I was still too excited by the whole experience. I couldn’t stop talking. But after a