I was at the Virginia Gold Cup, Mom

Any accurate road trip story originating from DC involves a traffic jam. This one is different because it involves women in sundresses hanging out of sunroofs, and truckers honking their horns while catcalling on their CB radios. We were on our way to the Virginia Gold Cup, a costume party for some and a tradition for others.

Sweating in seersucker, still stuck in traffic at 2:00pm, I tried to tune in to 88.5 WAMU fm radio for a segment I was interviewed for on the evening of Cinco de Mayo. I was tipsy on tequila, and celebrating a holiday I have no connection to other than an affinity for Corona and a penchant for piñatas. A man stopped us on our walk to the bar and asked if we wanted to be “radio stars”. I answer 5 non-sequitur questions for an American Radioworks project.

4) What would you like to say to your mom on Mother’s Day?
“I love you mom. You’re the best mother I have ever had. I really like being your son.”

5) What do you remember from your prom?
“I took two girls to prom. I was wearing a white tux, and ten minutes before I was to pick up my dates, my nose began bleeding.”

But radio frequencies don’t travel that far in the foothills of Virginia, so we moved on through the static.

Gate 1. General admittance, a green grass parking lot. The girls’ heels sunk into the fertile soil, and I was chosen to run up the dirt path to grab the forgotten VIP tickets on top of the sedan (Probably because I was the one who had forgotten them, but mostly because chivalry is de facto law in the Old Dominion).

We wandered around, more interested in people-watching than the 6th race of the day. Sterling silver flasks like monogrammed mirrors. I kept spying on the gentlemen greeting each other, hoping I would be able to decipher a secret handshake and secure a summer job with a senator.

“Nice girlfriend!” a former fratter yelled in our direction, his pants embroidered with various crustaceans. My chest swelled with false pride, my attractive friend-that-is-a-girl giggled at the irony of the lame pickup attempt.

Throughout the day, we kept note of our favorite overheard quotes.
The winner of the day?
“Forget about him, man. He is a very, very unimportant person”.

The loser of the day? Phantom Fox, the horse I picked to win the 8th race. Why did I pick him? Because all of the other names sounded like the titles to Broadway musicals and Phantom Fox sounded like a kickass action movie. Beau Filou won the race, if you were wondering.

I didn’t even watch. I was too busy sitting underneath a white tent, eating roast beef off of fine china and drinking mint juleps, vaguely nervous that the wrong folks would recognize my “Jew lips” and ask me to leave. I tried my hardest to fit in, not staring at the ladies’ hats too long and casually mentioning that we should totally privatize social security.

An ominous afternoon cloud descended upon the valley, dulling the aluminum glow from scattered American beer cans in the trampled grass parking lot.

My schnoz never bled red on my seersucker jacket. My mother should be proud of me, a Virginian.

this piece was very much inspired by my friend’s article about the Kentucky Derby. she’s an amazing writer…

this piece was not inspired by my sophomoric collegial attempt at making an avant garde movie in beginner’s filmmaking at Duke…