No Treasure Here

Sturdy white awnings filled the parking lot, sheltering countless vendors. Customers were present, but not in droves. As I walked down the first row, I passed stalls selling cell phone accessories, t-shirts and soccer jerseys, women’s underwear—with panties stretched onto plastic rings on display—CDs and videos, assorted toiletries, those bug-eyed sunglasses, and great jumbles of sneakers. Then I turned into the next row of tables and walked past all the same goods. Next row, same thing.

It seemed everyone at the swap meet had gone to the same handful of wholesalers. Every few yards I saw the same chintzy sun shades, the same leopard-print cell phone covers, and the same cheap Italian jerseys. Some stalls, those with owners that had likely visited two separate wholesalers, offered services in two areas: perhaps you would like some giant panties and a cell phone charger?

The exceptions were a relief. One stall, heard before seen, was atwitter with hundreds of birds. Housed ten to a cage or more, they begged for buyers. On the outside edge of the awning, were the vendor’s only furry critters. Four rabbits huddled in one cage and three weasels lay prone in the other—seemingly floored by heat stroke.

I got a kick out of the pair of boy’s briefs I spotted among one stall’s collection of toiletries (suggesting men consider underwear just another toiletry?). Labeled “Super Boy” in large bold letters, they sported a fair skinned kid thrusting his skinny chest forward. Amusing, but not treasure.

Eventually, growing tired of the heat, I headed to a permanent structure that housed still more stalls. The cool air inside was a treat, despite the stale smell—which oddly reminded me of the scent carried by the air-conditioning of a restaurant I visited in Little Cuba. I strode quickly past the vendors and found myself in a empty area, near the opening of an overflow fence that snaked across the building’s linoleum. To my right a small man sat on a stool next to an old and equally-small turnstile. Making to move through the gap, he motioned me through the turnstile instead. As I passed through, I realized what I was entering: the Dog Races.

I had seen the sign after I got off the bus: Flagler Dog Track. I was intrigued, but didn’t think much about it. And once I entered the swap meet, it dropped from my mind. But now here I was, free from the disappointing banality of the swap meet and walking wide-eyed into a spectacle that I thought had gone out with the cockfight.

At some point in the past I’m sure I saw dog races, perhaps on late night TV while flipping through the back hundreds or possibly on those betting parlor screens that stare conspicuously out the window. But they never were truly real. Yet, twenty minutes after I entered, the dogs emerged to race, strutting their way out of myth.

Each was led by a handler—all in their middle teens—and sported a doggie vest emblazoned with a number from one to eight. They line up along a grassy border of the track, facing the benches and betting counters, where they are held so their muzzles can tested and, presumably, to be admired by the bettors. Few seemed interested. But I was enthralled.

I picked out my favorite from the first group easily. As the eight were being led away, this hound—whose deep brown coat was complemented by the rich green of his #4 jacket—pulled to the left to clear his bowels. No racing on a full stomach. (The lighter load would not significantly help his cause—he finished at par with his assigned number.)

[final segment tomorrow...]