OTB Fades Away
I have to say, I never went inside an OTB. I've never had any interest in gambling. On anything. Ever. And for many years, I regarded the inhabitants of OTB offices as pathetic. They looked worn out, shabby, barely members of the world that surrounded them. Over time, however, I developed a begrudging respect for their little demi-monde. And as OTBs were surrounding by boutiques and fast food joints, I came to treasure their stubborn seediness.
The last three OTBs in the City closed on Friday. Here's an article that makes the patrons and clerks seem like the very salt of the earth:
A Hole in Old Routines After OTB Parlors' Last Day
By Michael Wilson
The end looked like this: five old guys sitting around a Chinese bakery, sipping coffee, the hour and minute hands on five wristwatches creeping together at the top of the dial. “It’s about time,” one said, reaching for a cane and falling in behind the others, on oversize physical-therapy shoes, onto Queens Boulevard.
“You can see somebody in there,” he said, peering through glass.
At 12:10 p.m. the doors finally opened, and the group, now 20 strong, walked and limped and shuffled in out of the cold and into the final, death-watch hours of an Off-Track Betting parlor.
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