Two dollars, please, on Surly Gal to show in the second.

There is no way to introduce this without sounding like a whimpering 8 year old, so I'm just gonna say it:

An old woman on the betting window at the horse track was really mean to me tonight.

I'm still not quite sure what sparked her fuse. But her exasperated sighs and impatient demands of "What is it that you want?!" suggested it was my fault.

This was my third time betting on the horses. And since no one yelled at me the first two times, I thought I was doing it right. But apparently not.

It's very petit-bourgeois, I realize, to expect any degree of customer care at a shabby, rundown horsetrack. Establishments whose toilet-paper dispensers are dotted with dozens of cigarette burns aren't generally the sorts of places that offer their guests a complimentary pen, a comment card, and a smile.

But in my defense, I really wasn't looking to have my ass kissed. Just civility.

People in customer service have it rough. In the list of shit jobs, it ranks right up there. Every bit as monotonous and tiring as working on a manufacturing assembly line, but bumpers and windshields don't complain, whine, or threaten to have your job if you're rude to them as they glide by.

It doesn't normally bother me if someone behind a counter is short with me. Having done customer service, I know your last customer will affect how you treat your next. And if I'm ever not treated very well, I generally blame it on the asshole that was standing in line ahead of me.

But once in a great while, someone crosses the line and I get upset.

Since I'm still rather intimidated with race track procedures, I like to take a few minutes to scan the employees in the betting windows. I hope to find a kindly-looking older woman. Preferably for one who is smiling. I somehow think she'll lovingly & gently guide me through the betting process, patiently understand my nerves, explain the things that are confusing, and wink to reassure me that, yes dear, you're doing just fine, and your Nana is so proud of you!

But I now realize that woman doesn't work at the race track. That woman works at Hallmark.

As I stepped into the mean lady's queue, I saw her smile at the man ahead of me as he was leaving her window. I heaved a sigh of relief, thinking I'd found my kindly Aunt Bea.

I was intending to place bets with her for six races, but we only managed to get through the 1st before she turned into Patti Duke Astin in 'Please Don't Hit Me, Mom'.

"Okay," I said slowly and clearly. "In the second race, I'd like Number Four to win. I'd like Number Two to place. I'd like--"

She interrupted me.

"Ho, ho, hold on a minute! Are you now betting on the second race?", she demanded.

"Yes.", I said.

She asked me to repeat what I wanted. I did, and again she interrupted me.

"You're not making this very clear at all!", she barked, lifting her hand off her little machine and slapping it on the counter, as if surrendering all hope of ever being able to comprehend my nonsensical ramblings.

Her irritation with me was so over-the-top that I did something that I rarely do. I told her off.

Sorta.

As her outraged fit concluded, she asked me to explain *sigh* once again my confusing wishes.

Instead, I took a breath and raised my palms in a let's-just-stop-here pose, and quietly said, "Forget it. I'm going to go to another window." I pulled some money out of my wallet, avoided eye contact, and then I squeaked, "Because you're very rude."

She acted surprised; shocked to be receiving such a blind-sided blow. But her voice softened, and she said, "I'm not being rude, but you've got to tell me what you want."

I kept my eyes downcast as I paid for the bet that she printed and stepped away from her window without saying another word.

It felt liberating, until, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her lean back in her tattered chair and turn her head. "What a cunt!", I heard her say to the woman sitting in the next window.

She called me a cunt.

In my head I imagined walking back up to her and asking, "What did you just say?" And then I imagined her leaning forward, defiantly crossing her arms, giving me an icy glare, and replying: "I said 'What a cunt.', cunt."

To which my only reply would have been: "Okay, that's what I thought you said." Which would have been embarrassing. Because what was I going to do? Ask a 60 year old lady to step outside? I just let it go.

It's not in my nature to get in anyone's face. And this woman, obviously hardened by years spent sitting in a grimy window, is probably a zen master in the confrontational arts.

I considered reporting her to a manager. But looking around at all the rough, seedy characters lingering about, intently studying racing programs, and twitching with pent-up expectations, the idea of complaining about being called a name seemed very suburban-white-womanish and trivial.

No, best to just let this sleeping cunt lie, I decided.

So I went two windows down to another joyless, dour-faced woman, and nervously placed my bets with her without incident.

Happily, two of my bets came in winners. And there were four more races left, but I didn't bet on any more horses.

I was spooked.