THIS IS COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL. IT MAY NOT BE USED FOR ANY PURPOSE UNLESS PRIOR WRITTEN AUTHORIZATION IS GIVEN BY THE AUTHOR, MAURA CURLEY OR THE PUBLISHER, DANIEL BOSTDORF. ANY INFORMATION CONTAINED HEREIN CANNOT BE SHARED WITH ANYONE EITHER BY PRINTING HARD COPY AND/OR FORWARDING THE CONTENTS OF THE ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THIS BOOK.
*Permission granted to re-post on FornitsFOR PERMISSION: 1-340-693-8883 OR EMAIL:
[email protected]Chapter EightCosmic Convergence
I had never been to a racetrack, had not even bet on a horse at a county fair before the call came. It was a frosty morning in March of 1984 and I was trying to gather the last of the winter wood, the stuff that hadn’t made it to a neat pile before the snow and ice embedded it in the earth. I was out of breath, pulling and kicking, wishing for an early spring thaw in front of my barn.
A woman named Martha Amesbury told me they liked my resume. The track was opening in six weeks, and they had nobody to run the in-house advertising department. An interview was set up for the next day.
Had I actually sent my resume to a race track, I wondered. My previous experience had been primarily in advertising and marketing higher education, historic preservation, and healthcare. This certainly was a switch. Images of Edward G. Robinson, stoggie cigars, and of course the Mafia danced through my mind. I felt a wave of apprehension--and a ripple of excitement.
Route One in Scarborough Maine is a congested two lane highway going both north and south. It is the main thoroughfare for summer tourists heading to cottages on Pine Point or Old Orchard Beach. Some of the more moneyed folk also travel this way to their elaborate homes on Prouts Neck, or to the elegant Blackpoint Inn. Dotted with recently developed industrial parks, land on either side of Route One is a premium location for developers who needed to escape the City of Portland, ten miles to its north.
Scarborough Downs is located just off this highway with a half mile private road leading to its vast parking lot. Situated on 500 acres, it is one of the last large undeveloped tracts of land north of Boston. It even has its own seasonal turnpike exit off the Maine Turnpike I-95.
Though I’d lived in Maine for three years then, I had never bothered to venture down that road to the track. It was wet with melting snow that day, and full of pot holes as I navigated my small car in the direction of the glass grandstand which looked like an ugly red and white monster standing alone, surrounded by asphalt and no trees. Inside everything was painted a patriotic red white or blue. Trash barrels were painted all three colors. Cheap wood paneling covered some walls in this cavernous building that, I realized with a shiver, was unheated. I carefully walked at least 500 feet, weaving my way around what appeared to be empty flea market tables, before I spotted a door behind the closed betting line that I had been told would be the office.
My eyes and nose were assaulted by the smokey haze coming from two small rooms. The first one, which I later learned was used as the admissions and program office during the race season, had a counter to its immediate left. Behind it were two desks, side by side facing the same direction. Two non-descript men were sitting there talking on the phone. Straight ahead of me there was another, smaller room with its door open. A women talking on the phone was seated at a desk facing the door. No one stirred when I entered, so politely I waited, feeling oddly out of place, dressed in a tailored brown wool suit and white silk shirt, primly carrying my portfolio.
Suddenly everyone looked up, all eyes focusing above my shoulders. The energy in the room had changed.
“Hi Joe,” the voices rose in surprising unison, a mixture of enthusiasm and anxiety.
“How ya doin' guys. We gotta get the heat cranking in here. John why don’t you go find out why it’s so cold...You must be Maura, .’m Joe,” he said, hand outstretched for the obligatory business gesture that seemed incongruous in that environment. “This place is crazy, I apologize for the mess here...” he continued, leading the way to the other office where the woman at the desk was still on the phone.
He was taller than I imagined, younger looking too, and on first impression seemed friendlier and much more accessible than I had anticipated. “I used to have a suite of executive offices, but my clubhouse burned down in December, so we’re going against the wind, ” he announced. “...Thanks for coming today. I guess Martha’s told you that we need someone really good this year to do advertising...”
I was struck by the conversational, almost confidential tone of his voice in addressing me, a complete stranger. There was none of the initial stiffness of other interviews, when one is being sized to specifications. This man is very smooth, I thought, not at all overt in his assessment of me. But instinctively I felt on guard, that big tests lay ahead.
It was much later, when I thought about that first meeting that I realized how disarming his 'I’m not checking you out' tactic was for me. It was a little like a professional pickpocket who doesn’t outwardly focus on his prey, but nevertheless intently observes every move.
Martha, the woman behind the desk, got off the phone and Joe closed the door while simultaneously greeting her. She was about 30 years old, plain with a thin face and short brown hair, casually dressed in a turtleneck and slacks. She seemed tired, but friendly, yet her eyes were strangely opaque. “I guess you know Martha,” Joe gestured, and then addressed her as he took off his full length leather trench coat. “You know there’s no excuse for freezing here...ya gotta push those guys to get the heat going,” he began. “ I know,” she responded. “ I got a cold already. John said the heat is coming up now, the valve was stuck this morning, and he forgot to fix it,” she explained. A ripple of annoyance crossed his face, and his eyes seemed to contract. “Forgot,” he repeated coldly, then focused on me with kindness of expression.
“Running a race track is no picnic,” he explained. “You’ve got all types of people who go here, and who work here. Some have one tooth in their head, others drive BMW’s, but you’ve got to appease them all.” He was standing, looking like an actor, leaning against the door as he spoke, hands in his pockets. “ Joe, sit here,” Martha interrupted as she got out from behind the desk and sat on a bench beside it. “No, No I can’t sit down,” he impatiently responded, and then-- regarding me about to take my place on a metal chair beside Martha--stopped. “You sit at the desk,” he gestured benevolently with a swish of his hand. “I want you to be comfortable.” Dutifully I placed my portfolio on its surface and tried to casually assume the unusual position of interviewing for a job sitting in an executive office chair, behind a large oak desk, while the owner of the company stood standing, and the corporate controller sat shivering on a bench in front of me.
That “interview” as I remember it, lasted about two hours with Joe at center stage, alternately sweeping the conversational canvas with big bold exclamations and short simple statements. Occasionally he would look to Martha for confirmation of some factual point. All the while I was his audience of one, and felt pampered to be present at such a show. Contrary to most job interviews, my performance didn’t seem to be the main attraction. I intuitively sensed that the role of this man’s audience was the actual role I was auditioning for, that my responses to his manner were more important than anything else. When I seemed enthusiastic, he seemed pleased and would become more of an exhibitionist, buoyed on by my behavior.
Pacing around the office, he was describing some of the avant-garde advertising ideas he had in the past, relishing their uniqueness, when he observed that Martha appeared cold. Without warning he stripped off the white silk scarf that hung loosely around his neck, and placed it on her legs in a dramatic motion of chivalry. She appeared charmed, but uncomfortable, and my smile of amusement at his act made him full of himself. He seemed genuinely surprised, I thought, by my self-possession, and ability to remain unfettered in his midst. Was this a test? And am I passin?, I wondered as I tried to remain calm and conversational.
Frankly, I found him rather refreshing that day, after spending hours earlier in the week being interviewed for a corporate relations position by a five member search committee who fashioned their questions from some interview technique textbook. He was charming, not the usual CEO, or even close. He seemed to genuinely enjoy running the racetrack and described in detail ads he thought of that included one called KEYSTONE COPS in which he ‘rented’ Monument Square in downtown Portland, Maine to stage a hold-up on horseback during which a rider was lassoed, dismounted and taken to Scarborough Downs for harness racing. The stranger the better. He believed in getting people’s attention, he said. He confided that he loved advertising and never begrudged spending hundreds of thousands of dollars a year on it.
After hearing all this I gestured towards my portfolio, anxious to demonstrate the uniqueness of my own capabilities lest he believe my approach would be too sedate for his taste.
He acted impressed as I turned the pages and gave the standard sales presentation about my diversified skills as journalist, organizer, and creative conceptualizer, my degrees in communication. I wanted to demonstrate that I was capable of the kooky creative he seemed to enjoy, yet had enough good taste and judgement to remember the bottom line, and work for it.
“What’s this?” He queried suddenly, seeming unusually on guard as he probed a photo of the regatta dock being placed into the water by a huge crane with mini TV news vans parked in the foreground. “That’s the historic moment of gaining access to the Merrimac river from the center of Manchester,” I explained. “How did you get the crane there?, ” he asked, suddenly somber. “That’s a story in itself,” I began, about to relate my calls to Cianbro Corporation that resulted in their donation of the crane and its operator. But I was abruptly cut off, silenced by his stare. “Cianbro,” he announced ominously pointing to their thick black letters on the crane in the photo, “is a name we don’t mention here. They are not our friends,” he declared. “Oh...,” I said, censoring myself mid sentence, “then lets move on to the next page.”
Whether I took the job at Scarborough Downs because of, or in spite of that unusual interview doesn’t really matter now. It was, in hindsight, inevitable considering the combination of economic necessities and career considerations I was facing. The stars were set for some strange configuration. Yet I was unaware then of the aspects in Joe Ricci’s life that made my appearance at Scarborough Downs nothing less than a cosmic convergence...
Three months earlier my husband had fallen down a flight of stairs at work. My father, a writer, had died suddenly the year before, and I had taken time from my advertising and marketing work to organize his files, and catalogue his incomplete manuscripts. Consequently, I had no full time clients, and after my husband’s injury, we basically had no earnings . We needed a guaranteed income, and for the first time in many years I was actively pounding the pavement looking for a weekly paycheck.
Before the call from Scarborough Downs, I had two other serious interviews, and had been called back for a second interview for the director of corporate relations post with Maine Development Foundation located in Augusta. The job at MDF involved raising money by securing incorporators for the foundation. It was a jobcrammed with business breakfasts, 'power lunches,' social soirees. And with an injured husband, and a six year old son I wasn’t sure I could handle all that as well as the three hour round trip commute to Augusta from my home in Limington. Scarborough was only thirty-five minutes away, near the beach for relaxing walks after work (I thought) and offered opportunity for creativity that MDF did not. I was to be in charge of a six figure advertising budget, and didn’t have to even worry about raising the money for it.
Driving home from Scarborough after the interview, I replayed the meeting in my mind. I hadn't expected him to offer me the position on the spot when Martha had said earlier there had been other candidates coming. I was surprised by my own response when Joe cocked his head and asked whether I wanted the job, stating that if I did it was mine. ”I’ll give it a shot,” I answered with a smile. “And we’ll see what happens...win, place or show.” He was impressed with my racing analogy, but I confessed “That’s all I know about betting or harness racing !” When I was leaving, he walked me out the door to the cold cavernous grandstand. “I’m really glad you’re going to be working for us.,” he declared. “You have too much pizazz to work in Augusta.
*****
One would think I had lived in a cave not to have known more about Joe Ricci than I did during that afternoon in March of 1984. But I had spent a year and a half of three years in Maine working on projects outside the state. I was aware that the track’s clubhouse burned down the previous December. I also remembered months earlier passing by my television and being struck by the image I’d seen on the screen. It was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed on Maine news. This man was sweating profusely, shouting, almost snarling on camera about the attorney general and the governor trying to put him out of business. I couldn’t comprehend what he was talking about, only that he was very angry. “That man desperately needs public relations,” I remarked to my husband. Ithen shook my head and walked away. Only much later did I realize that was my first look at Joe Ricci.
Scarborough Downs racing season ran May through September, and by March there was a frenzy of fitful activity as personnel were recruited. More than 250 employees were needed, making it the largest seasonal employer in the state. That year the usual pre-season preparations were complicated by the clubhouse fire that destroyed all the executive offices, the Downs Club Restaurant, and upscale betting area. All that remained was the dilapidated red, white, and blue grandstand, and many fans and former employees were betting that it would be a terrible season. The feeling was that ‘high rollers’ accustomed to being pampered in the clubhouse would never settle for mosquito ridden bleachers. I was told the clubhouse was to be rebuilt, but nobody knew when.
In the interim, devising office space, and a temporary restaurant were management‘s concerns. After a week of sharing both desks and phones with two other employees in the smoky office I visited for my interview, a temporary space, consisting of card table and phone was set up for me in a large boiler room down the hall behind the betting line. It was from this vantage point that I watched potential employees pass by my door enroute to interviews.
I had six weeks to conceptualize a seasonal ad campaign for print, TV, and radio, lay-out the print ads, produce the broadcast spots, and make all the media buys. Working fourteen hour days I felt I could make the production deadlines, and get ads on the airwaves in mid April. But my confidence was tested when I found out Joe also wanted me to plan the track’s first ever ‘Opening Day Extravaganza.’ He wanted a fabulous event complete with a parade including elephants and camels, stunt airshow with skydivers and children’s activities.
Each day closer to the season opening brought more people and increased activity to the grounds. Some regulars like the track announcer Lyod Johnson, and mutuel manager Bob Leighton had been there for years, returning every spring like the swallows at Capistrano. Lyod, a short wiry man, a chain smoker with poor false teeth and dark rimmed glasses appeared with cigarette and coffee cup about four and a half weeks before the opening, smiling, a bit cynically, at all the hubbub.
At that time new offices had been set up for the season in a big red storage shed across from the grandstand. Inside the door was a small reception area with desk and phone for the receptionist. Directly to the left was a much larger room, used for accounting. To the right of the receptionist desk was the office of the general manager that would be shared with the assistant general manager. It was without any doors, and necessary to pass through to get to the conference room on the other side. My office was behind the reception area. Another office was beside mine, and one had to pass by my desk to get there. That room, I was told the day an expensive new oak desk was delivered, would be occupied by Joe’s friend, Linda, who handled personnel scheduling and payroll for the mutuel cashiers.
Llyod stopped by to drop off some papers at accounting, and poked his head in my office to “to check out the new recruit.” “This is a crazy place,” he warned, regarding me as though I had been a naive in-law who ignorantly married into a clan of lunatics. He said he’d been there since 1979, the year Joe had bought the track, and that in that time he’d called the races, done a handicapping column for the newspaper and wrote articles of his own about upcoming races etc. for the back of the daily racing program. He said he had even been general manager for a season or two. “I’m one of the oldest employees,” he confirmed, “ because I mind my own business up in the crow’s nest (the roof of the grandstand, where he viewed and called races) and I’m out of Joe’s way when he gets into one of his moods. “
The office environment at the track was organized chaos if such a thing could exist. The general manager for the season hadn’t been decided on by mid March, and the only one who seemed to have any authority was Joe, but he made sporadic appearances to the premises. I had spoken with him only half a dozen times during my first weeks on the job. Suddenly appearing out of nowhere he would be standing in a doorway, or poke his head through a door enroute somewhere. His gold tone Mercedes SL sports coupe would often be parked on the lot, but there would be no sign of him. One time, he breezed in and saw me writing copy. Looking down at me he exclaimed with finger pointed toward my left hand: “I didn’t know you were married...how long?” “Nine years...” I responded. “Oh...” he smiled, “...I was married for nine years too, home every night, the whole bit... but it became a noose around my neck and she kept pulling it tighter and tighter.” Without another word he turned and walked away.
It wasn’t too long before I had a handle on Joe’s style of getting business done, and realized I’d need to abandon some of my professional expectations to survive. Meetings were called on as little as a half hour notice, and everybody was alerted that attendance was expected. Other appointments were not an excuse. Then after people’s plans had been changed it was not uncommon to have him appear an hour or two late, or perhaps not at all. The exception was when a meeting took place at his house, and everybody was to be there at the appointed time or risk his wrath.
John Fortin was employed off season doing odd jobs around the track, and taking care of the snack bar at the weekend flea market held every Sunday until racing resumed. He was a genial, easing going guy about thirty years old. I’d chatted with him, and Debra Therrien around the office in those first weeks in March. Debra had been handling the two hundred flea market vendors, scheduling space, and processing their payments. She seemed very capable with a no nonsense approach to each task at hand. In the course of a day I’d seen both John and Debra do everything from ordering racing gear and hamburgers to fixing pipes, and scheduling job applicants for interviews. It was my observation that those two held the place together during the winter, along with the Scarborough Downs controller named Don Nason who approved purchase orders and paid bills. What struck me as strange about all this was that none of them seemed to act on their own instinct. Every action seemed proceeded by an order from the other end of the phone, and I learned that these instructions were from either Joe or Martha who had offices a half hour away at a place called Elan in Poland Spring, about 20 miles from the track.
I had met Joe’s business partner, Dr. Gerald Davidson, once when he wanted to use the phone in my office. The absolute antithesis of Joe in looks and countenance Dr. Davidson was at least six inches shorter and, in his late sixties, twenty-five years older. He spoke in slow drawn out phrases, and with graying hair and a hunched stocky frame, looked like someone’s academic uncle. How odd, I thought when he introduced himself to me as Joe’s partner. I couldn’t even imagine the two carrying on a conversation at a cocktail party.
I had been on the job about a month before meeting Dr. Davidson at the Downs and during the next two years I never saw him there again. I wondered what it was that joined these two men as partners...what common ground they shared...
Chapter NineStage Set
One afternoon in early April I had lunch with a TV salesperson named Bob. It had been our first meeting, though he had been hounding me for at least two weeks to get together. Bob was an aggressive salesman, in his forties, fit and tan, looking more like a sailing instructor than anything else. We ate at the Snow Squall restaurant near a marina in South Portland, and he talked candidly about Scarborough Downs which was one of his major advertising accounts. Bob said he liked my predecessor, “...but he drove her crazy,” he confided. ‘He’ was obviously Joe, and I was curious. “The last time I saw him...” he continued,”...was one night out near the entrance of the track, armed with a shotgun. He was convinced someone was trying to take over the place, and then use the Down’s land for an ethanol plant. God is he intense!”
He went on to mention the hatred that Joe had for Ival Cianchette, President of Cianbro Corporation who was also an owner of rival Lewiston Raceway, and told me how Joe believed Ival was behind this ethanol conspiracy. I realized then why Joe reacted as he did to the Cianbro crane in my portfolio. “Ival Cianchette” I repeated, feeling the familiarity of the name before realizing a strange coincidence...
I had seen that name on the Maine Development Foundation’s collateral materials the executive director had given me, the week before I turned down the offer for the corporate relations post. Ival Cianchette had been the foundation chairman. How bizarre I thought, thinking about the lines “Two roads diverged in a wood...” from the poem by Robert Frost. No wonder Henry Bourgeois, MDF executive director, had paled when I told him over coffee at the Sheraton Inn that I had decided to do some advertising work for Scarborough Downs, rather than accept the foundation’s job offer.
***
“You’re one of the people Joe wants at his house in half an hour. “ John Fortin informed me as I walked in the door from the revealing lunch with Bob. “Oh,” I said feeling put out since I had at least a dozen phone calls to make that afternoon, trying to find camels and elephants. “Just where does Joe live?” “In Falmouth,” he answered looking tense, “ but you’ll never find the place on your own. Debra and I are going too, but we'll wait for you. You can follow us in your car, but we have to leave now!” he insisted with a great deal of anxiety as if the room would explode if we didn’t leave that second.
It was about a half hour drive north down the Maine turnpike to the Falmouth exit, and then a series of twists and turns up a trecherous mountain road to the stone wall that signaled Joe’s home, a white stately residence not visible from the street. Just before the house were two small buildings, a garage, and a guard shed where a man dressed in regular clothes permitted our passage.
Two dogs, huge Rottweilers, started barking loudly as we drove in. They lunged forward at the car wheels, and I quickly navigated my way to a parking space and turned off the engine. Outside the door, the dogs still barked, and I was squeamish about relinquishing the safety of my car. John and Debra had emerged from their vehicle and were diverting the dog’s attention. I made it to the front entrance hall out of breath, and was met by a woman in her fifties, kind looking, and gracious. “I’m Anne the housekeeper...” she offered, realizing I was a new face. “The meeting is in the dining room to the left...” she said pointing across the marble foyer, decorated with dark antiques, and a bowl of exotic flowers. Entering the room I noticed Joe, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, leaning on an ornate mantle. Beside him was a long table with two chairs at each head, and about four chairs on either side. The seats were full of people, some whom I knew, or had seen around. Others were strangers. Debra and John had already seated themselves. Joe stopped mid sentence when I entered, and smiled. “How ya doin'?” he asked cheerfully, but before I could answer he continued his discussion with Martha about transforming one of the bars in the grandstand to a restaurant. I found an empty spot at the table and sat down.
A svelte blonde woman, impeccably groomed in designer clothes, and model perfect makeup emerged from what appeared to be the kitchen. She was carrying two large goblets filled with a dark liquid that she placed in front of Debra and John. Others seem to already have drinks in various glasses in front of them. “I’m Linda...” she volunteered as she nodded in my direction. “Can I get you something to drink? We have soda, juice, Poland Spring water...wine.” “I’m Maura...” I responded, “Water would be great...” “With Lime?” “Please...” I answered.
It was not too many meetings later that I fully understood the unwritten ritual of imbibing during meetings on Blackstrap Road. If an afternoon meeting lasted past 4pm which they nearly always did, bottles of red and white wine, and champagne would be broken out, with glasses refilled promptly by Linda. She had shared the house with Joe for the past four years, after Sherry and her sons moved out, and acted as official hostess at these meetings. After the glasses were filled the conversation often would turn into a rap session, with Joe the focus of attention, drinking sake as he told stories, amusing everyone. Often times it wasn’t until after 6:30pm that people started going home, always after providing a suitable excuse for their exit, particularly if Joe was still performing.
I often wondered whether there was any similarity between these encounters with his employees, and the therapy groups he ran for troubled adolescents at Elan which I knew very litle about.
Joe had no friends who were not employees either at the Downs or Elan. His employees were his public and private life, the source of both business and pleasure. One person close to him observed that it was Joe’s protection to have only friends who were on his payroll, as their economic dependence assured a loyalty ordinary friendships didn’t guarantee. “No doubt about it, people were paid to tell Joe what he wanted to hear.” she said. She reported that one time during a meeting he had casually asked no one in particular whether he was getting fat. One employee observed that he did seem to have added a couple of pounds, and the next day that man was fired.
The mood was somber that afternoon on Blackstrap Road, and I could feel the pressure in the room. Debra and John sat tensely in their seats with notebooks opened and pens perched ready to take down instructions. Martha, sitting near the head of the table where Joe had obviously been sitting before he began to pace, was less rigid, but stone faced. Don Nason the controller for Scarborough Downs sat upright, calculator and accounting sheets in front of him. Linda had assumed her position at the other head of the table opposite where Joe had been sitting, and was staring up at him with an expression I couldn’t determine. It was a simple stare, set like a mask.
There were three other people in the room. Bobby Leighton, overweight in his fifties with a head of bushy white hair, came across as sincere and too eager to please, bobbing his head often in agreement. That season was his twenty-ninth one at the Downs. He had been there every summer since 1955, when Joe was only ten years old growing up in Port Chester, New York. Bobby had been a math teacher in the Portland public schools and an athletic coach. He found the job at the Downs a perfect way to earn money during the school vacations. When Joe bought the track five years earlier he had benefited greatly from Bobby’s expertise in the mutuel department. Like Llyod Johnson, he had also once served as general manager at the track a couple of years previous, and then began teaching at Elan when the track was closed for the season. I had seen Bobby a few times at the track, but he hadn’t been in on a regular basis yet. The other two men, both about thirty, I hadn’t met. One, seated directly to my left smiled at me when I entered the room, and had introduced himself as Eric when Joe had been talking to Martha. He had good aura I thought, and seemed enthusiastic about being there at the meeting. The other man it soon became apparent was Joe’s lawyer, John Campbell, whose suitcoat and tie set him apart from the others .
Joe had been silent for a minute while Martha was updating him with some cost estimates. He was pensive, and then interrupted her, addressing all of us seated at the table. "You know guys, we’re in deep shit. This season if we don’t do something quickly we’re going to take it in the neck.” His voice rose and his speech became more rapid. “You’ve gotta understand we’re under siege, there are people who don’t want us to succeed. They tried to burn the track down! It was just a miracle that on the night they picked, the wind was blowing in a different direction, and the grandstand was spared. We can’t afford to let anything ride this year. We’ve got to give 100 percent effort. Otherwise no one in this room is going to have a job in a few weeks. I’ve brought in Eric from Elan to be the new general manager out there...” he said gesturing toward our section of the table. “And Maura is working on an opening day that’ll blow people’s minds.” He than started to lighten up, as he addressed me, and asked me to tell everyone what I had lined up.
Going through my litany of theatrical productions by the Children’s Theatre of Maine, and other activities including face painting, juggling acts, etc., I emphasized the stunt airshow and skydivers, parade with antique autos, stiltwalkers, clowns, and high school marching band, saying it was almost confirmed that I had an elephant and camel coming from Florida for elephant and camel rides for the kids. I also mentioned that I’d located a post horn and had contacted the lead trumpet player for the Portland Symphony who agreed to do the ‘call to post,’ dressed in morning coat, hat and riding boots. “Great, great...” Joe said seeming pacified. “How are your ads coming?” “Good...” I responded hoping he wouldn’t ask me then about the nature of the TV spots that I was still working on.
During my interview I had asked him about my having creative control of ads with the final product approved by him. He readily agreed, saying I would learn that he left competent people alone. “It’s when people screw up, that I step in and fix the mess...” he said.
“I’ve got a media blitz prepared and am targeting spots to be on TV and radio by third week in April,” I volunteered. “I had lunch today with someone from WGME-TV, and gave him my media buy.
“You know what?” Joe interrupted, his face suddenly taking on a tougher look, “I’m seriously considering not putting any ads on TV this season. The media in this state is a joke. They’ve done nothing to help me...just made me look foolish on the news...Why should I give them anything? How about if we take what we’d spend on TV, and use it for radio? That’ll fix ‘em...not one good story about my lawsuit...my credit’s ruined, my reputation. I’ve lost my children because they think their father kills people for a living. And its not news? Yeah...You call each of the stations and tell them that Mr. Ricci has decided not to do anymore business with them because they’re not really a TV station.
What da ya think?” He turned to me, waiting for my reaction.
All eyes in the room were focused on me, eager to hear my response. I knew only snatches about the lawsuit he had against a bank that cut off his line of credit. There was an article from the April issue of Venture magazine about the case. Someone from Elan had dropped it off at the Downs. I made myself a copy that morning and had planned to read it that afternoon in order to fully comprehend what was going on. But I knew very little about Joe or his lawsuits.
“Well...” I began, “It’s very frustrating I imagine, but it seems to me this year of all year’s we need to utilize all the media outlets we have to compensate for the loss of business from the clubhouse. To exclude television, a major part of our advertising budget I think is certain suicide. Why not instead use the fact that we are a major advertiser as clout...a means to gain access to the airwaves? I worked at a TV station in Boston, and the assignment director there in the fifth largest market in the nation was a young guy, overwhelmed with just filling the nightly time slots. Stories had to be packaged and handed to him. I think we need to get the facts out about your case, and show them how newsworthy it is. I think abandoning TV is going to hurt us more than anything. Why not work on a mutually beneficial relationship with the news directors? I can help with that.”
My face was flushed, and if one can feel shock on the part of his or her peers without looking at them, I felt it that day. None of them, I had previously noticed, ever said more than a sentence or two to him without stopping to take his pulse, see how he was reacting. Their opinions would be couched in disclaimers, negating their observations, or they’d start, and stop, and hestitate...waiting for him to jump in. I had passionately forged ahead oblivious to how he was receiving my message until I finished.
Joe was staring at me. “You know what?” he simply said in a monotone his eyes void of expression, “You’ll go far in this company.” Then he changed the subject, and never mentioned not advertising on TV again.
****
Eric Moynihan, the new general manager at Scarborough Downs was chosen for the job in 1984 because he had worked at Elan for three years. A psychology major in college, he understood Joe’s mood swings, and the frustration about his bank case which had been the topic at Elan since it happened. Eric had survived a mass exodus by Elan employees during the previous two years, and was an easy going personality who was loyal and attentive. He had the ability to know enough to sit silently when Joe was on a rampage, and laugh with him when he was in a good mood, though he admittedly didn’t get to know Joe very well while he was at Elan. Being in education his activities were often separate from the rest of the therapy program, and he had in fact only recently come to Joe’s attention for the work he contributed preparing Elan’s licensing application for the state board of education.
Eric had been working as assistant headmaster at Elan’s Pinehenge School and attending graduate school nights at the University of Southern Maine studying for his masters degree in secondary education administration. He hoped to be a high school principal, and was getting all A’s in his courses. In fact he had sent Joe a memo only a month earlier expressing his desire to become certified as a secondary school administrator since none of Elan ‘s personnel at Pinehenge School had such certification. It was a deficiancy the state licensing people had mentioned in their review of the school’s application.
Eric’s transfer to Scarborough Downs had been ‘arranged ‘ for him. Just a week before the move was to happen, he was called into a meeting at Elan with Joe and Martha, and told he was going to be the new general manager at Scarborough Downs.
Nobody ever discussed this dramatic career move with him, noting that it was just assumed he’d take the racetrack job, which raised his salary from $18,000 to $25,000 overnight. Married with three young children, this boost in income seemed a Godsend, something he couldn’t refuse. Graduate school was put on hold.
In mid April Eric and other operating officials had moved into the ‘red shed,’ and the 1984 harness racing season was taking on a shape of its own. Personnel had been hired, fresh paint applied, food ordered. Racing offices had been set up near the horse paddock in what was known as the back of the track, a usually muddy, barren area a quarter of a mile from the grandstand that the betting public never saw. These offices housed the racing arm of the downs operation which that year included new race secretary Karl Jannotta, his assistant Don Knapton, presiding judge Dick Herman, program director Mindy Fitzgerald, and a variety of support personnel and associate and patrol judges needed for each racing meet. These racing positions required special licenses along with expertise, and it was common to have racing officials work a number of meets in different parts of the country in the course of the year. It was a gypsy’s existence, but the pay was generally good, and the sport was in the blood.
The back of the track was spotted with newly arriving trainers and grooms, and an occasional driver who would stop by the track kitchen, a dark, barracks like building near the horse stalls in the paddock. Horse trailers were arriving, along with bales of hay and other provisions for the tack shop. The magnitude of the behind the scenes preparation for opening day was enormous, and I began to view harness racing as a theatrical spectacular with a varied cast of characters. ..Joe, of course, was the producer, director, and star of the show.
Chapter Ten Duck In A Raincoat
Joe’s house mate, Linda Smeaton, began coming into the office during the second week in April for meetings and training of mutuel cashiers. She said she’d usually be working evenings from 6-10pm, so any meetings in her office wouldn’t bother me, as the space we shared was small, and afforded little privacy. She was very cordial, but aloof, and everyone clearly knew that she came and went as she pleased, always looking picture perfect in carefully coordinated designer clothing. She was tall, long legged and model thin, often wearing her hair in a single braid down her back. Occasionally Joe would visit her in the office, and they’d close the door, or talk in hushed voices. Guarded, was the word used to describe her, and it was difficult for me to know what she was guarding; whether it was her relationship with Joe, or her own inner core, that she feared someone might penetrate. We always spoke in simple pleasantries, until one day when I had been scheduled to show my first TV spots to the entire staff. A VCR and monitor had been set up in the conference room and Joe was scheduled to arrive at 11 am. That day Linda breezed by my desk smiling as if amused by something she knew that I did not.
“We’re going to get to see your ads today?” she asked, still smiling. “I guess everybody is, “ I said, not certain I liked the idea of this peer screening before Joe saw and approved them. “Well,” she continued, “...Joe is so nervous...I’ve never seen him like this...You know he’s never done this before...“ she continued in a confidential, yet still amused tone. “Done what?” I asked, genuinely wondering what she was talking about. “Let someone have so much leeway...power. In the past he was always involved in the ads, and had to personally approve them every step of the way. Last night he was saying, he hadn’t even asked you what the ads were about, and they were already produced. He was walking around wringing his hands.”
That was the first inclination I ever had that what Joe said he felt and really did feel were often opposite emotions. (I learned later that it was only when he was completely under the influence of alcohol or drugs that he could be counted on for brutal honesty) Just the day before, he had calmly told me on the phone that he had complete confidence in what I was going to produce, wasn’t worried a bit.
Fortunately the ads went over big. I had opted for the weird approach rather than risk boring Joe and the viewing public. The ads were funny, a little bit of MTV, but also effective in getting the message across that opening day was for the whole family. Never before had the Downs gone after that family market. The ads also helped dispel some of the stereotyped seediness often associated with racetracks.
Whatever messages the public got, it worked. That May 4th, all previous opening day attendance records were broken, as more than 5,000 people passed through the entrance gates, a virtual miracle without a clubhouse.
Not knowing how to read a race crowd I was nervous from the time the gates opened, with cars, trucks, and campers, creeping up the road. I kept hoping that as far as my eyes could see from atop the roof of the grandstand, the long line would continue. I’d hired ‘Cousin’ Bob Walker, a local radio morning jock to narrate the parade that began at noon. Neither of us had ever been to a race or narrated a parade before, so it was a compatible coupling as I outlined the names and organizations involved and Cousin Bob announced over the public address system their appearance on the track.
Then came stunt pilot Jim Parker flying in his smoky Cessna, swooping and swirling before two paratroopers jumped from another plane and landed on a bulls eye Downs logo placed on the infield. It was a superb spectacular, and it finished as scheduled at exactly 1pm in time for the national anthem and the official racing post parade.
There had been some complaints from racing officials, particularly judge Herman, an austere ex-lawyer who served as presiding judge, that such show biz shenanigans would jeopardize the first day of the meet, but it did not happen. The drivers had the track in time for warm up, and on the other side of the grandstand, near the parking lot, children’s activities, and elephant and camel rides commenced the same moment the bell rang for the opening of the mutuel line. Parents could bet with the peace of mind that their children were being entertained in special tents, guarded by security guards. It was a novel Sunday afternoon at Scarborough Downs, and its success signaled the beginning of Sunday family day at the races.
Learning the post positions of the personnel at the track was more complex than understanding those of the horses. Some employees were hired via applications, others were people Joe had met in restaurants or bars. Often he’d walk up to a female store clerk or waitress and say “You’re pretty. I own Scarborough Downs. Would you like a job?” There were also those who were friends of people Joe liked. Still others had more complex long term relationships, with him and these factors affected their performance, and their longevity.
On opening day there were many neophytes, and some who stated they’d worked there for many seasons. I made my way around the first level of the grandstand, past the long row of pari-mutuel ticket sellers known as the main line. The previously barren building was packed with people all wanting to win. The Winner’s Circle Pub was rowdy with periodic screams of elation or anger, depending on whose horse had come in. Ascending the stairs to the mezzanine there were more concessions and bars, one with a big screen blaring a baseball game and another long row of ticket sellers. The new Seahorse Restaurant was also located at this level and looked surprisingly elegant with white tablecloths, and lots of greenery.
A suave looking man, maitre’d Dave Coombs, stood stately by its entrance. He was a high school teacher turned weight trainer and actor. In his late 40's he had deep tan leathery skin, silver hair, and mustache. Not tall, he nevertheless carried himself in a manner that he did not appear short. Stopping in the restaurant on the second floor of the grandstand I was astonished to see Dave, dressed in tails, white pleated shirt and red bow tie playing Maitre’d as if he’d been at the Ritz rather than The Seahorse Restaurant. He‘d been at the track for years, at the The Downs Club Restaurant, and was disturbed by the fire, but hopeful that some of the regulars, known for their generous tipping, would continue to show up. He was pleased that many had already arrived, credited my ads with bringing the crowd. I stayed chatting with him for a few minutes, observing him addressing diners by name, and flashing white teeth, as he welcomed them back for another year.
On each side of the Seahorse Restaurant there were rows and rows of bleachers which I scaled to the top and then climbed an additional set of stairs up to the roof to visit Lyod. He was calling a race when I arrived in the crow’s nest for the next race, and he greeted me with a nod, removing his headsets after letting out his final guttural “EEEEEEAH” as the horses crossed the finish line...”How’s it goin down there?” He inquired with his unique style in which his lips didn’t seem to move. “Is Joe OK?...He drunk yet?” Lyod complimented me on the earlier show, and remarked that it was an amazing opening day crowd. “Joe should be really pleased...” he commented, “...unless he finds something that he enjoys being pissed off about...”
Throughout the rest of the afternoon I crisscrossed the grounds, eager to understand all aspects of the operation. I noted six concession stands staffed by teens outfitted in red or white Scarborough Downs crew shirts, three bars with cocktail waitresses dressed in provocative fashion, ticket takers, and mutuel sellers in pinstripes with garters on their arm. Horsemen and women were wearing jeans and muddy boots, and drivers dressed in their bright colored silks. Eric looked collegiate in his tweed suit coat and tie. There was diversity among the workers themselves, and between the workers, and the fans who came attired in everything from jeans to jodhpurs. In the Seahorse sat Linda adorned in a flowing cream colored dress. and wide brimmed straw hat, sipping champagne. Contrasting this scene was a 200 pound woman in the grandstand, wearing a man’s white T-shirt, institutional checkered pants, and rubber tongs, swigging on a bottle of Bud. Diversity wasn’t the name for it. It was a world within a world.
Martha appeared near an ice cream concession, and, dressed in beige chinos, and a soft sweater, she looked more relaxed than I’d seen her since March. She said the handle was good (total amount of money being bet) and that Joe was pleased. She also informed me that there was a meeting for all the managers in the Winners Circle after the last race, and I should be there.
It wasn’t until 6:30pm that the races actually ended. I was on the phone and arrived late for the meeting. When I walked self-consciously in the door, everyone erupted in applause. “Yaaaay Maura!” Martha mock yelled. “We broke our opening day record, and your stuff was great.” Others nodded in unison. I took the only empty seat which happened to be across from Joe. He stared. “You did a good job...” he said a little annoyed I thought by all the upbeat hoopla. “But now we have to figure out how we’re gonna succeed the next 122 days!,” he added with an anxious look. Eric was seated beside Joe and Martha, and we all talked and ate pizza, discussing things about the day. Soon I made my excuses as most others had done, and left wearily weaving my way across the parking lot to my . I calculated that I’d worked sixteen days without a day off, and wondered if I had to make it through the next 122 days in the same fashion....
When I got to my car, one of the few left in a parking lot that had been crowded, hours earlier, I searched for my keys. Not in my pockets, or my bag. Peering through the locked door in the darkness, I spotted the silver reflections, left in the ignition that morning. Embarrassed, I decided to quietly go to the security office and borrow a coat hanger, hoping I could make my getaway before Joe, Eric and the others learned of my plight. Ten minutes later, two security guards tried in vain to break into the car which seemed impenetrable. They had given up, and suggested calling the state police for a special tool, when Joe appeared on the scene. “I know all about breaking into cars, “ he boasted, with a bravado brought on by alcohol. Upon further investigation, he realized, however, that entry couldn’t be accomplished without damaging the lock. He also noted that the paint was already scratched from the ‘coat hanger’ approach by security. “Let’s do it right,” he concluded, annoyed by the hack job that had already been done. “Go to your dealership tomorrow and get a replacement key.” I agreed and said I’d call my husband and have him pick me up. “No, no...” he countered. “...that’ll take too long, and you’re tired and anxious to get home. Take my car,” he said, handing me his gold keychain emblazoned with the initials J.R. “I’ll get a ride home from security as I live much closer than you.” I protested, seeing his Mercedes glowing in the distance, the only other car then left on the lot, with the exception of the bulky security vehicle. “I insist,” he pressed. “Come on. I’ll show you how it works.”
Sitting in the leather passenger seat while he turned on the lights, demonstrated the wipers, directionals, adjusted the driver’s seat, pressed the electronic dial on the radio and got some music, I wondered if I was awake enough to drive, let alone be trusted with that special machine. Yet twenty minutes later I was easily negotiating country curves along the darkened roads to Limington 25 miles away, replaying the day’s images in my mind. Just before I beamed up the window on the driver’s side, and drove away in gratitude, Joe whom I suspected had consumed quite a bit of alcohol. stood on the asphalt, looking solemn. He instructed me to take my time coming in the next morning. “You did a good job today,” he said. “You’ve really got your shit together, more than most, and I’m a good judge of that, because I usually deal with people who don’t.”
*******
The winter flea market at Scarborough Downs was a big money-maker with over 200 vendors paying $20 each for a table every Sunday between October and when the racing season began in May. The track owned hot dog and hamburg concession at the market also brought in lots of cash as the thousands of bargain hunters who shopped there were a captive audience. This flea market had become a Maine institution before Joe bought the track in 1979, and was the place to be for a variety of antique dealers, craftsmen, and purveyors of surplus merchandise.
This ended every year in May because the grandstand was needed for race fans. But Joe had an idea to simply move the market outside in the summer during the racing, thereby protecting his high profit venture that required very little overhead. The only obstacle to the success of this plan he thought was that the town of Scarborough had passed a local ordinance prohibiting outdoor markets and concerts. This infuriated him since he believed the town had conspired to contrive the ordinance with him in mind.
When I arrived on the scene in 1984 Joe was more adamant than ever to proceed with his outdoor flea market plan, and had instructed his lawyer, John Campbell, to sue the town of Scarborough over what he considered the violation of his right to free enterprise. John had written only a legal letter when Joe decided he couldn’t wait for the matter to proceed at a snail’s pace, causing him to forfeit another season of revenue. He decided to simply stage the market, and let the town sue. It would take them awhile if they even got an injunction, he reasoned, and in the interim he’d be raking in the profits. “ We’re talking at least $50,000 a season the town has already stolen from me!,” he exclaimed. “And that’s about $200,000 since I first wanted this, maybe more! We’ll countersue for the lost revenue after the town sues,” he proclaimed. John Campbell was not thrilled that Joe was going to break the law, but it was agreed the market would begin in June, four weeks into the racing season. My job, I was told, was to "promote the hell" out of it with ads on TV, radio and in print. Joe assumed that the majority of winter vendors would jump at the opportunity to sell their wares year round at Scarborough Downs.
Flyers were sent to all these vendors, and many of them returned notes, explaining that they had seasonal shops to retail their goods in the summer and didn’t need an outlet. Others sent well wishes, but stated summer commitments at different locations. Only three previous vendors were interested, and just three newcomers.
Then a questionnaire was mailed to all area vendors, and everyone who had ever rented a stall space at the track. The responses were revealing. The concept didn’t seem as popular as Joe assumed, even with a 50% reduction of the table fee. Despite the results of this market research Joe would not be deterred from a plan that he was convinced was going to bring in an extra $2,000 a week. “Offer them free tables for the first three weeks,” he ordered.
On the designated opening day of the market, four vendors arrived to set up at 7am. When the few vendors realized they were the only ones, they were miffed, and stayed only a couple of hours, after suffering through cars driving by, but not stopping, because of the few tables. One person who did stop was a Scarborough town representative who informed me that it was against the law, and people could be arrested.
The following week Joe agreed to the plan I had to use the old covered horse paddock, closer to the grandstand for the market. The stalls were open, to the air, but the roof made it exempt from the town ordinance prohibiting open air markets. The vendor showing, was, nevertheless still poor. Weeks went by, and thousands of dollars were spent in charming ads that received compliments, but no vendors. The throngs of people the ads brought in at 8am were consequently resentful, and stopped coming. It was a vicious circle, buyers but no vendors, then no buyers, because they’d been there already and thought it paltry. Yet Joe was determined. “ I said I wanted you to push the market!,” he exclaimed one day during a meeting. “You haven’t put enough ads on TV...Do it please!”
During the next ten weeks an excess of $10,000 was spent on advertising for the market, more than double the amount spent to promote the winter flea. Total income from this enterprise was barely $400. In August it died a quiet death, and Joe never mentioned the $200,000 the town of Scarborough had stolen from him again.
The experience with the market illustrated Joe’s tenacity, and determination to hold on to a belief despite logical reason to abandon it. It was a classic case of tell me the facts only if they support my theory.
Consequently many people near Joe often manufactured facts or feelings they thought he wanted. They would no more contradict their boss than say the emperor had no clothes. And yet sadly, the illusion of honesty, of open dialogue continued.
Fortunately Joe was not always wrong. He actually had good business instincts, and is credited with really improving harness racing in Maine during his first years of ownership, before his excesses took over, and he began systematically destroying the things he built.
In 1979 when he bought Scarborough Downs the harness racing industry in Maine according to former Maine Harness Racing Commission executive director, Thomas Webster: “...was controlled by a very small group of people and it was mired in Maine traditions.” Webster, who spent twenty years as executive director of the commission, credits Joe with bringing fresh ideas and changing the way a lot of things were always done.
“Joe wanted to expand from eight races a card (racing program) to fifteen, and that was unheard of, and he took a lot of criticism for that,” remarks Webster noting that throughout the country all tracks eventually began expanding their programs. Webster also credits Joe with helping to bring in better quality horses to Maine by offering larger purses for special races, and with raising the expenditures for advertising. Yet he also questions many of Joe's motives.“Joe comes on with all the subtly of a plane crash...”he once told a reporter. Webster says he didn't let Joe's actions get to him, since he grew up in the streets of Chicago, and has met people like Joe Ricci before.
The Maine Harness Racing Commission is the governing body for harness racing in Maine. The commission, comprised of five commissioners from different regions of the expansive state meet once a month in Augusta, Maine’s capital. The part-time commissioners all have other jobs. Thomas Webster was the only full time member who was in the commission office daily.
Despite public perception to the contrary, harness racing is an extremely regulated industry with legislation that clearly defines track operations outlining explicit rules and regulation for the staging of races and pari-mutuel wagering. Rule violations by drivers, horse owners, or trainers sometimes results in severe penalties and fines. The wagering of money is regulated with a systematic ‘slicing of the pari-mutuel pie' that disburses percentages of the handle ( total money bet by fans) among the state, horsemen and women, horse owners, and the racetrack. The more money bet or handled, the bigger everyone’s share. Hence, it doesn’t matter to the racetrack whether a fan wins or loses on a particular race as long as people keep placing bets. Popular belief among track operators, however, is that having more people win a little is better than having a few win a lot, simply because more people then have money to wager. It is for this reason that a good race secretary is essential to the track since he or she pairs the horses in a race, making it competitive. A non-competitive race is not only boring, but bad for the handle as well.
In 1984, Maine's two major tracks operated during different months of the year. Lewiston raced October through December, and then February through April.
Joe objected to closing down his operation in October, and believed there was enough business to run year round, but the commission disagreed. He thought the commission was just protecting the older Lewiston Raceway, located 40 miles to the north, and argued that two separate markets of racing fans existed in each area. He filed law suits challenging the commission’s authority, but the charges were dismissed. Undaunted, Joe always was pressuring his lawyers about other options, angles for legal challenges to the racing commission and Lewiston Raceway.
In the first few years of his ownership his reputation for ruffling feathers became widespread, but Joe claimed he was just cleaning up harness racing, bringing the sport out of the dark ages. He appropriated the virtues of honesty and integrity, and made them his own.
Chapter Eleven"...just feeling aggressive."
Joe was adept at involving both his employees and his troubled adolescents in his causes. Specific job descriptions or duties meant nothing to him when he wanted a recruit for a particular project. He’d shuffle people around on his private game board, moving Eric from his educational post at Elan to Scarborough Downs, Bobby Leighton back and forth, along with Martha, his secretaries, accountants, janitors and lawyers. Even Elan residents sometimes did maintenance work at the track, and lawn care at his house. Former Downs' Club chef, John Fortin, was willing to quit rather than cook institutional style meals at Elan, but most stayed, losing their identities in a Ricci Reality that was confusing.
Joe had contempt for traditional families, because he claimed to have been abandoned by his own parents. Consequently, he found a surrogate family in his band of employees and adolescents. And it was clear he wanted them to spend more time in service to him than to their own parents, spouses, or children. Joe also understood the need to sweeten the pot and could be extremely generous to loyal comrades, offering exotic vacations, cash bonuses, cars, flowers, clothes, wine, and for those who shared his appetite for drugs, marijuana and cocaine.
Joe’s enemies were supposed to be his employees’ enemies, and a ‘we vs. they’ mentality was always present.
Being the newest upper echelon employee in 1984 I was fed a series of stories portraying the dishonorable, and sleazy practices of rival Lewiston Raceway, and its primary stockholder Charlie Day. Joe depicted Charlie as a greedy operator who had contempt for fans, horsemen, and employees, and his track as a second rate operation that impugned the integrity of harness racing.
Settling in to that first season at Scarborough Downs was a little like trying to take a nap on a roller coaster, but a certain rhythm nevertheless developed. I’d get to the track about 8 am each day, and leave about the same time every night, except for Saturdays which I faithfully spent with my family. Yet even on that day off it was impossible not to think about the place. My husband, son, and I would be riding in the car, and I’d be switching channels on the radio, checking on the placements of my advertising spots. If a guaranteed placement did not happen on the hour as ordered we’d pull over, and I’d call the DJ on duty and ask what happened. It was more than devotion to my job, it was an obsession. And this feeling was fueled by Joe’s bunker mentality, his belief that people were trying to put him out of business. I wanted to be the quintessential team player then because I was still unaware of Joe ‘s personal vices, his extreme neediness, and his ruthless modus operandi.
Whether my ignorance was a result of my own naivete, or careful cunning on his part is debatable. Being the new kid on the block, I was sometimes systematically excluded from impromptu after meeting socializing, and the side Joe presented to me was often markedly different from the stories I began hearing. Yet there were indications, hints of his darker, more insidious personality, and in retrospect I should have known.
According to numerous people Joe used cocaine nearly every night in 1984, and presided over a series of after hour employee parties where it was openly consumed, sometimes as the track’s own uniformed and armed security officers stood guard.
Shortly after the track opened for the 1984 season, Tony Aliberti, harness racing columnist for the Lewiston Sun Journal Sunday wrote a column outlining many problems at Scarborough Downs. It was full of petty stuff like the tuna sandwiches were too small, programs not up to par etc. Joe was angry about the piece, and Tony was immediately banned from the track. If he dared to show up, he was to be escorted off the property by security guards.
After Tony’s negative article I decided to write a rebuttal, claiming that it was unfair for him to judge the track so harshly, especially that season as it was fighting back from the fire. Borrowing a sports analogy I decided to appropriately title the piece: Interference on the rebound is a foul. I had written it one morning but hadn’t mentioned it to Joe. I planned to show it to him later at a meeting,
When I left my office early that afternoon to go to lunch, I took the finished copy along for final reading, throwing my rough drafts, ripped and wrinkled into the waste basket under my desk. Upon returning a half hour later I was surprised to find Joe and Martha in my office. Martha was sitting in a side chair, while Joe was seated behind my desk. In front of him was a roll of scotch tape, and about ten scraps of paper taped together which formed a crude page. It was the contents of my waste paper basket! Surprised to see me, Martha made a hasty exit, while Joe made light of his violation of my privacy. He smiled and said he "liked to put together puzzles", and the one in front of him was quite interesting. Without missing a beat, I simply handed him the finished copy of the article, remarking that my final draft was much easier reading than the ‘trashy’ version on the desk. Yet inside I felt violated, and made a vow to keep my guard up, lest I lose my sense of self.
I wo
