7:13 a.m.

It’s 7:13 a.m. or at least that’s what the broken clock reads situated on the yellow stained wall. The faded wallpaper is torn on all sides; decorated with shards of glass, punches, and black and white photographs depicting the glory days. He walks down the stairs towards his bar. He reaches over for a glass and pours himself twenty-one-year-old whiskey; the glass hasn’t been cleaned in years. The man makes his way to the mirror, he looks at the indented punch in the top right corner. He stares at himself: noticing more wrinkles across his eyes, newer stains on his wife-beater -remembering that he fell asleep with a bottle across his chest and ending up spilling it all over himself- and beneath his bulging stomach his off-white underwear. “It’s a new day baby,” He proceeds to lick his hands and bring his greasy grey locks behind his ears. He walks outside and grabs his mail- his social security check came in today.

   “Hello Harvey, good to see you again,” said the valet said outside the race track with a smile across his face.

   “Happy to be back, John,” Harvey responded with a cigar in his mouth. Harvey gave him the keys to his black 1930 Bentley 6½-Litre Speed Six Sportsman’s Saloon. “Now you take good care of her,”

“Yes sir, Mr. Carter,” the valet responded. Harvey placed a 50 dollar bill in the man's hand as they shook on it. “Thank you very much, sir.”

Harvey went to the race track every day despite the Georgia summer heat. Upon walking through the doors of the track, Harvey reached for the flask in his white jacket. He stares at his watch, 10:15 a.m., “The races start at 12,” he mutters under his breath. He went to the bar and betting table. Reading through the catalog, Harvey places his bets solely with the money from his check, “It’s a clear win,” he tells himself. Harvey drinks himself into a state of slur as the day continues with every losing race. His white jacket is stained with sweat, spilled whiskey, and cigar ash. “This has never happened before,”

“Everything alright Mr. Carter?” asked the bartender.

“No, Gerald, everything is a lie I tell you. This game is rigged, them damn midgets cannot control their damn horses, it’s their only job,  old sport. Just slap their ass and ride. How difficult can it be?” Harvey explicitly yells while lighting another cigar and sipping on his whiskey.

“If only I had a nickel each time you said that, I could buy this whole damn track,” whispers the bartender as he grabs another bottle.

Harvey grabs the new glass and walks over to the betting table, “Here’s my grand-daddy’s watch. He fought for the Confederates in them damn Civil War I tell you. It’s of meanin ya hear me?’,” Harvey expelled. The race track owner walks out of his office and shakes Harvey’s hand. The track owner swipes the watch off of the table and places it into the pocket of his black coat; Harvey leans into the radio and glares out of the window from the room. He slams his hand into his reflection.

Upon walking out of the race track, he reaches for his flask lodged in his white jacket- it’s empty. He swings the door The man stripes himself: throwing the days clothes on the floor. He looks at the clock on the wall, “7:13 huh? Look I still got the whole day ahead of me y’all.” He tells the figures in the photographs. He pours another glass of whiskey and looks at the remainder of his reflection. He lights another cigar and walks outside of his family plantation and sits on the rocking chair made by his grandfather. With a cigar in hand and whiskey in the other, Harvey tells himself and the night sky, “Tomorrow is another day. Hell, it’s only 7:13 in the damn mornin’.”