This happened in the late 60's.

An understanding of the way numbers worked was not essential at this point because Merrill Lynch sent trainees to stockbroker school in New York. You went to Wall Street five days a week and learned about up-ticks and ratios and how to apologize on the phone for good opinions about bad stocks.

Five of us all training to be millionaires lived in the Park Royale hotel on the west side of Manhattan in the lower seventies, just around the corner from the famous Dakota, the magnificent but creepy Gothic-type building where many big stars lived, and where Rosemary's Baby was f-f-f-f-filmed.

The Park Royale, a residence hotel, was somewhat dingy, with carpets so worn that a person could more or less slide across them. Frightening men long on foreheads and short on words rode the elevators to the top floor of the Park Royale and did heaven knows what up there, and nobody was asking or telling.

Included in my apartment during this training time were a former FBI agent from the midwest, a former tractor salesman from Peoria and a hick from the deep South; yesterdays klutzes being today's executive vice presidents and the like.

Vivid memories are: Once a housekeeper became frightened and turned a fire extinguisher on me to see if I was alive after a night of beer tasting and an angry waitress showed me a pistol in her purse because I had not tipped enough.

We got paid $1,000 on the first of the month.

This was simultaneously a lot of money (compared to back home) and no money at all (for New York).

My problem was that I could not walk past a certain Broadway theater without going in and seeing Jerry Orbach in "Promises, Promises." I saw it so many times that I could have been a stand-in for several of the roles. The $1,000 lasted approximately two weeks.

Then there was Belmont Park, the great old race track for horses located about three pieces of cheese pizza by train from our flat. Order a topping on a pizza and you'd get a look. Toppings were for the tourists.

A friend and I would go to the human races in Manhattan until we had $50 left, and then we would go to the horse races at Belmont and hang by the rail with the regulars and hammer and squeeze it out - turning $50 into $80, maybe $90 - finding the front-runners and calling them home, down that stretch that seemed to be about the length of New Hampshire.

We were not among the vacationers here, these were the eastern grinders, the locals not looking so much to luck onto a bundle, but rather to play it smart, chum, and take home more than you came with. If you think making show bets is sissified, go to the track with $55 on the 16th of the month with nothing more guaranteed until the first.

The picture of commiseration is a look through the window of the train headed back to town from Belmont Park.

The best way to describe the eastern type of racing personified by Belmont Park is knowing.

The people who go to the races on a regular basis there know what a good ride is. More vocally, they know what a bad ride is and are quick and loud with a free analysis. They know what a well-trained horse looks like before it moves all that much. They can tell a punk from a player. They know their turf. In this regard, going to the races at Belmont Park can seem more like going a part-time job than an escape from a full-time job.

I lasted six months selling teensy-tiny amounts of stock.