The young man fixed his newsboy hat, hang the postman bag on his left shoulder, and began to enter the arena. The first American Horse Racing after French launched their First Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, a good place for him to write. That’s where the upper class citizens gathered and that’s exactly where he could find even the slightest event will be an intriguing issue.

Working as a mere young journalist for a local newspaper, Namjoon had to travel to places. An outcast from the start, he couldn’t be happier to comply. Having his way with words and a bright brain, it’s easy for him to mold in the crowd despite the status. His own technique to gather information was rather special, only absorbs himself in conversations with people and observes the environment, without having to write it down.

As usual, his eyes complying to the thrill of his heart, was roaming around to the seats. He wasn’t very fond of the Horse Racing Competition itself, so he would only keep notes on which horse leads first, whether it’s got overlapped, and who’s the winner and he could get the rest of the information easily. From his seat, he could see a lot of things. A group of middle class men on his age as well as the girls—flappers--on his right side, 4 rows below him. He wasn’t even judging, but they’re quite typical. They were bunch of just-come-out of teenagers life using their parents’ money to smoke cigar, bought new cloaks just to watch this event, and to please the women beside them. Namjoon even caught one of them hold his feet up so people couldn’t get pass them. Even the person who took their bet have to turn the other way.

As interesting as the flappers could be, the race had just begun. He took a note on his mind about the mayor when he opens this event, and began to talk to a seemingly horse racing-lover old couple beside him.

--

“Enjoying yourself, eh, old boy?”

Namjoon was caught off guard by the voice of Earl, the horse caretaker as he stumbled around in an almost empty field. A very old man, he was, maybe almost thrice Namjoon’s age and yet he treated Namjoon as his child also his equal.

“I see now that you already came to light. A horse racing is a gift from God himself. Look at those bunch of beauties making me jacks.” He longingly looked at the horses being fed and brushed.

“I’m working, Earl. I have no choice but to attend great party like this.” Namjoon gathered his coat, adjusting his hat and sling his old postman bag.

“What party, never seen a flat tire as young as you! Go get some hooches and get fried. Live your life!” with the last word he sipped his drinks, “and lock the doors, will you?” though he nags a lot, he still trusted Namjoon for closing the arena.

As usual, before he left the field he always circled the bench once again, recalling what has he got that day. Sometimes he saw some things left behind, garbage thrown, some leftover food. But it’s today’s newspaper from another city that he always take a look before he brought home.

“Oh D