Men mostly. Some women. But mostly men. Many years past retired. Thin. Some drawn, eyes hollowed-out without a glimmer, resigned that their horse isn’t going to even show at the track.

They all seem to have taken a cue from their neighbor about how to dress. Some sort of patterned-fabric short sleeves a size too big, skipping the first three buttons; grey-toned slacks; sandals.

Skin, an unfadeable tan from a life-long of tropical sun, they look like an elaborately-costumed, intricately-choreographed chorus line. One drags on a cigarette, and the rest exhale in defeat.

In this sleepy town, there isn’t much but the faded memory in them of being roused by the morning alarm, six days a week, for the big-city hustle they call, The Great Government Promise.