If they’d closed the OTB parlors yesterday — as threatened — where would the regulars have gone?

Maybe out to lunch. Maybe to the track. Or maybe they’d have stayed at home, on the computer, punching in their credit cards and losing their bets alone, without the comfort of the off track betting parlor.

Well, perhaps comfort is not quite the right word. But there is something not totally off-putting about the place. I mean, it’s not where you’d want to hold a party. It’s not even where you’d want to hold your sandwich, unwrapped. But despite the Greyhound station-grimness, and tellers who do not exactly look thrilled about their job as problem gambling-enablers, I’m glad the OTBs are staying open.

And not just because I won with a horse paying 29:1.

Like that working farm somewhere in Queens, OTB parlors are a throwback to an earlier New York — the New York of screeching subways and soaring crime, when Upper West Side apartments were filled with junkies and drunks instead of breastfeeding moms. Litter swirled, sirens wailed, and then — poof! That era disappeared, replaced by a giant bouquet in a marble lobby with a health club on the roof.

OTB, though, it hung on, our own little slice of “Guys and Dolls” — minus the dolls. And just like that gambling musical, it has a happy ending.

Sunday night at 6:30 Governor Paterson and Mayor Bloomberg announced an agreement whereby the state takes over Off Track Betting’s operations but still gives New York a cut of its revenues. Thus, yesterday morning, all 68 OTB parlors opened as usual and immediately filled with regulars.

At the OTB on Park Place, a block long stretch of chairs nailed to the floor with bulky, brown TVs hanging above them, the men (and one woman, besides me) were enjoying their home away from home. At least, the ones who had a home to be away from.

“You come to a place, you see your friends,” an affable bettor named Tony said, his ears sprouting wads of cotton. “I’m in and out all day long.”

Next to him was a man of his same age — say, late fifties — a stock clerk for the city. Like at least half of the men there, he’d come over on his lunch hour. He and Tony sat in amiable silence, poring over the racing pages, circling the horses that would change their fortunes forever. They’re both glad this place is staying open.

So is a man who calls himself “The Commissioner,” although he has few thanks for the mayor. “Bloomberg!” he said. “He’s got a jet plane. He gave millions to charity. If I go over to him and I say, ‘Can you live on $2,000 a month?’ he’d commit suicide! Two thousand a month, that’s what I get — I was with the post office.” With that pension, “The Commissioner” gets a day’s worth of fun (and, it looked like at one point, a nap), by placing a single daily bet of $2. He’s another reason it would be a damn shame to close the parlors.

Most of the men at Park Place swear they control their gambling. They may play three races day or only bet $10 or $20. An auditor laid off from Citibank allows himself $8 a day — “That’s less than going to a ball game.”

But other OTB locations attract higher fliers. The Yankee Clipper on John Street is to the Park Place clientele what the Rainbow Room is to Applebee’s: Glamour and money rolled into one. The Yankee Clipper charges $5 admission and the Wall Street crowd inside supposedly doesn’t yell.

The Park Place fellas do. “Put ’em away, three!” shouted one, as a race appeared on one of the TVs. “Keep going!” yelled another.

Pretty soon I was yelling, too.

“Go with your gut,” a veteran bettor had advised me — if that constitutes advice. So I went up to the window and placed everything I had (that I was willing to lose) on no. 2, “J’s Luckylady,” because my husband is Joe and I was feeling lucky.

As I watched the race with my mentor — Mr. “Go With Your Gut” — he was screaming for his horse, no. 8. That horse was way ahead, mine wasn’t even in the top three so I yelled for no. 8, too. And then he said, “Look!”

OTB’s TVs are fuzzier than the pictures coming from Mars. But some horse did appear to be coming from behind. “Yours!” said Mr. Gut.

“Go 2! Go 2!” I yelled, incredulous. Mr. Gut graciously rooted for him, too. And he won!

“You’ll get $150 on a $5 bet,” he announced.

“Uh. I only had him to show. For $2.”

So I won $5.70 after the 15% fee OTB extracts for all this atmosphere.

Word quickly spread that the newcomer had bet on a winner … and sort of lost. I got some looks of pity, some of disgust. Worst of all was what I was feeling in my own gut:

“Try again, you idiot! You blew it. Make up for it — you’re on fire!”

“Forty years ago,” another one of the men regaled me, “a friend took me to the track. I was 18. I won $800 for a $2 bet.” He was hooked.

I took my $5.70 and left.

lskenazy@yahoo.com