by Doug Draper
CHAPTER 5
After his father’s departure, Ben followed Derek’s suggestion and read the last book in the Bible—Revelation—to learn more about “the beast.” While not understanding much of the book, he could see that the beast starts off with great power and gains the world’s praise, but he eventually loses a war and gets tossed into prison for eternity. Ben wondered why Derek chose the beast as his hero.
At the station the next day, he watched Derek pumping gas and mentioned having read Revelation. “You’re right about the beast being strong, but did you know that he ends up in prison?”
“Yeah, you can’t win every battle,” Derek said. “But while the beast is the boss, he lives the high life and takes crap from nobody.”
After hanging up the gas pump hose, Derek quickly washed the windshield of the customer’s car and then accepted five one-dollar bills for the payment.
“Sir, I hope you have a glorious day,” Derek said with a broad smile and snappy salute. He stepped back to allow the customer to drive away and then strolled toward the office with Ben walking alongside him.
On the cash register, Derek rang up a sale for four dollars and placed that amount in the cash drawer before closing it. He stuffed the remaining dollar into his pocket.
Derek winked at Ben, and said with a chuckle, “That dollar is a small tip to keep me a happy and satisfied employee.”
Derek then pulled a quarter from his pants pocket and flipped it toward Ben who caught it. He whispered, “And here’s your tip, with more to come if you keep our deal a secret. OK?”
Ben grinned and nodded, wiping grease off the quarter before hiding it in his pocket. “Thanks! I’ve never had money handed to me for doing nothing.”
“Keep quiet about it or the money train will no longer be stopping for you. Got it?”
“Yep.”
“That means nobody, including your brother, can see you with extra cash. And if someone catches you with it, make up a story about how you found the money on the side of the road.”
Ben said “OK” and shuffled around the station for about fifteen minutes before he couldn’t wait any longer and ran across the street to Benanti’s Groceries. The quarter matched his weekly allowance, which was only paid if he completed all his daily chores. With a week’s wages in his pocket, he knew what he wanted—a large apple turnover.
After making his purchase, Ben took the exit that faced away from the station and found a shady place on the store’s loading deck where he sat on an empty milk crate. He gobbled up the turnover before Joe found him and asked where he got the money to buy such an expensive treat. Ben enjoyed the fruit of his deal with Derek for three days despite feeling guilty about taking the money. But a visit to the station by his mother brought it to a sudden end.
While carrying Becky in her arms and holding Debbie’s hand, Rachel walked through the station, checking out the displays for tires and car accessories. Through side glances, she watched Ben trailing Derek and laughing at his crude jokes while they assisted customers at the pumps.
After about twenty minutes, Rachel called Ben to her side. She bent down to look him in the eyes and then solemnly delivered one of her favorite sayings. “Benjamin, remember that bad company corrupts good morals.”
She didn’t elaborate, but her words reminded Ben of the two quarters he currently had in his pocket from “tips” that Derek had given him that morning. He reached into his pocket and caressed the warm metal in his hand, dreaming of all the snacks he could buy with so much money. This pleasant thought vanished as his mother’s searching stare churned up a wave of shame. He knew his secret deal with Derek was stealing.
Later in the day, overwhelming remorse kicked in when Ben munched on the fifty-cents worth of snacks he bought with the stolen money. His mother’s comment made the pastries and candy turn from sweet to bitter in his mouth and he shuffled back to the station buried in guilt.
When Derek skimmed another dollar from a customer’s purchase near closing time, Ben looked away, pretending not to notice.
“Hey, partner,” Derek said quietly. “Catch.”
Derek tossed a quarter from across the office, bouncing it off Ben’s chest. The quarter rolled to the middle of the office floor.
“Pick it up! It’s yours.”
Ben complied, but then he handed Derek the quarter and said, “I don’t want to take any more money.”
“Why?” he asked, stuffing the quarter into his pants pocket.
Ben shrugged his shoulders and said, “Don’t know.”
Derek scowled and grabbed Ben’s left arm, mashing it with his firm grasp. “If you blab about this to your dad, you’ll regret the day you double-crossed me. I’ll crush your nose and tell your dad that you’ve been taking his money.”
He clenched his right fist and held it under Ben’s nose, so he could clearly see the 666-tattoo. Ben nodded and fought back tears, being disappointed by his friend’s harsh behavior and feeling foolish for having been duped into stealing.
Derek’s threat worked. Ben said nothing and avoided being near Derek when he handled money. Ben decided to stay out of the way and expected his father to eventually discover the missing money or catch Derek in the act. But the station’s sudden prosperity hid the thefts.
As Derek promised, the volume of business picked up after his arrival. Customers liked not having to wait for help when they pulled in. And with Derek always available at the pumps, Al finished repairs more quickly. His gamble on the handsome, charming stranger paid off.
After a few weeks, Rachel became more accepting of Derek and smiled at him when she visited the station. As with all the ladies, Derek poured buckets of praise on her.
“Mrs. Baker, you look lovely today as always,” Derek would say. “And your beautiful children are eternal jewels in your crown. I’ve never met such well-behaved children.”
Rachel enjoyed the flattery and the increased volume of cars and trucks pulling up to the pumps. But she didn’t see Derek taking “tips” and finding other ways to steal from the station.
“Hey, if it isn’t the one and only Denny Siegen—welcome to Al’s!” Derek said, greeting the driver of an old, rusty car. “It’s about time you stopped by to see me at my new job.”
Ben stood nearby, watching the conversation but keeping his distance. He had witnessed a similar greeting with another friend of Derek’s who left the station without paying for gas. “Are you here for a fill-up?” Derek asked.
“No, I only have two dollars,” Denny said, holding up the money. “And I’m running on fumes right now.”
Derek snatched the dollars and tucked them into his pocket. “That’s good enough. I bet this old thing has a small tank.”
Ben glanced at the pump for the sale price when Derek returned the hose—more than four dollars. And yet, Denny didn’t hand Derek additional money and drove away with a sneaky grin.
As Derek strolled to the office, he glared at Ben and said, “Hey, Benny: just so you know, I don’t appreciate you keeping tabs on me. And don’t forget that I learned how to deal with squealers in prison. If you’re smart, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
He returned to the office and took a chair in the shade but didn’t approach the cash register to complete the sale. While Ben continued to worry about these thefts, a more severe problem had its roots in a conversation he overheard a few days later.
“Al, do you know what marketing is?” Derek asked.
“Uh, I guess so,” Al said. “It’s telling customers about your products.”
“Much more than that,” Derek said. “Marketing is what you do to get people excited about coming to your business because you have something they desperately want. It’s exactly what you need to make this station the top business in Alma.”
Derek continued after unfolding a piece of paper and showing it to Al. “You should use your mechanical skills to build a stock car and showcase it at the Utah County Speedway on Saturday nights.”
Al seemed interested, so Derek blazed ahead. “I know that you could build the fastest stock car in the county and dominate the competition at these local races. And then we could move up the ranks to the races at the state fairgrounds and show everyone that Al Baker is the best mechanic and driver in Utah. You’ll be famous.”
Derek held a big smile while Al studied the paper that described the races. Ben peered over his father’s shoulder to see what it said, not trusting Derek but liking the idea of his family being involved in auto racing.
“Well, I don’t know,” Al said. “How could I keep up with all the work I have now, plus build a stock car?”
“Come on, Al, you need to think big like me. With the money you make from racing, you could hire three or four more mechanics to do the dirty work here at the station while you’re taking care of the easy stuff. And before you know it, we’ll be opening Al Baker Service Stations across the state—with me as your business partner, of course.”
Ben missed the conversation between his father and Derek that sealed the deal, but he witnessed the arrival of a car four days later that needed extensive body work.
“You can use the engine in this monster to create the fastest stock car west of the Mississippi,” Derek said while Al handed Denny Siegen a cash payment for the car.
Al noticed his son watching the transaction. “Ben, don’t tell your mother about this car. It’s our little secret. Do you hear me?”
Ben nodded and honored the pledge, but his mother visited the station about two weeks later and asked why the car in the far service bay only had a chassis, engine, and four wheels—no doors, hood, or fenders. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“That’s the foundation of a stock car that’s going to put this station on the map,” Al said. “Dear, we’re going into the racing business.”
As soon as they started to argue, Ben retreated to one of the old cars behind the station. He drowned out the quarrel by making sounds of racing engines, squealing tires, and honking horns. He stayed in the car until his mother drove off. His father must have won the fight because he kept working on the car and it slowly began to look like something seen on a racetrack.
The finishing touch came on a hot evening after the station closed. Al and Derek painted the car dark blue and added a giant eight on each door—the number assigned to the car by the racetrack director.
“Al, we’ve created a mobile billboard,” Derek said, admiring the paint job. “Let’s park the car out front so people can see it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Al said. “Somebody might damage it.”
“Not with me and Ben keeping our eyes on it during the day and then parking it inside the garage at night,” Derek said.
Al agreed, and Ben enjoyed keeping kids from playing on the car even though he realized that they only listened to him when Derek gave them a fierce stare. “Look but don’t touch,” Derek said to the kids who violated the hands-off policy.
When the crowd included a couple of Derek’s friends, he climbed inside and started the engine, pumping the gas to get it to roar and delight the onlookers. Ben loved the sound and smell, swelling with pride that his father had made this powerful machine. Many kids from Ben’s school joined the spectators checking out No. 8. He chatted with them at the station and looked forward to the summer break ending so he could go back to school with something to talk about.
No. 8 already gave his parents plenty to discuss. They argued about the car frequently with his mother expressing fears that it would bankrupt the family. “And what will happen if you’re injured driving that thing?” Rachel asked.
“Oh, don’t get so worked up over nothing. I’ll wear a helmet and I have a roll cage in the car to protect me if there’s an accident. Plus, I plan to be in front of the pack, leading the way and taking the checkered flag. Nobody is going to touch me.”
Ben wanted his father’s boast to be true. In his mind, he saw the racetrack stands filled with cheering fans and No. 8 crossing the finish line first. And he could hear the racetrack announcer saying, “And that’s Al Baker in Number Eight, the fastest car in Utah County, leaving the competition behind for another easy victory.”
CHAPTER 6
“I have absolutely no interest in watching you race,” Rachel said in response to Al’s request that she attend his first race. “What makes you think it would be fun for me to sit on bleachers for two hours with a baby on my lap and three other kids to keep under control? And the entire time, I would be worrying that you are going to get hurt or something worse will happen.”
“Come on, don’t be such a dark cloud,” Al said. “I thought you’d want to be there to cheer me on.”
“Why would I cheer for something that puts your health and our finances at risk?”
While delivering a stern look, Al said, “Fine. Stay home, but I’ll be taking my boys with me. They believe in me.”
Joe and Ben rode in the back of their father’s pickup truck while Derek sat in the cab. No. 8 trailed behind them, secured to the truck with a sturdy hitch. When approaching the track, Al parked on the side of the road and pulled a tarp from behind the truck’s bench seat.
“Boys, you need to hide under this,” Al said. “Kids aren’t allowed in the pit area, so you’ll have to stay out of sight until we get inside.”
After parking in the track infield, Al told his sons to jump out and sneak into the grandstand. “Don’t get caught. I’m not buying tickets for you.”
With Joe taking the lead, the boys hurried past the other race teams, attracting a few stares but no commands to “get out of here.” When they reached the track, Joe took off at a full sprint and arrived ahead of Ben at their targeted exit point—the tall, chain-link fence that separated the racetrack from the grandstand.
When Joe started to climb it, a security guard on the other side shouted at him. “Hey, junior, what do you think you’re doing? Get off the fence.”
After spotting a possible escape, Ben ran away from Joe, aiming for a small section of the fence that had pulled loose from the bottom of the grandstand. Ben slid to a stop and pulled on the fence to create a gap so he could slide through. When on the other side, he pushed the fence with his feet to make a bigger hole.
“Joe, over here!” Ben shouted to his brother who had dropped off the fence and stood on the racetrack while the security guard reprimanded him.
Joe followed Ben’s lead and dashed toward him. He dropped to his hands and knees, sliding through the gap and landing on his back next to Ben. Joe spun around and pulled the fence back into place to hide the entrance.
“Now, what?” Joe asked.
Ben pointed at a faint distant light slightly to their left. The boys moved toward the light as fast as they could go. At first, the grandstand stood three feet above the boys, which required them to crawl. The grandstand’s solid wood planks held closely together by steel brackets only allowed tiny beams of light to enter the space below.
“I hope we aren’t crawling over rattlesnakes and black widow spiders,” Ben said as they hurried toward their goal.
Soon the boys could stand up and walk, because the grandstand had risen much higher over their heads. They reached the light, which was coming through a small hole in a series of large plywood sheets that formed the grandstand’s back wall.
Joe and Ben searched for a loose board when a much better exit appeared—a door. Ben twisted the handle and, to his surprise, found it unlocked. He led his brother through the door and into a crowd of spectators near the grandstand stairs.
“Clean yourself up,” Joe said as he wiped dirt off his pants and shirt. “You look like a bum.”
“No, I don’t,” Ben said, giving his clothes a quick brush down. “If it was up to you, we’d be getting thrown out of this place.”
“That still could happen,” Joe said. “What are we going to do if someone asks us for our tickets?”
The boys entered the grandstand and found empty seats on the opposite end from where the sec
urity guard had caught Joe on the fence. After a long wait, the roar of powerful engines shook the grandstand and a loud cheer went up. The stock cars entered the track one at a time and began running laps. The last car out of the infield—No. 8—caused Ben to jump to his feet and cheer. Joe held back on his applause.
The track announcer’s introduction of the drivers included, “Al Baker, a rookie racer, who will be starting at the back of the pack.”
When the dozen competitors lined up for the race, Al pulled into the outside position in the last of six rows. To win, he would need to pass all the other cars on the short, narrow track. While the drivers waited, the crowd rose for the singing of the national anthem and remarks from the announcer. Then, a pretty blonde woman wearing shorts and a tight blouse waved a flag from behind the infield guardrail and the race began with a thunderous charge.
Ben cringed on the first turn when the driver next to his father’s car slid sideways and bumped him. No. 8 received its first blemish. The car’s beautiful paint job didn’t survive ten seconds on the racetrack.
Ben swore and shouted to Joe, “Hey, that’s not fair. Did you see that jerk? He hit Dad on purpose.”
Joe scolded his little brother for swearing and looked around to see if anyone had heard him, but his concern didn’t fit the setting. The air soon filled with vulgar expressions as the other patrons had opinions to share about the race. And the air became thick with cigarette smoke. Most of the spectators shared another habit—drinking beer—and they had been at it well before the race began. As a result, most of them tossed off any restraint, yelling at each other and the drivers. Having grown up as Mormons and in a town dominated by Mormons, Joe and Ben had rarely seen people use tobacco or drink alcohol because those things and others were prohibited by the LDS Church’s health law, known as the word of wisdom.
Ben ignored the “sins” of the race fans and matched their zeal with his cheering. “Go Number Eight! Put the pedal to the metal!”