Once Around the Track

by Sharyn McCrumb

  She raised her voice and gestured to the crowd. “One more shot with Badger, folks, and then it’s time to get this show on the road. You’ll be riding one at a time, couple of laps around the track, and remember that the only way in or out of the car is to crawl through the window. I would also ask that anyone who has heart problems or a tendency toward motion sickness to please excuse themselves now.” She paused and scanned the crowd. One older woman pulled the helmet off and shook an equally hard helmet of tight gray curls. Tuggle nodded her thanks. “All right,” she said. “Who’s going first?”

  Badger surveyed the eager passengers with solemn intensity; then he grinned at the blond stork who had called him her boy toy. “You look brave enough to take it on, ma’am,” he said, motioning her forward. “Heck, you could probably do the driving yourself, Miz-what was your name again?”

  The woman bridled at the unexpected praise. “Katharine-with-a-K,” she said, patting her hair. “You want me to go first, honey? Well…maybe just once around the track.”

  Tuggle and Badger looked at each other for a long, silent moment in which volumes of information were exchanged between crew chief and driver. Asked and answered.

  Then Badger smiled at Katharine-with-a-K. “Well, ma’am,” he said, “I reckon we’ll get started.” He ushered her over to the car. “I’d open the door for you, but like Tuggle said, there isn’t one, so why don’t you climb on in the window there and let’s get started.”

  In one graceful movement, he swung himself up and through the driver’s side window, making the process look easy, but his passenger’s awkward clambering on the other side of the car suggested otherwise. She bumped the helmet trying to go in head-first, straddled the window frame, and then hung there for a moment with one leg outside the car until one of her cohorts put both hands under her dangling foot and boosted her in.

  “Puts me in mind of Michael Waltrip,” Tuggle murmured to Sark. “Tall, gangly people have a hell of a time getting into race cars.”

  “What worries me is how much trouble they’d have getting back out in a hurry,” said Sark. “If they had to.”

  They exchanged looks, and with some trepidation, they turned to watch Badger begin the first ride-along.

  Badger hit the ignition switch and then the starter, but there was a further delay while Tuggle went over to make sure that Katharine had fastened the safety harnesses correctly. When this was done, she put up the passenger side window netting, tapped the car, and stepped back, waving Badger on.

  With a roar the car leaped forward and they were off. When the car was far enough away so that you could hear again, Sark said, “Well, at least he knows what he’s doing.”

  Tuggle sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Katharine-with-a-K had been thrilled that the sexy little race car driver had chosen her as his first passenger. Maybe her not-altogether-joking remark would lead somewhere later on. Too bad he couldn’t keep the firesuit on while he did it. Somehow, despite the fact that there was a part of her mind that knew better, she had envisioned the ride-along as a chance to get better acquainted with Badger. She spent the last few seconds before takeoff trying to think of some pleasant remarks to make to a race car driver as they whirled around the track, but now she realized that she needn’t have bothered, because the helmets they wore and the engine noise prohibited conversation. The words would have stuck in her throat anyhow.

  As they plunged into breakneck speed (she hoped that adjective wasn’t too appropriate), she tried to focus on the details of the experience that were not as she had expected. She had envisioned her experience of speed to be similar to the sensation of traveling in a fast car, say, on the autobahn, only more so. Perhaps the landscape would be more blurry. But she discovered that moving forward at nearly three miles per minute on a circular track proved to be nothing like zooming along an interstate. She had very little time to worry about her visual impressions, because the rest of her body was experiencing peculiar effects that she had not even considered.

  Some force seemed to be pinning her back against the seat, making it difficult for her to move. The phrase swimming in molasses flashed through her mind. She tried to concentrate on the proper technical term for such a phenomenon. Gravity? No. Inertia? No. Paralysis? Incontinence? Hubris? Stephanotis? No, that last one was a flower. She realized that her brain was just throwing out long words now, too overloaded to manage anything resembling critical discernment. She struggled to zero in on another impression. There was something strange about the scenery. What would you call it? Immediate. That was it.

  She discovered that if you looked straight ahead through the windshield, the view was not blurry at all. It was as clear as a photograph. Except for the peculiar paralysis she was experiencing, she might not even realize-oh, wait…if you turned your head just enough to look through the window netting on the side…suddenly it looked as if someone had put the world into a blender.

  Perhaps if he slowed down just a teensy bit. She tried to raise her hand to tap him on the arm, and then she decided that at 180 mph this might not be such a good idea, even if she could have managed it, which seemed not to be the case.

  Katharine found that her thoughts were not quite keeping pace with the speed of the car, and also that each observation that ran through her brain was now punctuated with an expletive, as in: Oh shit, I’m pinned back against the seat and can’t move… Oh, shit, the landscape isn’t a blur straight ahead, it’s perfectly clear so that I can see exactly which wall we’re about to slam into… Oo-oooh, shit, here comes a curve and I’m leaning into it and I can’t straighten up… oh shit…leaning to the right more and more…and the wall is awfully…and my head is…oh shit oh shit oh shit…

  Given the fact that NASCAR fined people $10,000 for saying swear words on-air, that thought expressed aloud could have constituted a most expensive conversation, except, of course, that no one would hear it. Not even Badger, as it happened, because her throat did not seem to be working. She kept opening and closing her mouth like a fish, while Badger, as intent upon the track as an automaton, seemed to have forgotten that she was there.

  He certainly seemed calm enough, as if orbiting a track at 180 mph was like a morning commute to him, which it probably was.

  The waiting passengers stood well back from the track as they watched the car whip past them in a blur. At Turn One they let out a collective gasp. The blur hurtled down the straightaway, faster and louder than they had anticipated. Oh, they had been told the speed and they had been issued earplugs, but somehow the mere recital of facts and figures did not translate into this rush and roar before them. It was loud. It was blindingly fast.

  As the car dove into Turn Two, one of the women tapped Tuggle on the arm indicating that she was trying to speak. It shouldn’t be possible to shout meekly, but the worried woman managed it. Round-eyed with fright, she pointed and mouthed, “Isn’t he going awfully close to the wall?”

  Tuggle’s reply was drowned out as the car sped past them again, but they all caught the phrase “hitting his marks,” whatever that meant. The car surged on, leaping for the wall at every curve.

  Bugs to a windshield, thought Sark, and wished she hadn’t.

  “But Katharine’s head is poking out the window, through the netting!” shouted one of them, jiggling Tuggle’s arm.

  “And she’s next to the wall!” shouted another one. As she mouthed the words, she inclined her head and used her open hand to pantomime the proximity of the wall to the passenger side of the car.

  Tuggle held up a circled thumb and forefinger to signal “okay,” but she couldn’t quite manage the reassuring facial expression to go with it.

  Moments later, someone thrust a note into the crew chief’s hand. It said, “Tell her to sit up straight.”

  Tuggle nodded solemnly, keeping her eyes on the car. Pointless to attempt conversation over the engine noise. Later she would explain to the ladies about g-forces; that is, that Katharine could not si
t up straight without breaking several laws of physics. And those same laws of physics meant that her head was going to poke out of that window whether she wanted it to or not, which, odds are, she didn’t.

  She was going to have to give him hell for this temperamental display, of course, scaring the money people like that, but she had to admit to a sneaking admiration for the boy’s skill. Badger was one hell of a driver, all right. He could put that car close enough to the wall for his passenger to strike a match against it, but she wasn’t really in any danger of being smashed into the concrete. Well, unless he blew the right front tire, of course. Then all bets were off. But that shouldn’t happen in so few laps. Probably.

  After what probably seemed like an eternity to the passenger, the race car screeched to a halt. Ride over. Half a dozen people had rushed to the passenger side to extricate a whimpering, semi-conscious Katharine through the window, so Tuggle sidled over to the driver’s side and leaned down for a word with Badger.

  “Smart aleck,” she said, mouthing the words and trying not to grin.

  Badger lifted his visor, and yelled, “Who’s next?”

  As it turned out, nobody was.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Creative Engineering

  Tuggle was outside the garage, smoking her second allotted cigarette of the day when Deanna from the office turned up at her elbow, looking worried.

  “The oddest thing just happened,” she said. “It may be none of my business, but I just thought I ought to tell somebody.”

  Tuggle nodded, wondering why Deanna had bothered to walk over to the garage instead of calling her cell phone. The day was cold and windy, and the secretary had come out without her coat, so she kept shivering and hugging herself to keep warm. Tuggle hoped that Badger hadn’t made a pass at her or something. Surely not. That wasn’t his style. She figured he was the type to act sweet and clueless until desperate women attacked him. Considering the Badger shrine that surrounded Deanna’s desk, any sexual harassment between those two would definitely be going in the other direction. “Something wrong?” Tuggle asked through a plume of smoke.

  “I don’t know,” said Deanna. “The racing business is so crazy, it’s hard to know when anything is wrong, because we still haven’t come within a mile of normal.”

  “Point taken. What’s going on?”

  “A little while ago, this woman walked into the office, plumped her laptop down on the conference table, sat down, and started talking on her cell phone. And then she told me to get her some coffee! I said we were fresh out and that I’d go and get some, and I came right out here to tell you about it. Maybe you’re not even the right person to tell, but you are the team manager, as well as the crew chief, so…”

  Tuggle stared at the end of her cigarette, digesting the information. “A woman invaded the office. Hmmm. Not a reporter?”

  “No, they do identify themselves. And now that the gender story is old hat, we’re not exactly news, are we? Nobody thinks much of our chances to make it into the Chase.”

  Tuggle tried again. “Fan stalker?”

  Deanna hesitated. “She wasn’t at all impressed by being in a racing office. She didn’t even glance at the posters of Badger.”

  That was a bad sign. Fans could usually be shooed away with a signed photo, but this one sounded like trouble. Tuggle tried again. “Did she look like an ex-wife or something?”

  Deanna considered it. “Well, no,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to be rude about her, but I’ve seen the other drivers’ wives, and she doesn’t look like one of them. Not unless Badger is less concerned with looks than any other man on the planet.”

  Tuggle grunted. “He was married to a Miss Georgia, so if this one is as homely as you say, I think we can rule out a romantic angle. I suppose she could be a process server, but I don’t know that any of us is getting sued. Badger seems to be behaving himself pretty well, as drivers go. Did you ask her who the hell she was?”

  “She told me. I’m just not sure I believe her, because it’s the first I’ve heard of it. She claims that she is Badger’s manager.”

  Tuggle digested this information. “Badger,” she said at last, “does not have a manager.”

  “Well, that’s what I thought,” said Deanna. “But unless she’s a reporter or a fan stalker, then apparently he does now. A scarecrow in a shiny black dress, fishnet stockings, and stiletto Jimmy Choos is roosting at our conference table, and she’s got an attitude that could scour a cast-iron skillet.”

  Tuggle grinned. “I’m glad you aren’t planning to be rude about her, Deanna.”

  The secretary pursed her lips. “She ordered me around,” she said. “She treated me like a servant. I don’t care who she is, I don’t work for her. Anyhow, I thought I ought to tell you she’d moved in. Do you think I should ask Badger about it?”

  “Yeah, that would be a big help. This woman sounds like she could eat Badger for breakfast.” Tuggle ground her cigarette into the dirt. “I’ll come with you and see what we’ve got here.”

  They walked back to the office without speaking. Deanna was a shy young woman who dreaded the whole idea of conflict, even if she was merely an innocent bystander, and the thought of an impending confrontation made her too nervous to think up any small talk, especially with the crew chief, who was a bit abrupt at the best of times. Tuggle, on the other hand, was on point, as always, mapping out possible strategies for the current situation, so focused that she had nearly forgotten that there was anyone walking beside her. An interloper in the team office. Peculiar. She hoped that all this was simply a misunderstanding, but her lifelong experience with motorsports and a bred-in-the-bone cynicism made her seriously doubt it.

  Sure enough, the conference room was under siege by a black-clad woman who was staring at the screen of her laptop and tapping her pen against her presumably empty Team Vagenya coffee mug, which she had appropriated from a nearby counter. Tuggle stood for a moment in the doorway, sizing up the intruder, deliberating on how best to proceed. Probably not a fan, Tuggle decided. Of course, it was hard to tell for sure these days, because fans could be absolutely anybody from the president to the latest rap star, but this woman looked to be more business than pleasure. Fans generally walked around the office of a race team looking awestruck and touching things reverently. Tuggle studied the woman for a moment: unfortunate hair, Wal-Mart rock-star clothes, definitely not an ex-wife or an old girlfriend, unless she had fallen on exceptionally hard times since her days with Badger. If Tuggle were forced to guess, she’d have pegged the woman as a relative of Badger’s from a side of the family they didn’t talk about, but apparently this apparition was claiming to be his manager. Managing Badger. What a concept. What experience would prepare you for that? Keeping a troupe of spider monkeys in your living room? This ought to be interesting.

  “Something I can help you with?” said Tuggle.

  The woman held up her empty coffee mug, but Tuggle’s cold stare made her think better of the gesture. She lowered it again, with a philosophical shrug.

  “Now, just exactly who-”

  Unfortunately, the woman’s cell phone rang just as Tuggle spoke, and she found herself waved into silence as the woman snatched up the phone. “Melodie Albigre here. Oh, hello, Nicole. What have you got for me? Grand opening of an auto parts store? Kyle can’t do it? Well, when? Where? Okay, what’s in it for Badger? How much? Tell them to double it and I’ll see what I can do. Get back to me.” She set down the phone with a sigh of exasperation and turned back to the computer screen. Then she seemed to remember that she was not alone, probably because Tuggle had moved to within inches of her chair and was peering into her face with all the interest of someone observing an exotic animal building a nest in the backyard.

  The woman had the grace to blush. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said. “I am your driver’s personal manager. Melodie Albigre of Miller O’Neill Associates.” She whisked a card out of the case of her cell phone. Tuggle made no move to ta
ke it. “And you are?”

  “I am the team manager and the crew chief, and this happens to be our conference room that you have commandeered without permission.” Her tone suggested that they had the Mooresville police on speed dial.

  The woman ignored this salvo. “Ah,” she said, “you are Grace Tuggle. I have certainly heard of you. So you are the other person who has to manage Badger-in a manner of speaking.”

  Tuggle scowled. “Nobody told me that Badger had a personal manager,” she said, contriving to pack several tons of contempt in the words, making it sound as if “personal manager” were the sort of job that required a pole and a leather bikini.

  Ms. Albigre regarded the crew chief for a moment with the speculative gaze of someone who is trying to decide whether or not the snake is poisonous. “I just came on board,” she said, peering at the screen of her laptop. She tapped a few keys. “I will decide what personal appearances Badger will make and I’ll negotiate the fees, that sort of thing.”

  “Badger has a contract with this team,” said Tuggle. She spoke so softly that one had to strain to hear her, but she gave the impression of someone who was a heartbeat away from bellowing with rage. “He has certain obligations spelled out in that contract, and those duties are not subject to negotiation. Of course, if he doesn’t want the job…”

  If Tuggle had hoped to intimidate the interloper with the threat of her client’s dismissal, she was to be disappointed. Without a flicker of alarm at the prospect of Badger’s imminent termination, Ms. Albigre said, “Did Badger actually sign a contract for once? He’s the handshake type. Hopeless. Well, if there is one, I’ll need to see a copy of it, I suppose.”