Trading Paint

by Shey Stahl

“Oh fuck you.” He groaned kicking my leg. “This is your fault.”

  “How so?” I stepped away from him so he couldn’t kick me again.

  “You said, and I quote, “Let’s build a dirt bike track,” really though,” he paused laughing. “what the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I never said I was thinking at the time. It was supposed to be fun.”

  Justin had this way of turning a conversation quicker that a sprint car flips, always had. You’d be talking about one thing and then he’d get a thought, next thing you knew, you were talking about the weather. In this case, the conversation turned against me.

  “What’s with you and Sway these days?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw her in Skagit last year. She seemed different. And you, you’re not the same when she’s gone either.”

  “How was she different?”

  Justin thought for a second before tipping his head to the side. “When she’s with you, she’s carefree and happy. The night I saw her, she didn’t appear happy, not sad. Just different.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything, the fire cracked catching my attention.

  “You’re different too.”

  I shrugged indifferently. I wasn’t in the mood to “Dr. Phil” my feelings. I had enough problems trying to decipher my feelings and I didn’t need more thoughts.

  “All I’m saying is, if you love her, tell her.”

  Once again, I nodded in agreement but said nothing.

  When Tyler came back with the beer about, we forgot all about feelings and broken fingers.

  In the morning, it was race life as usual. Justin and Tyler headed to Ohio and I flew to Virginia.

  The next race on the schedule was Martinsville. Located near Ridgeway Virginia, it is a half-mile paved asphalt straightaways with concrete corners. It’s one of the oddest shaped tracks resembling a paperclip with almost with twelve degree turns. Racing the track can be tricky because you have to slow down so much in the flat narrow turns and then accelerate.

  I raced here in the Busch series last year so I had a feel for it but it wasn’t exactly my best race.

  Never good at navigating pit lane, Martinsville was even trickier with the way the pits wrapped around both straightaways. It made pitting interesting and wasn’t really my favorite track because of that.

  All that aside, I managed to snag a third place finish when Kyle made the right call on fuel mileage and stayed out when everyone else pitted.

  The following week was Fontana and the temptation to stop and see Sway was there but time wasn’t. I had to fly out directly after the race for Richmond and she was taking finals with graduation approaching fast.

  Once again, my car had a mind of its own in Fontana. I was just along for the ride.

  Safety at these tracks has improved light-years as to what it was even five years ago.

  With just seventy laps to go, I was leading. When I went into turn one, everything was fine. By the time I was in turn two; everything was not fine. I had cut a tire and was heading straight for the concrete wall.

  I’ll never forget the first time I hit a SAFER (Steel and Foam Energy Reduction) barrier as opposed to a concrete wall I had been used to hitting. I’d like to kiss the gifted motherfucker who designed those pillow soft walls. When you looked up and saw your car heading for those concrete walls, you thought, “Well shit, I hope we brought enough Bear Bond and hammers.”

  Now when you hit a SAFER barrier you think, “I hope I make it back around before the pace car.”

  And usually you did.

  Those walls don’t stop the damage from being done but they do lessen the amount.

  So there I was limping my car back to pit lane so the guys could salvage what was left of it and try to at least stay on the lead lap and finish. Like I’ve said, every single point counts when you’re in it for the championship.

  The first priority during a pit stop like this was to get four new tires on the car. Then they work on the metal, you’d be amazed how much damage not only that wall can do but a flat tire. From my view inside the car, it looked like a biker brawl with hammers, bats, and crowbars beating all over my car.

  I must have pitted every ten laps after that for tires, Bear Bond, sheet metal patches, checking the toe, more Bear Bond, oh and more Bear Bond. I also want to point out that when using Bear Bond, which is essentially extremely strong tape, do not get it stuck to you.

  Shane Peterson, my catch can man, found this out the hard way when he got it stuck on his leg as he tried to adhere a piece of it to my bumper. I nearly took his leg with me when I took off after that pit stop.

  As much as I hated this part of racing and the pitting every few laps, it was part of the game. Every driver wads one up at one time or another. I tend to think it was the car more than me. That goddamn car had a mind of its own and by the end of the race, I struggled just to finish thirty-first and eight laps down. I wanted to set the car on fire after that.

  On the way back to the hauler some smartass member of the press said, “It’s not that bad kid, smile.”

  Did he honestly understand what he was saying to me?

  Sure, I lived a good lifestyle but what he didn’t realize and never would take the time to, was that was not me.

  I would never be satisfied with anything less than a win. It had absolutely nothing to do with the lifestyle I had. It had to do with the fact that this was me, being the best I could. So if I had a shitty race, I wasn’t going to smile as I let myself down.

  I called Sway on the way to the airport after the race. She was in good spirits which helped.

  Though the conversation was quick, it was needed. I tried to picture her face, wanting to burn the image into my brain, never forgetting how perfect she was, the delicate twist of her mouth when she smiled, or the way her eyes sparkled at the mention of ice cream.

  After Fontana, we flew back to Virginia for the Richmond race, which is a three-quarter mile, “D” shaped asphalt oval.

  Most of my excitement for Richmond came from the fact that it was a night race, under the lights. There’s nothing better than a night race on a short track to me, it always brings me back to where I started, which made me think of Sway.

  Heading into the Richmond race, I was running third in points despite the horrible finish at Fontana and hopeful to gain some ground on Tate and Darrin who were ahead of me. Darrin didn’t make this easy.

  Prior to the race that night, he ran into me on pit lane when I was talking with Aiden.

  “Why can’t Tommy spot for you tonight?” Aiden asked distraughtly.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is.” I reached inside my car for my ear buds. “You spot for me every week.” I wasn’t understanding his vagueness as to why he didn’t want to spot tonight. “Besides, Tommy is in Grand Rapids tonight.”

  “Well,” Aiden began shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Have you ever been on that tower in a night race?”

  “Not that I can remember. Usually I’m in the car.”

  He let out a nervous laugh. “Exactly...you have no idea how many bugs are up there.”

  “Bugs?”

  “Yes, bugs. Lots of them,”

  “Close your mouth.”

  Although I refused to step foot on the tower, I knew about the cicada in Richmond and to say they had a problem was an understatement. It was nearly a pandemic with those noisy obtrusive insects.

  “It’s not that simple.” Aidan argued. “How do suppose I spot for you with my mouth closed?”

  “Really Aiden, this shouldn’t be that hard.” I pointed to Jeb, Bobby’s spotter. “He wears a ski mask on night races. You do the same.”

  Aiden seemed satisfied with that answer but still tried to pay Ethan, the kid who drove the hauler from race-to-race, a thousand dollars to spot for me. Ethan declined the offer.

  Apparently, the bugs were that bad at Richmond.

  With any luck, Aiden would focus on the race instead of the b
ugs. You rely on your spotter heavily at tracks like Richmond where things happen and reaction time needs to be instant. Spotters not only act as your guide, with poor visibility due to all the safety devices in place, you can only see the car directly in front of you. That’s where the spotter comes in. Trust is essential, if I didn’t trust Aiden completely, he wouldn’t be spotting for me.

  I have to be able to say, “Is there room?” and if he says, “Clear high,” he better be right.

  If not, I just pushed someone up the track, possibly wrecked them and maybe a few others.

  How do you think I would feel about that? Shitty. Not only do I take all the heat for that but our team has to salvage a wadded up car all because Aiden misjudge the car beside me. Like I said, trust.

  After introductions and Aiden’s rant, I was getting ready to get inside the car when Darrin walked past.

  There was more than enough room in between, me and Spencer, for him to maneuver past us but no, he ran into my right shoulder knocking me forward against my car. My arms instinctively braced myself against the door.

  The media was hovering so I kept my response short.

  “My nephew is more mature than you.”

  Darrin simply snorted and kept walking toward his car.

  My car was what some in the garage called as “Hooked-up” and running anywhere. Just the same as dirt racing, every track has its own unique characteristics and changed throughout the night.

  Despite that, my car ran anywhere I put it. I could run up high to pass and then shoot down low on the inside if needed the next lap.

  What wasn’t working for me was an asshole in a yellow number fourteen car with a chip on his fucking shoulder.

  The race was pretty much the same cheap ass hits, all of which NASCAR seemed to turn their head the other direction. If I made those hits against the “golden boy”, you had better believe they would have parked me.

  When I took over the lead around lap one-twenty, I had a feeling it wasn’t the last time I’d see him that night. When I say that most drivers love a night race, so do their tempers because not only do we love the night races, we all want to win them.

  Tempers flare, drivers make rash impulsive moves and shit gets heated even more than the temperature of the track. We don’t become malleable like tires. We get rigid and obdurately focused on the win.

  Just like any other Saturday night race under the lights at your local bullring track, tempers ignite.

  Bear Bond – Sway

  “You want to get a drink with me?” Blake asked after class.

  I have never been on a real date before nor have I ever gone out with guy—aside from Jameson.

  Sure, I ventured to prom with Cooper but other than that, nope.

  “I don’t know,” Glancing down at my shoes, I avoided eye contact with him as I continued to walk toward my truck. Once through the large metal doors and into the spring night air, I inhaled. “I have a test tomorrow.” I let out the breath I inhaled.

  “So do I, any more excuses you want to use?” his head tipped making an effort to capture my attention. “Just have a drink with me. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Letting go of my pathetic dithering, we went to a local bar up the street that many of the local college students flocked to on Saturday nights. Being a sports bar, racing was on.

  And not just any race, the Subway 400 Winston Cup race that Jameson had the pole for. Usually I’d be in my apartment cuddled up watching by myself but no, I was out here, at a bar, with another guy.

  Bring on the anxiety.

  Not that I had any need to feel this way, but I felt dirty being out with someone other than Jameson when I felt so strongly for him.

  The night went relatively smoothly for the most part but when a couple guys at the bar started knocking Jameson, who was leading the race with twenty laps to go and aggressively holding onto it, I accidently-on-purposely spilled their pitcher of beer when I walked past them. Happy they were now drenched in Blue Moon, I made my way back to Blake and his friend Neil.

  I didn’t like Neil, not even a little bit. For one, he couldn’t say one decent remark about Jameson and two, he had enormous eyebrows that made me think he had live caterpillars on his forehead and they were going to eat me every time he spoke.

  On top of the snide observations of Jameson’s racing skills, he had the nerve to revile Elma.

  That was my snapping point and like fuel meeting spark, I ignited.

  “Listen asshole,” I began reproachfully pointing my finger at his caterpillars. “I don’t give a shit who you think is the best NASCAR driver,” I air quoted. “but you carping on Jameson and my home town...I’m going to rip those caterpillars off your face before they become butterflies!”

  Neil’s expression was something similar to Tina Turner when Ike first hit her, shock and then indignant.

  “Jameson is her friend.” Blake whispered toward Neil with a derisory edge, his eyes dancing around the bar, avoiding mine. In spite of his mocking tone, he couldn’t look me in the fucking eye.

  Neil snorted taking a slow drawn out drink of his beer.

  “I’m sure.” Setting his beer on the bar, he finally looked over at me, disparagingly. “Everyone thinks they’re his friend now that he has money.”

  Immediately I was protective.

  “I’ve known him since I was eleven jerk face,”

  The group of people beside us cheered and clapped, their eyes engrossed on the five televisions spread over the walls of the bar, all of them broadcasting the Richmond race, with Jameson leading. There were about five laps remaining, with he and Darrin all over each other.

  “He’s not going to win.” Neil mumbled.

  “Yes he will.” I finished the last of my beer and slammed the glass on the bar. I wanted it to make a loud noise to show how annoyed I was but with all the screaming, it didn’t make a sound.

  With one lap to go, Jameson and Darrin were side-by-side coming out of four when Darrin bumped him. I know Jameson’s dexterity, I know that ordinarily this would not have caused him to wreck, but he did.

  The crowd went hysterical booing and some cheering. It was insane.

  This wasn’t good, I sensed.

  I just stood there staring at the screen in disbelief, anger rising within me creating airlessness. My first thought was pissed at this douche Neil for knocking my boy, listen to me, boy. I sound like I’m a fourteen-year old.

  My second thought as I watched Jameson hoist himself on the window ledge was commiseration as was he was about to do something stupid.

  The camera shot to him while he sat there on the edge of his window, his head hunched forward resting against the roof. Though his helmet was still on, I knew exactly what he was feeling. Particularly when his fist slammed down on the roof a few times before he threw his legs over the side, making his way toward the infield, his helmet still on.

  As I said many times, I knew Jameson very well, better than I knew myself. Times like this he took the hardest because he was not only disappointed in himself but he felt as though he was letting his entire team down. Now it didn’t just consist of a few men, Riley Racing had about seventy-five people working for them on the two teams. All of them felt it when Jameson didn’t finish.

  To give you an example of this—take Harry—the engine builder for both teams. So he spends around sixty hours a week working on the engines for the team. How do you think he feels when the engine blows? Not good.

  Not only does Jameson not finish the race, but he has sponsors looking at him as to why he couldn’t finish the race. Jimi and Randy want to know why the engine failed and here Harry is wondering what the hell went wrong. Was it something he did? Was it the way Jameson was running the car? Was it an adjustment the crew made? It’s a mystery nonetheless but my point is not just one individual is affected if the car doesn’t finish well. They’re a team and they feel it like a team.

  Knowing all that, I knew the weight that was on him each week. Every p
oint is critical as every race is critical.

  By now, Jameson had made his way to the pits and a news broadcaster was pushing a microphone in his face as he walked stalked to his hauler.

  “Jameson?” the reporter struggled to gain his attention as he kept walking, “Can you tell us what happened out there? It looked as though he just came down on you.”

  “I’m not real sure.” Jameson said edgily.

  He had sunglasses on by that point so I couldn’t see his eyes to tell if he was upset or not. Who was I kidding, he was most certainly upset.

  Jameson finally spoke but kept walking. “We had a run on him coming out of four but I couldn’t tell how close he was...next thing I knew...I was in the wall.” His voice sounded wrong, it didn’t even sound like him. The fact that his sunglasses were on frustrated me even more in that moment, I needed to see his eyes to know for sure he was okay.

  Alley pushed him inside his hauler, which was probably wise.

  I stopped listening after that, I didn’t want to hear them bashing Jameson so I turned to drinking. Before I knew it, Blake was holding me up as we walked outside. College kids lined the streets, partying as usual.

  Knowing Tommy was in town, I sent him a text to see if he could pick me up as we made our way through the young boisterous crowd.

  I was in no shape to be driving and I wasn’t about to leave with Blake.

  Blake had other ideas when he followed me toward my truck, his arm slung around my shoulders.

  “Don’t Blake, I need to get home.”

  I caught a glimpse of his eyes, covetously glowing. But they were the wrong color. I wanted those grass green intensely jaded eyes. Instead I saw Blake’s muddy hazel eyes.

  “You’re such a tease.” He groaned pushing me against my truck, his breath oppressively heavy against my skin, it felt wrong, very wrong.

  Everything felt different, the hands weren’t the same and the smell wasn’t the same. Nothing was. Where there were soft hands, I wanted to feel the familiar calloused hands I knew so well. The smell the Obsession was overbearing where Jameson never needed cologne and I worshiped the heady pungent traces of racing on him.